The Bride's Baby

‘What isn’t enough?’

‘The fee Celebrity are offering you. It isn’t enough.’

‘It isn’t?’ Laura asked, surprised out of her disapproval as she was thrown on the defensive. ‘I thought it was very generous.’

‘I’m sure they told you that, but for this feature…’ for Sylvie Duchamp Smith giving a wedding master-class, for another excuse to rake over old bridal coals and speculate on the identity of the father of her child ‘…they’ll pay twice that.’

‘No!’

‘Oh, yes!’ The magazine had picked up the tabs for a couple of the weddings she’d organised and she knew what she was talking about. If they wanted to fill their pages with her personal fantasy, the charity her mother had founded was going to be paid the going rate. ‘You can take my word for it.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Laura assured her, suddenly catching on to the fact that she’d hooked her fish. ‘Maybe, as our Honorary President, you could talk to them? Since you seem to know so much about it.’

She fought down the temptation to remind the charity’s Chairman that the post of ‘Hon Pres’ was supposed to be just that, an honorary one, and said, ‘Leave it to me.’ She could, if nothing else, use the opportunity to ensure that the features editor focused on the fantasy wedding and, for her full co-operation, leave old stories buried. ‘So where is this all going to take place?’

‘I’ve been saving the best until last,’ she said. ‘We’ve been offered the use of Longbourne Court for the Fayre. Back where it all began.’

Longbourne Court.

Sylvie, expected to respond enthusiastically, discovered that her tongue was refusing to connect with the roof of her mouth.

‘Isn’t that just perfect?’ Laura said when Sylvia failed to say it for her.

There was no such thing as perfect…

A slightly flat, ‘Great,’ was the best she could manage.

‘It was bought several months ago by some billionaire businessman and we’ve all been agog, as you can imagine.’

Oh, yes, she could imagine. It would have been the talk of coffee mornings and bridge parties across the county.

‘Obviously, we all hoped he was going to live in it, but he’s instructed Mark Hilliard, the architect…?’ She paused, waiting for her to acknowledge the name.

‘Mmm…’

‘He’s instructed Mark to draw up plans to convert the house into a conference centre.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s a shame, of course,’ she said, finally cottoning on to a lack of enthusiasm from her audience. ‘It’s such a beautiful house. But there you are.’

Yes, indeed, there she was.

‘Since it’s “listed” it’s going to take a while to sort out, but the Celebrity feature will give it one last outing and it’s fitting that its swansong will honour your mother. And that you’ll be part of it.’

‘I hope the planning people won’t be too difficult,’ she said, without commenting on the fittingness or not of her participation in its final moments as a country house. ‘Longbourne has been empty for much too long.’

The rock star who’d bought it originally hadn’t spent more than a weekend or two there and since he’d fallen from the balcony of his New York penthouse, leaving his affairs in a mess, several years ago there had been nothing but gossip and rumour about what would happen to the estate.

Not that she’d been listening. That was all in the past. History.

‘Well, whatever is planned isn’t going to happen until English Heritage have had their say on the subject,’ Laura said. ‘That’s how I heard what was happening; George is on the local committee, you know. That’s when it occurred to me that in the meantime our billionaire might like the opportunity to demonstrate his credentials as a good neighbour.’

‘And he agreed?’

‘I suppose so. I actually spoke to some woman who appears to be in charge of the day-to-day running of the company and she was really enthusiastic about helping the charity. Well, everyone has been touched, haven’t they?’

Woman at the helm or not, she doubted that sentimentality had much to do with the decision.

‘The fact that the proposed conference centre will get acres of free publicity in Celebrity wouldn’t have anything to do with that, I suppose?’

‘Oh, Sylvie! Don’t be so cynical.’

Why, just because she had a reputation for planning fantasy parties and weddings, did everyone think she should be sentimental? It was just business…

‘And even if his company does get something out of it, well, what of it? I know it was your home, Sylvie, but times have changed and the conference centre will provide jobs locally. It’s a win-win-win situation.’

‘I suppose so.’ Sylvie had made a point of staying well clear of her family home since it had been sold lock, stock and barrel, to pay off her grandfather’s creditors, but Laura was right. The publicity would be good for everyone.

The Pink Ribbon Club charity founded by her mother; local designers; the tradesmen who would be employed to work on the conversion as well as local businesses.

In fact, when it came right down to it, the entire Melchester economy apparently rested on what frock she’d choose to wear to her own fantasy wedding.

Fantasy being the operative word. One fantasy in a lifetime was enough and she hadn’t been kidding about the register office.

But, with Longbourne Court in the equation, Celebrity was going to have to stump up vastly more than their original offer. This was big and if they wanted to make themselves look good by clinging on to the trailing pink ribbons of her mother’s charity, they were going to have to pay for the privilege.

Tom McFarlane drew up in front of the tall wrought iron gates of Longbourne Court.

Two things were wrong.

They were standing wide open.

And, decorating each of the central finials, was a large knot of pink ribbons.

He picked up his cellphone and hit fast dial.

‘Tom?’ Unsurprisingly, his CEO was surprised to hear from him. ‘Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?’

‘Right at this moment I’m at the gates of Longbourne Court, Pam, and I’m looking at pink ribbons. Please tell me that I’m hallucinating.’

‘You’re back in the UK?’ she responded, ignoring his plea. Then, ‘At Longbourne?’

A long blast on an air horn drowned out his reply, which was probably just as well.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve returned in time to spoil the party,’ he said, not stinting on the sarcasm, ‘but I’ve got pink ribbons in front of me and an irate trucker with his radiator an inch from my rear. Just tell me what the hell is going on.’

‘Hi, Pam,’ she prompted, ignoring his question. ‘I’m sorry I’m being a grouch but I’m jet lagged. As soon as I’ve had a decent night’s sleep I’ll hand over the duty-frees, along with the big fat bonus I owe you for taking care of-’

‘I’m not in the mood,’ he warned.

‘No? Well, it’s a lovely day and maybe by the time you reach the house you’ll have remembered where you mislaid your manners,’ she replied, completely unperturbed. ‘When you do, you’ll find me in the library running your company.’

‘You’re here?’ he demanded. Stupid question. Pink ribbons and trucks didn’t appear without someone to organise them. Pam obviously thought so too, since her only response was the dialling tone.

The truck driver sounded off for the second time and, resisting the temptation to swear at the man-he was only trying to do his job, whatever that was-he tossed the phone on the seat beside him and drove through the gates.