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Copyright

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THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS. Copyright © Working Partners Two 2011.

Working Partners Two asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562937

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9781847562944

Version: 2018-07-25

Dedication

To all my wonderful family and friends

who have supported me every step of the way

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Ten Top Tips On How To Create the Perfect Christmas

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Christmas Day

Is it possible? Have I managed to sort my life out, after all?

Curling my fingers around a warm mug brimming with mulled wine, I gaze thoughtfully at the small cylindrical present in my lap. I can’t quite bring myself to open it yet.

Instead, I take my time and stare into the peaceful garden. Although it’s still early afternoon the sun is already fading from the sky and shadows are pooling across the neat gravel, intersected by the yellowy glow that spills from the French windows. Multi coloured fairy lights strung between the old peach tree and the trellis throw trembling jewelled beams into the twilight. A plump and very seasonal robin investigates the bird table hoping for scraps before vanishing into the scarlet-speckled holly bush. It’s the perfect Christmassy setting for what is – unexpectedly – turning out to be a perfect Christmas.

The occasional car passes in the street, driving to see relatives and loved ones, but not the steady hum of traffic this is so typical of London suburbs. Quiet. Peaceful. As Christmas should be.

‘I don’t like Brussels sprouts!’

I can hear Faye in the kitchen. She’s laughing.

‘Nobody likes Brussels sprouts!’ replies Simon. ‘But you have to eat them, by law. It’s not Christmas otherwise.’

My dearest friends Faye and Simon are cleaning up after Christmas dinner. Carols are playing in the background, the soothing time-honoured words interrupted only by the occasional pop of another champagne cork or the rattle of utensils.

What a contrast to last Christmas! I shake my head in disbelief at how totally and utterly twelve short months can alter your world. Last year I stood in this exact same spot but rather than my stomach turning in delicious cartwheels of anticipation, it was knotted with misery, and my throat was clotted with sadness. While my lovely friends did their best to cheer me, nothing could soothe the ache of loss or take away the bitter sting of regret.

Pat broke my heart. Could it be that it’s finally mended?

As I sip my drink, the riot of cinnamon, citrus and cloves dances across my taste buds and whizzes me back in time to last December with such speed I feel giddy. Same place, same friends, same drink – but a very different me … and one extra place setting at the table. Back then I had dabbed my eyes and blinked back the sadness before forcing myself to stitch on a smile and join in the festivities. This year excitement is fizzing through me like champagne bubbles and I feel like a child again as I can’t wait to open this present.

Last Christmas I’d made myself a stern promise that this year I would sort out my life. I’d make a list; no aspect was to be spared! I was taking a broom to every dusty cobwebby corner. My finances, my career and my love life were all going to be given a thorough makeover and made to shine. I’d be like Gok Wan – only without the control pants – and by this Christmas, I’d promised myself my life would be sorted. There would be light at the end of my tunnel – and this time it wouldn’t be a train!

And today, although I hardly dare believe it, it seems as though my Christmas promise is coming true …

‘Happy Christmas, Robyn,’ says Faye, joining me at the French doors and clinking her mug against mine.

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I say. ‘It’s a very happy Christmas.’

‘Any special reason why it’s such a happy Christmas?’ she asks with a raised eyebrow. ‘Anything you want to share with your best friend?’

I laugh. Faye is about as subtle as Wile E. Coyote tipping an Acme anvil onto the Road Runner.

‘Come on, Robs! Are you thinking about you know who in there?’

‘I was just thinking what a crazy year it’s been,’ I say, sidestepping the you know who comment.

‘I’ll say,’ Faye agrees.

Her blue eyes meet mine in the reflection of the glass door. I lean my head against her shoulder, soft in the palest cream cashmere.

‘You’re a dark horse keeping him to yourself. He’s gorgeous! How long have you two been an item?’

I laugh. ‘No comment.’

‘There’s so much chemistry I practically get an A-level just watching you both.’

My cheeks are possibly the same colour as my mulled wine. Faye’s right; the man who’s accompanied me to this Christmas party is great. In fact, he’s better than great. He’s funny, kind, thoughtful and every time I catch his eye my knees turn to melted butter. Lob into the mix a fit muscular body, merry dancing eyes and a sexy curly mouth and there he is – the perfect package.

Speaking of packages … I look down at the package in my hand. The paper is red with white reindeers and glittery stars, and the wrapping is … bad, like a two-year-old put it together. But it’s the thought that counts.

As if reading my mind, Faye motions to the gift. ‘Are you going to open that?’

‘What? Now?’ I say, with a cheeky grin.

‘It’s traditional to open gifts on Christmas Day, isn’t it?’

I hesitate, and I’m not sure why. Then I tear into the wrapping to reveal … a can of bug spray.

Instantly, I burst out laughing.

‘What kind of present is that?!’ yelps Faye, a horrified look on her face. ‘Where’s the romance?’

I smile to myself. ‘I think it’s pretty perfect, actually.’

‘Robyn?’ Faye asks. ‘Be honest. You like him a lot, don’t you?’

I swallow. In the steam on the window I trace a heart with my forefinger before wiping the pattern away. When I sense his gaze on me all the nerve endings in my body fizz as though they’ve been dipped in Alka Seltzer. I almost combusted when he accidentally touched my elbow on the way into Faye’s lime green front door. It’s nothing short of a miracle all that’s left of me isn’t a pair of smoking L.K. Bennetts.

‘Yes,’ I say softly, admitting it to myself as much as her. ‘I like him. I really like him.’

‘Then take a chance,’ Faye advises. ‘Tell him how you feel.’

Should I take Faye’s advice and go for it?

‘I’ve got some mistletoe, if that would help,’ she adds.

One by one I’ve been crossing off all the items on my list … here is something I haven’t crossed off yet.

Am I brave enough to take a chance and see if this really could be the perfect Christmas?

CHAPTER ONE

April (Eight Months Earlier)

I have always loved weddings. As a kid I used to spend ages wrapping my Barbie up in loo roll and conducting long, intricate ceremonies in which poor Barbie was joined in holy matrimony to the cross-eyed Action Man I’d picked up at a jumble sale. Barbie always looked distinctly unimpressed with her groom, whom, I seem to recall, didn’t have a willy. No wonder Barbie was fed up. These days, in my book, lacking that particular body part makes Action Man a strong contender for the title of Ideal Husband. My ex-fiancé, Patrick, would have been a lot less trouble without that particular part of his anatomy.

That’s why I made the promise to myself last Christmas. My Christmas wish list which covers all aspects of my life – career, finances and love – all perfect by next Christmas. I gave myself twelve months to turn it all around. Including, most importantly, forgetting about Patrick McNicolas.

Unfortunately, that’s not possible today. He is one of the ushers at Adam and Samantha’s wedding.

It’s because of him that I’m in hiding. OK, not hiding exactly, actively avoiding describes it better, but the end result is hopefully the same.

Maybe behind a potted bay tree at the reception isn’t the best hiding place. I breathe in and turn sideways. Hmm. I’m not convinced this helps. The plant is a gigantic specimen but my fuchsia pink dress doesn’t blend in. I couldn’t stick out more if I jumped out naked and started to dance the can-can.

Why didn’t I wear my emerald outfit? At least I’d have been camouflaged. There’s so much greenery in this room that I could have taken my pick of plants and avoided Patrick all evening. I could even stroll out onto the terrace and blend into the shrubbery if I really had the urge.

Looking around, the answer is obvious. As wedding planner, I’m officially responsible for the pinkest wedding reception in the history of the colour pink. From the balloons to the flowers to the bridesmaids’ dresses, everything is pink. I’ve even included myself in the colour scheme, great for matching the table decorations but not quite so great for going unnoticed.

I will talk to Patrick later, I tell myself, ducking my head when he turns around. I’ll paste on a smile and talk about trivia. But it won’t be easy: he’s seen my wobbly bits for heaven’s sake! Not to mention that he’s the man I nearly took to be my lawful wedded husband – until he decided to play away, that is. I’m not sure if I’m up to discussing the weather with him just yet.

Not that Pat will want to discuss the weather. He probably can’t wait to gloat about – I mean, introduce me to – the slim redhead who is the ‘plus one’ on his invitation.

Getting over Pat by Christmas is going to be hard. Maybe I should push it back to the next millennium.

I’m really not in the mood for his games. Not when I’ve got a missing DJ and a confetti-eating flower girl to contend with. Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the latest member of the Patrick McNicolas fan club. I cancelled my subscription long ago.

Pat’s a stand-up comedian, which I used to find romantic, especially when he proposed to me on stage. His combination of intelligence verging on geekiness, and lilting Irish accent was seriously appealing, and I found myself accepting, much to the delight of the audience. I suspect Patrick was thrilled as much by the laughter and applause as he was by my saying yes.

Here we are, one cancelled wedding and one broken heart later, and I’m doing better. Yes, I’m hiding behind a tree, but I’m not ripping off his gonads and stuffing them down his throat.

This is progress.

It’s a constant relief to me that I still adore weddings, despite having my own special day wrecked in spectacular fashion. Becoming a cynic would have been career suicide. But right now I’m not here to discuss my personal life. I’m here to work and I want everything kept on a professional footing.

I peek through the foliage and feel a glow of pride at the perfect scene. I’ve pulled it off. Even if I do say so myself, this wedding reception is looking pretty damn professional. Well done me.

The elegant drawing room of Taply Manor is festooned with pink and white fairy lights. The tables are draped with crisp white cloths, freckled with pink confetti and set off with deep pink damask napkins. The centrepiece of each table is a vase crammed with waxy white lilies, fat pink roses and bright pink teddy bears with ‘Adam and Samantha’ embroidered across their tummies. The bride insisted upon this particular detail even though I wasn’t convinced. But, as my best friend Faye pointed out, it is their wedding. And Sam was right, the bears actually suit the whole fluffy pink theme. Phew!

The (pink) salmon has been demolished and the scraping of cutlery against china suggests that every mouthful has been savoured. Patrick is busy entertaining his companions, which means the coast is clear for me to give the caterers the go-ahead to serve the dessert.

I whiz around for a good ten minutes giving instructions to the waitresses. Then I check that the wedding cake is ready to be wheeled out and that the champagne is chilled for the toast. One of the bridesmaids has a headache so I fetch some headache tablets from my emergency wedding kit. (You name it and I bet I have it: from spare tights and safety pins, to spare wedding rings – because, yes, it has been known to happen!) And when the DJ calls in a panic because he’s still lost, I become a human sat nav system and guide him to the reception venue. Once all this is done and everyone’s tucking into their puddings, I treat myself to a glass of Moët and retreat back behind the trusty bay tree for a few minutes.

Deciding to take advantage of the peace, I put down the emergency wedding kit to take out my phone from my smaller clutch bag and call my friend Simon. Si’s been one of my closest friends for so long that dinosaurs were roaming Ladbroke Grove when we first met. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration but you get the gist. We actually met at uni as terrified freshers while we were settling into our rooms in a truly gruesome 1960s tower block.

‘This is shit!’ Si had groaned, as with arms full of the obligatory pot plants, biscuit tins and posters, we squeezed into the creaky lift and pressed the button for floor eleven. ‘Still, at least if the course is dire, suicide will be easy!’ And he’d thrown back his head and laughed. Two packets of biscuits, a bucket of coffee and discussion of our A-Level grades later, and we were well on our way to being firm friends.

West Granite House was indeed shit. Built in the early sixties, it dominated the skyline like the proverbial sore thumb, only this thumb wasn’t so much sore as gangrenous and in desperate need of amputation. The lifts conked out on a regular basis, the rooms were little more than glorified cupboards, and as for the toilets … well, I’d rather forget about those.

Lots of people assumed Si and I were a couple but this couldn’t have been further from the truth. I love Si, but I don’t fancy him. At all. He’s just my big rugby-playing, beer-swilling comfort blanket of a mate. I don’t care about all the When Harry Met Sally hype: men and women can be just friends. When Si met Faye, the stunning blonde he later married, I couldn’t have been happier for him. And although Faye was a little cool at first, it didn’t take long before she realised I really wasn’t a threat.

It’s strange but in many ways I’m probably closer to Faye now than I am to Si. Si has a really high-powered job as a barrister and works all the hours that God sends, plus a few more. Lately he’s more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel which means I’ve seen far more of Faye. But no matter how hard Simon works, it’s tradition that I call him from my weddings with an update. It’s payback for all the rugby matches I’ve had to watch over the years.

‘Robyn!’ Si answers promptly. ‘One minute.’ I hear the hiss of a ring-pull followed by the silencing of the rugby. ‘How’s it going? Did Samantha dye her poor sod of a fiancé pink as well?’

‘Not yet,’ I giggle.

This is my sixth wedding (not bad for someone who’s not yet halfway through her thirties) – and sixth running commentary. In spite of all my father’s misgivings about my starting up a business slap bang in the middle of a recession, last summer was full of weddings and I hardly had a minute to myself. Looking back, this was probably a good thing because not only did it get Perfect Day off to a flying start but it also kept me far too busy to brood about Pat, and therefore rescued my nearest and dearest from months of suicide watch. The winter’s been slower, of course, but I’m on track to have it all sorted by Christmas. Six weddings is a great start and, just like the song says, things can only get better …

OK. So the six weddings aren’t technically mine but when I think back to my own almost wedding, I’m pretty sure that I prefer arranging my clients’ special days. Other people’s weddings are a lot less heartache.

‘Paint me the picture,’ he says.

‘Right,’ I say. By now I’m very familiar with the procedure for this update phone call. ‘Imagine the scene: the top table’s laughter is floating up and popping like the Moët bubbles fizzing in the champagne flutes. The bride and groom are feeding each other great spoonfuls of raspberry crème brûlée.’

Simon sucks in a mock gasp because he knows me so well.

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m holding my breath in case a big splat of garish pink syrup lands on the delicate silk wedding dress.’

I’ll want to strangle myself with the streamers if anything happens to that dress. The bride and I had to trawl practically every wedding emporium and design studio in London for it, howling in desperation when each dress turned out to be just slightly wrong. Some dresses were too white, some were not quite white enough, some were too plain and some were too fussy. It was the wedding dress equivalent of Goldilocks’ porridge-tasting. I’d almost lost the will to live when Samantha finally declared that the final dress was just right.

‘I will not let her wreck that dress before their first dance.’

‘Get on the case, Wedding Planner Woman!’ Simon orders.

I’m just on the brink of snapping shut my mobile and snatching the dangerous dessert away when the groom leans forward and gently wipes a smudge of brûlée from the corner of his new wife’s mouth. The tenderness and pride in his eyes when he smiles at her stop me in my tracks. I feel my eyes begin to moisten.

‘What?’ Si asks when I go quiet.

‘It’s so romantic,’ I gulp. ‘Adam’s spoonfeeding Samantha.’

Simon makes vomiting sounds. ‘Is this the same Samantha you said was so self-absorbed that if she was cut in half the word “me” would run through her like seaside rock?’

Did I say that? It must have been after the marathon wedding dress hunt. Looking at Samantha now, all smiles and Swarovski crystals, I know every stressful minute has been worthwhile.

‘She looks beautiful,’ I whisper, watching the happy couple share a lingering kiss. ‘I love weddings, Si, I really do.’

‘That’s because you’re a hopeless romantic,’ Simon says indulgently. ‘One in three marriages end in divorce, remember?’

‘Says you, the most happily married man I know.’

Now Simon’s end of the line goes quiet. I wonder if he’s got distracted by the rugby in the background, but then he adds soberly, ‘It’s not all moonlight and roses, Robs. Marriage is bloody hard work. It’s about who’s bought the milk and who’s picking up the dirty socks. But, yes, I am lucky.’

‘Faye deserves a medal for picking up your socks.’ I shudder. ‘I still have nightmares about that pair that grew mould.’

‘OK,’ grumbles Si, ‘dig up the past, why don’t you?’

‘I had to dig up your socks from the carpet!’

‘You exaggerate about that,’ Simon laughs. ‘But the point is that marriage is about mundane stuff most of the time.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agree. ‘I should know how hard marriage really is. My parents have hardly set the best example.’

My parents’ marriage survived for about six years and I can’t remember the last time they had a civil word to say to each other. I try not to focus on this, concentrating instead on creating perfect wedding days for other people. At least I can get that right. The happily-ever-after bit I leave to my clients. I can’t believe that I still well up like this at the idea of true love because I’ve experienced all kinds of emotions since Pat and I split up, seesawing wildly from total disillusionment to a fervent optimism that true love can still overcome all.

So long as there are no comedy circuit groupies around, obviously.

Blast. Sometimes disillusionment wins.

‘Introspection over,’ I inform Si, who expresses his relief. ‘My pragmatic head is now firmly back in place and … oh God,’ I add, my heart sinking when I see who is coming my way. ‘Not a minute too soon either. I’ll call you back, Si.’

So much for my cunning hiding place.

It’s Patrick. And he’s making a beeline for me.

Here we go.

CHAPTER TWO

My ex-fiancé is looking ridiculously handsome in his morning suit. The thick chestnut curls, which I used to love threading my fingers through, are longer than I remember, but the lopsided smile and twinkling eyes haven’t changed one bit. He broke my heart and totally humiliated me. I will not still find him attractive.

I take a deep breath and prepare myself for a game of social chess.

Snapping the phone shut, I paste a bright ‘I’m fine’ smile onto my face. No girl wants her ex to see her teary-eyed at a wedding. Patrick would be bound to think I’m blubbing over him and, let’s be honest, he’s certainly given me enough cause to cry in the past.

‘Hello, Robyn,’ smiles Patrick, his peat brown eyes twinkling. ‘You’re looking lovely, so you are. How’s it going?’

Patrick is a born flirt. He probably drew his first breath and then started chatting up the midwife. With his dark good looks, razor-sharp wit and that Irish blarney, he’s pretty irresistible. Or so he thinks. Believe me, I’m resisting these days.

‘Fine, thanks.’ My smile is so forced it feels as though my skin is going to rip. I don’t love Patrick any more but I’m not sure if I’m over him, and I’m a long way off from forgiving him. That’s what the Christmas wish list is all about.

Faye says that I have issues to resolve. Simon says that Pat’s a tosser.

No prizes for guessing that I’m with Si on this one.

‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ he continues, loosening his tie and raising an eyebrow Roger Moore style. The suave effect of the gesture rather is ruined because I know he practises it in the mirror. ‘Have you been away?’

Patrick may not have seen me for several months but unfortunately I’ve been seeing an awful lot of him and so has the rest of Britain. I haven’t encountered him in the flesh but there’s no escaping Patrick on the telly. Judging by the expensive haircut and the perfectly manicured nails, Patrick McNicolas has come a long way from the impoverished stand-up comedian/bookshop assistant that I used to know. His agent must have made a pact with Satan or something because now Pat has a lead part in the cult BBC 3 cooking sitcom Nosh! and regularly appears to make smart-alec comments on shows like Have I Got News for You. He’s also started to feature in the tabloids for his exploits out and about with other celebrities, while kids the length and breadth of Britain are driving their parents insane with his catchphrase ‘Jaysus!’

It’s a catchphrase I feel like uttering right now as I face my wedding-wrecking ex-fiancé and try to hold back from punching him on the nose.

Maybe Faye has a point about issues.

‘I’m fine, thanks, Pat,’ I say, delighted that my voice is calm and low. ‘I’ve been really busy with the wedding planning business. It’s doing OK. More than OK, actually.’

If the mention of weddings embarrasses Pat then he does a good job of hiding it. Instead he nods approvingly and helps himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘Adam said that this was one of your dos.’ Pat glances around the room before turning the charm back onto me, his eyes lazily sweeping my body in that old familiar way. ‘It looks amazing, Robs. And so do you. I love that dress. Very, very sexy.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

Is there anything more awkward than trying to make small talk with a man who once had you in positions that yoga teachers baulk at? Fortunately I’ve been anticipating this encounter ever since I noticed that Patrick was on the guest list, and I’ve had weeks to psych myself up for it. I’m determined to look gorgeous and be every bit the successful business woman. I don’t want Patrick back, but there’s no harm in showing him exactly what he’s missing, is there? And I know that I’m looking good today. My vintage 1950s prom-style dress nips my waist in to a hand’s span and flares out over my hips, the black netting underneath holding the skirt out ballerina style and drawing attention to my legs, which are actually looking slender as they taper into delicate strappy sandals. The bodice of the dress is strapless and boned and pushes up my boobs in a frankly amazing manner, and it’s all topped off with a cashmere shrug which magically hides my upper arms. Wow! I must patent these optical illusions.

‘Is there a Merry Man with you, Miss Hood?’ asks Patrick. He always did love to play on the fact that my name is Robyn Hood. Yes, that’s right, as in green tights, Sherwood Forest and the Sheriff of Nottingham. School was a right barrel of laughs, saddled with this moniker. Another thing to thank Mum and Dad for.

‘I’m working, Pat,’ I point out coolly. ‘I’m not here to socialise.’

‘Jo’s with me,’ continues Pat, gesturing towards the redhead who is hovering by the stack of pink iced fairy cakes.

My mouth drops open.

‘Jo?’ I parrot. ‘That’s the Jo?’

Pat nods. ‘You must remember Jo, Robs?’

Duh. Of course I do. Only Pat could be this tactless. Thank God I don’t have an open wound; he’d be shovelling salt into it by now. ‘She was worried about introducing herself; worried about your reaction,’ he continues. ‘I told her not to be a sissy, that everything between us is fine now, but she still isn’t sure. Come and say hello.’

Patrick has all the sensitivity of a bull rampaging through the china department of Liberty’s. Since Jo is the Comedy Store groupie that he was shagging behind my back, presumably while the ink was drying on our wedding invitations, it wouldn’t take Einstein to suss out that we are not destined to be best friends. Does the man really have such little self-awareness? I refrain from throttling him since that would ruin the whole ‘over him by Christmas’ thing. Part of me wishes that he was on his knees pleading for a second chance just so that I could have the pleasure of turning him down.

Hmm. In my dreams. If Pat had groupies before he was famous then I dread to imagine what it’s like now. He hardly needs to beg girls to be with him. I stare at Jo, who looks so pale and worried, and feel nothing but relief that I’m not in her Jimmy Choos.

‘Sure,’ I say airily, even though just thinking about the engagement-wrecking woman makes me feel as though crocodiles are having a good old munch on my intestines. ‘Why not?’

Patrick drains his champagne and leads me towards Jo. Her pale skin blanches as we approach, and I wonder quite what Pat has told her about me.

‘Hi, Jo.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Good to meet you. Finally.’

‘Robyn, hi.’ Jo’s green eyes can hardly bear to meet mine and instead she seems to find her scarlet toenails fascinating. ‘Er, you too.’

‘Thanks for taking Patrick off my hands,’ I add. ‘I owe you.’

Patrick puts his arm around Jo and pulls her close, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. ‘See!’ he laughs. ‘I told you that Robyn was fine about us. She knows what a lucky escape she’s had. You did her a favour, darlin’!’

‘You certainly did,’ I agree, suddenly realising that I mean it. Much as I adored Pat, dashing around after him was shattering. For most of the time we were together I wasn’t self-employed and gave so much energy to my demanding boss, Hester Dunnaway, that there wasn’t much left for shoring up Pat’s ego. Once I had to fold one thousand paper cranes for a Chinese-themed wedding, a job which would have made even Sisyphus tremble. Pat had moaned constantly because I wasn’t able to come out with him. I was ignoring him, he’d said sulkily, as though I’d preferred wrestling with endless fiddly sheets of paper to watching him perform. When I did eventually set up on my own Pat mistakenly believed that I was just dossing round the house all day, watching Jeremy Kyle and Homes Under the Hammer, and was therefore free to follow him around the country with a baby balanced on each hip. I actually lost count of the rows we had about this. I used to grind my teeth so hard each time he airily implied Perfect Day was just a hobby that it’s a miracle I’m not left with stumps.

Jo looks like a girl whose sole aim in life is to please her man, exactly what Pat has always dreamt of. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted his wife to give him babies and stay dutifully at home while he went out to hunt and gather. Looking back, maybe I really did have a lucky escape.

‘Actually, Robs, I’m glad we bumped into you today,’ Pat is saying. Is it me or does he look a little bit shifty? The way he always did when he came home three hours late and told me some long and involved yarn about his whereabouts. Instantly, I’m on red alert. ‘There’s something I – we – wanted to tell you. We thought it was better if you heard it from us first.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ I raise my eyebrow too. It always annoyed Pat that I could out-Roger-Moore him. ‘Go on then, what is it? A new show?’

But Pat is shaking his glossy head and pulling Jo against him. One of his big, and now beautifully manicured, hands rests protectively on her stomach. Her gently rounded stomach …

‘It’s a million times better than a new show. Jo and I are having a baby!’ Pat says, and his voice brims with excitement and pride. ‘Can you believe it, Robs? I’m going to be a daddy, so I am! Isn’t it fantastic?’

‘Fantastic,’ I echo dutifully, but my entire blood supply feels as though it’s taken a really fast elevator to my feet and for a hideous moment I feel faint. ‘And we’re getting married too, before this little one puts in an appearance,’ he adds.

I stare at him. ‘Really?’

‘Jaysus, Mammy would throttle me otherwise! What would the priest think?’ Pat laughs, his peat brown eyes sparkling down at Jo and belying the casual words. He raises her hand to his lips and kisses it gallantly. ‘Aren’t I lucky that this lovely woman’s agreed to take me on?’

‘Very,’ I say, but Pat’s too busy telling me his plans for an August wedding in Ireland to notice that my smile is a little stiff and that I’m clutching my clutch so hard it might pop. Finally, though, he runs out of steam and turns his attention back to a much less exciting topic – namely me.

‘So, Robyn Hood,’ grins Pat, ‘why were you skulking behind a pot plant? Was it the nearest thing to Sherwood Forest you could find?’

‘I wasn’t skulking.’

Up goes the famous eyebrow. ‘Not planning to shoot me with your bow and arrows then?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘Bows and arrows are far too good for you. I thought I’d just rip your head off and hit you with the soggy end.’

Actually I don’t say this but I’d like to. What I actually say is, ‘No. I was … err … distance wedding planning.’

‘Distance wedding planning?’

‘Yes,’ I warm to my theme. ‘It’s wedding planning but—’

‘From a distance?’ Pat finishes for me.

‘Exactly.’

‘And always behind a plant?’

‘Plants are optional,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll remember that, so I will,’ Pat nods. ‘Next time I’m up to something I shouldn’t be I’ll just tuck myself behind a plant.’ He grins, ‘Jaysus! I’d better buy up Kew Gardens!’

When Pat laughs at himself I remember why I liked him so much as a friend long before we became romantically involved. Before shared bank accounts and children’s names and the tiny stifling cottage in the country came up. Should I be glad that Jo – the groupie who took it all away from me – has turned out to be a significant relationship? Would it have been worse to have gone through all that heartbreak over a meaningless fumble in the dressing room?

‘Here, give me one of your business cards, Robs,’ says Pat. ‘You never know, it might come in useful.’

God this man can be insensitive! But opting to save face, I peel back my fingers from my clutch and take out a card.

‘Pat!’ gasps Jo, looking horrified. ‘God, you can be insensitive! I’m sure the last thing Robyn wants to do is plan our wedding!’

Planning my cheating ex-fiance’s wedding is right up there with all my other favourite jobs, like putting out the bins and root canal surgery. But there’s no way I want to agree with Jo, so I just smile.

‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s absolutely fine. It’s great, actually.’

I’ll have to go and punch a pillow later or something.

Time to make my excuses and tend to Adam and Samantha’s guests. Several of them are looking rather pink in the face and it may be a nice idea to open a window.

‘Isn’t it warm?’ I fan my face with my hand. ‘I think that I’d better let some air in before somebody passes out. Good to see you again, Pat. Nice to meet you, Jo.’ And I hurry away.

It’s painful to think that while Pat is all cosied up with Jo, I’m well and truly up on the shelf and gathering dust. Where are all the eligible men anyway? All the half-decent ones are already married and as for the rest … Well, let’s not go there. What a depressing thought. The nearest I’ll probably ever get to sex now will be walking past Ann Summers.

With a sigh, I throw open the French windows. The cool evening air soothes my hot cheeks and lifts the tablecloths. But it isn’t just the breeze that drifts into the room but also the unmistakable undertones of a row on the terrace.

‘I’ve had enough!’ hisses a woman’s voice.

Arguing at a wedding? Honestly, some people have no manners.

‘This marriage is nothing but a farce!’ she continues. ‘I should have left you years ago!’

Is fate trying to convince me that all relationships end in tears?

Tutting to myself, I’m about to fasten back the doors when I feel a horrible prickling nausea of the variety known only to wedding planners who have just made an enormous error of judgement.

I think I know that voice. And from the looks of it, some of the guests know it too.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’ve had enough, Geoffrey!’

I do know that voice! I know it because it’s been berating/thanking/bossing me around for the past six months. These not-so-dulcet tones belong to none other than Susan Ellis, mother of the bride.

Not good.

I peep around the French windows and sure enough there she is, hands on hips and mouth wide open, out of sight of the top table but now louder and, unfortunately, within earshot.

‘Do you hear me? Enough!’ Susan yells at her husband, drowning out his muttered response. ‘Our marriage is over!’

The guests nearest the windows hear every word. Those seated further away notice the unease of the faces of the bride and groom and fall silent. Even the musicians in the string quartet sense the atmosphere, their instruments scraping to a discordant halt. The absence of the beautiful music highlights the ugly words slicing through the stillness.

I’m mortified. What’s the etiquette in such a situation? Do I go outside and tell them to keep it down, or do I shut the windows quickly and hope that we are all English enough to pretend that this isn’t happening? Deciding on the latter, I start to wrestle with the windows.

Oh no. The doors are stuck. And Susan Ellis is yelling with more volume than a 747 taking off.

‘I’ve kept quiet because I didn’t want to ruin our Samantha’s big day,’ she hollers. ‘But she’s married now so I don’t have to lie any longer. And neither do you.’

A mumbled response from Geoffrey Ellis, that none of us can hear.

‘I know you’re sleeping with Marion from next door!’

I turn to look at the audience – I mean, the guests – and a large woman dressed in violent magenta linen blushes the same colour as her frock: Marion from next door.

Oh, God. It’s my worst dream come true. My lovely wedding, Sam and Adam’s perfect day, has turned into The Jerry Springer Show.

‘I’m not wasting another minute with you!’ shouts Susan and then, just in case Geoffrey misses the point, ‘I want a divorce!’

A gasp of shock/outrage/callous enjoyment ripples through the guests. Samantha squeals in horror and for one awful moment I think she’s going to faint. I run for my emergency wedding kit and start to rummage for the smelling salts.

Susan Ellis steps into the room with a fake smile pasted on her face and tears in her eyes. But once she realises that everyone’s looking at her, the smile drops and she looks confused. Then she notices the open windows and gasps.

‘Sam!’ she yelps, realising too late that every ugly word has been overheard. ‘Oh, darling!’

‘Sweetheart,’ Geoffrey Ellis is right behind her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Not half as sorry as me, Daddy,’ Sam sobs. ‘How could you? It’s my wedding day!’

‘Darling …’ Susan reaches out to Sam who recoils furiously.

‘Don’t touch me! I hate you, both of you! You’ve ruined my wedding! I’ll never forgive you!’

Leaping up from her seat, Sam flees from the room, sobbing wretchedly, while her groom and the guests look on in stunned horror. The chief bridesmaid bunches her skirts up into her fists and follows.

Susan glares at her husband. ‘This is your fault, Geoffrey.’

‘My fault?’ he echoes, ‘Why is everything always my fault?’

‘Because it is, that’s why! I’m sick of this marriage!’

‘That makes two of us,’ he retorts. ‘Thirty years of being stuck with you. People get less for murder!’

No! Stop! This isn’t the way that it is supposed to go. Weddings are supposed to be the happiest days of people’s lives. This is a disaster.

Scooping up my emergency wedding bag I follow the bride, whose sobbing can still be heard. I’ll do my best to sort this somehow, but I think it might take more than headache tablets and a sewing kit.

Sam has locked herself in the bathroom of the honeymoon suite.

‘Sam,’ I tap on the door, ‘it’s Robyn. Let me in, please.’

‘It’s no good.’ The bridesmaid shakes her head. ‘She won’t listen.’

But I am Miss Fix-it Extraordinaire. A superhero. Wedding Planner Woman. As well as knowing where to find the best antique lace or freshest flowers, I also have peace-keeping skills that would land me a job at the UN.

Luckily.

‘Sam, this is your special day,’ I say, through the door. ‘Yours and Adam’s. You are the bride. Everyone is looking at you, not your parents.’

There’s another sob.

‘The guests are taking their cue from you,’ I continue. ‘If you dry your eyes and come back down they’ll think it’s all blown over, I promise. Honey, it’s up to you: you can stay here and I’ll send the guests away, or you can dry your eyes and join poor Adam. He’s your husband now and he really needs you down there.’

‘Really?’ she says. Or at least I think she does. It’s hard to tell because her voice is so clotted with tears.

‘Really,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s your call, Sam.’ I cross my fingers and hold my breath.

There’s the sound of a key turning and the door swings open. Sam, bottom lip wobbling, make-up smeared all over her face, is perched on the edge of the bath.

‘I’m a mess,’ she hiccups. ‘My face is ruined.’

‘Nothing we can’t fix.’ I take her chin between my thumb and forefinger and gently wipe the tears away with a face wipe from my magic box of wedding-saving tricks. Once her face is clean I pull out my emergency make-up bag. ‘I’ll have you looking as good as new, I promise.’

Sam takes a shaky breath. ‘Thanks, Robyn. What would I have done without you today?’

‘All part of the service, hon,’ I say.

I squeeze tinted moisturiser onto a sponge and set to work. Thanks to Pat and his antics I’m an expert at restoring tear-stained cheeks to peachy glory.

After ten minutes Sam feels brave enough to venture back to the reception. Luckily everything seems to have calmed down. The DJ has arrived and is playing a selection of upbeat 80s tunes. Fortunately, the Ellis seniors are nowhere to be seen. Sam, every inch the dignified bride again, rejoins Adam with a tender kiss, while the caterers whiz around filling champagne flutes for the toast. Helping myself to one I gulp it gratefully, relief and alcohol hitting my bloodstream in equal measure.

Next time I need an adrenalin rush I’ll take up something more sedate than wedding planning, like bungee jumping or white-water rafting.

From across the room Patrick catches my eye, grins at me and raises that trademark eyebrow.

‘Jaysus!’ he mouths.

And I must admit, I couldn’t have put it better myself.