‘Lexie, I don’t like to break this to you, but you can’t change the habits of a lifetime! Once a Clutterbug, always a Clutterbug!’
‘Clutterbug! That’s a bit harsh – I’ve been working on my tidiness skills for years!’
‘Well, I, for one, think it’s one of your more adorable qualities, darling! You know as well as I do that life has a tendency to toss grenades in our path no matter how carefully we craft an itinerary, so why bother! What’s the point of trying to anticipate every miniscule problem – it’s a complete waste of time and energy and that way madness lurks! Just pin a smile on that beautiful face of yours and go with the flow. What’s the worst that can happen?’
Lexie met Jasper’s dark brown eyes, identical to his sister’s, and her heart softened. Her relationship problems paled into insignificance compared to the bombshell he and Freya had endured when, at the tender ages of five and seven, their grandmother had delivered the news no child wanted to hear – that their parents would not be returning from their once-in-a-lifetime anniversary trip to sun-drenched Barbados. The sailing accident had devastated many lives, but Freya and Jasper’s grandmother had made it her mission to ensure their futures would not be defined by the tragedy.
‘Honey, I know you’re still hurting over losing your job, and what Elliot The Idiot did to you, but you have to put all that behind you and embrace life again.’
She knew Jasper was right, but she didn’t have time to do this right now – there was still a long list of things to do if Zara and Jason were going to have the Caribbean-themed wedding of their dreams. The director of her fate certainly had a wicked sense of humour. If she hadn’t been fired, she never would have discovered Elliot’s cheating and she would have been in the throes of finalising the flowers for her own wedding – how was that for irony?
‘Jasper, can we not go there, please?’
‘I just want to—’
‘Hey, what are you two doing sitting back and admiring the view? Gorgeous though it is,’ added Freya, glancing over her shoulder at the picturesque expanse of Cornish countryside ending with a tantalising glimpse of the deep turquoise sea in the distance. ‘You know, if I didn’t know better, I could easily be fooled into thinking that I was on holiday in glorious, sun-drenched Antigua or Martinique, even though the meteorological gods out there have other ideas and are embracing their seasonal predictability by sending us April showers.’
Lexie heaved a silent sigh of relief at the timely arrival of Freya. She really didn’t want to think about Elliot, let alone talk to Jasper about the untimely end of their relationship. She had sent Elliot a curt, to-the-point email, informing him that she had seen him at the restaurant, that the wedding was off, and that she expected him to handle the fall-out. The missive had been followed by a barrage of texts and phone calls, all of which she had ignored, enlisting Pippa’s help to meet up with him on her behalf and to ask him to give her some space.
Like Freya, Pippa had urged her to talk to him; explaining that it was for her own benefit that she understood exactly what had happened, but she just couldn’t face it. She also refused Pippa’s pleas to contact Pierre, more hurt than she cared to admit that he’d treated her in such a cavalier manner over something that hadn’t been her fault. And the bucket thing? What had happened there? Or more to the point, who? Pippa had donned her deerstalker and had promised to get to the bottom of it.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sis,’ beamed Jasper, patting his sculpted ginger quiff that even a hurricane would have trouble shifting. His whole ensemble had obviously been meticulously selected to reflect just the right amount of sartorial elegance; the designer tee shirt in a saccharin shade of peach which moulded his biceps and torso like a second skin, the black jeans which hugged his muscular thighs, the faux-fur ankle boots with toes so sharp they could be classed as lethal weapons, all tied together by one of his signature waistcoats fashioned from the most extreme floral fabric he could lay his hands on. Unfortunately, the image of perfection was marred by the dark shadows beneath his eyes – evidence of all the late-nights twisting floral tape, craft wire and pearl-tipped hat pins after the white lily debacle.
That morning, just as dawn crept over the horizon, the three of them had driven in convoy from Pengarth, the quirky Cornish village where Freya had made her home and ran her bridal boutique, to Dalston Manor, to meet up with the bride’s family. The wedding entourage had travelled down from Bristol the previous evening to settle into the eighteenth-century hotel and avail themselves of the luxury facilities before the rehearsal dinner on Saturday night and the wedding ceremony on Sunday afternoon.
Lexie had been nervous about meeting Zara, and mother-of-the-bride, Audrey. After all, having engaged the services of The Cornish Confetti Agency, they had every right to expect a professional, qualified wedding planner to be on hand to cater to their every need, like Marley. But then Freya had reminded her once again that she had all the skills needed to deliver a flawless ceremony – not only was she an expert in directing and trouble-shooting high-end fashion shows for the most demanding of employers, but she had spent the last six months organising every aspect of her own, albeit now abandoned, wedding.
Maybe Freya’s confidence in her wasn’t misplaced, maybe she could pull this off? And hadn’t they spent most of their teenage years planning their perfect nuptials, collecting fabric swatches, cutting out photographs of dresses and headpieces and bouquets and shoes adorned with more bling than Dame Edna’s glasses? Between them, there was very little they didn’t know about a bride’s requirements for her special day, from flowers to stationery, from favours to photography, from jewellery to vintage wedding cars.
‘I’ve said this before, but I’m going to say it again, Freya, darling. I absolutely adore those scarlet highlights Dianne has spun so artfully through your amber locks, very Lady Gaga-esque! I’m thinking of asking her to add a few to my fringe. What do you think?’
Lexie was so engrossed in examining one of the buttonholes that she didn’t notice when Jasper switched his scrutiny from Freya to her.
‘You know, Lexie, Dianne owes me a couple of favours for the flowers I did for her fiftieth last weekend. Perhaps, if I asked her nicely, she could squeeze you in for a style refresh?’ Jasper fingered a limp tendril that had escaped from Lexie’s hurriedly arranged up-do, his pinkie finger held aloft as if handling an earth worm. ‘Even the hard-working wedding planner deserves a little pampering before the big day, don’t you agree, Freya?’
‘Absolutely!’ smirked Freya.
Lexie rolled her eyes. Since arriving, bone tired and bedraggled, to take up residence in the studio above Freya’s boutique, Jasper, and Freya for that matter, had made it their mission to advise on ways to improve her appearance – admittedly in need of a little polish – but she just didn’t have the inclination.
However, she was overwhelmingly grateful to her friend for offering her the chance to escape from her shattered dreams, otherwise she had no idea where she would be now. She hoped that spending a few weeks in Cornwall would provide the catalyst to finding the courage to face her demons, if not reinvigorating her beauty regime. Maybe a few bracing walks along a windswept beach, or an afternoon spent sampling the freshest seafood at one of the upmarket restaurants overlooking the sea in St Ives, would do the trick?