quite used to seeing her by now. He encountered Princess Dianas nearly every day, shopping for vegetables in the market, queuing up for buses, and waiting tables at the Roxburghe Hotel. Even one of his sister’s flatmates had adopted the look; of course, you had to take into account the fact that the flatmate was an air hostess. Still, it seemed to Adam that every young blonde in the kingdom had adopted that bob-and-fringe hairstyle and the ruffled blouse and Fair Isle wardrobe. This one was a better likeness than most: she had a good straight nose and sensible eye makeup. Adam hated the ones who looked like raccoons.
“I’m not a bit afraid of the rain,” he protested, trying to place her. “But I was a fool to forget my wellies.”
“Well, it is June,” she replied, in a distinct Morningside accent. “You ought to be able to count on good weather some of the time.”
“Oh, you can. Whenever you happen to be in Spain,” Adam replied. He remembered her now. She was the administrative assistant that he had spoken to about getting Dawson’s American fiancee invited to the garden party. “How are arrangements going for the Royal Garden Party?” he asked, to prove that he recognized her.
She made a moue of distaste at being asked to talk shop. “Just as usual. Not many changes, you know, from one year to the next, except perhaps Her Majesty’s outfit, and oddly enough, no one can ever remember what she wore.”
“All the arrangements under way by now, are they?”
“I rang up Black and Edgington in Greenock today. Of course, they always provide the props, you know: chairs, tablecloths, marquees, so they hardly need to be reminded. I’m sure they know the drill better than I do.”
“And will you be making the biscuits?” asked Adam, attempting to be witty.
The response was a wide-eyed stare. “Certainly not! Crawford’s Catering of Leith always does that. There’ll be cream cakes, scones, and small sandwiches. It’s the same every year. The guest list is rather predictable, too. The usual company directors and civil-service types, of course. Scottish Sloanes always go, and those who just missed getting on the honours list are asked as a consolation prize.”
Adam nodded. “I’m Adam McIver,” he told her. “I helped compose the list.”
“Well, it was all right,” the blonde said kindly. “Quite an average list, in fact. At least, I didn’t notice any blunders. I thought it was much the same as last year. I didn’t notice your name on it, though.”
The young bureaucrat reddened. “Well, I hardly thought-that is, nobody told me-”
“Would you like to go? I’m sure I can arrange it. It’s a dreadful bun fight, but you can always go out for tea later, can’t you? The Queen makes most people too nervous to eat anyhow.”
“I would love to go,” said Adam. “It’s very kind of you to offer.”
“No bother. What’s one more face in that great crush? Eight thousand, you know. For tea. It’s a bit late for you to be asked, but I expect I can manage. Especially seeing as you’re one of our lot.” A civil servant, she meant.
“I’m afraid I’ve already made a bit of trouble for you, though. You’ve already had to scrounge that invitation for the Dawsons. He’s an old acquaintance of mine who’s getting married this month, and he wanted to bring the new wife. Did you manage to sort that out?”
She looked stern. “Yes, of course we did. Her Majesty’s guests must be treated with the utmost courtesy. Reasonable requests from them are granted whenever possible.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can tell you, though, my boss was quite narky about it.”
“I was afraid he would be.” Adam sighed. “But I hadn’t any choice. The guest is an old school friend of mine, and his American bride seems quite set on it. You know how the Yanks are about the royals.”
Princess Diana nodded. “I do indeed!”
Aunt Amanda’s upstairs sitting room had been turned into command headquarters for the duration of the wedding preparations. Notes, price lists, and phone numbers were tacked to a message board propped up on the mantelpiece, and in the center of the chaos of bridal items, Aunt Amanda herself directed operations with the brisk efficiency of a field marshal.
The bride-to-be, looking most unromantic in faded jeans and an Edinburgh T-shirt, was sitting on the chintz sofa with her legs tucked up behind her, leafing through a back issue of
“Let’s just make sure that we have everything straight now,” said Aunt Amanda, peering at Elizabeth over the top of her reading glasses.
Elizabeth put down the magazine and searched through the papers on the coffee table for her own copy of the list marked
“The invitations are addressed and mailed?”
“Check. Some time ago.”
“The minister has been asked.” Amanda put a star beside that item on her list. “I did that by telephone. He said that he would drop by to meet the two of you when Cameron arrives. When is that, by the way?”
“The middle of next week. They’re flying in to Atlanta. Uncle Robert is picking them up.”
“Good. I was afraid you’d want to go along, but it’s out of the question. We have very little time as it is. Let’s see. What’s next. Ah! The caterers have been notified?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I spoke to Earthling, but is there anyone else we could get to do the reception?”
“Whatever is the matter? Can’t they manage a simple wedding reception?” Aunt Amanda looked stern. “You didn’t ask for haggis, did you?”
Elizabeth explained about Rogan Josh and his politically inspired menu. “I just didn’t think I could cope with him. If I argued with him, I’d feel like a social oppressor and if I didn’t, I’d feel that I’d been bullied by a crank. I don’t know what to do.”
Amanda Chandler’s expression changed from bewilderment to annoyance. “Leave them to me!” Her eyes flashed.
“Gladly. I went to the florist yesterday-the one you recommended.”
“Oh, yes. Lucy in Chandler Grove. I’ve always been pleased with her work. She did the-” Amanda’s voice faltered. “You know, the funerals.”
Elizabeth reddened, babbling on to cover the awkwardness. “We had quite a nice talk. I ended up telling her all about forensic anthropology, and she told me that a florist leads a more interesting life than you’d think. Apparently, the sheriff had consulted her about something that day.”
“You haven’t time to stand about gossiping with shopkeepers. Did you happen to choose the flowers?”
“Oh, she was very helpful. I think I have all the planning taken care of for the decorations. She’s doing baskets of spring flowers for the house-I told her I didn’t care what was in those. I expect she knows best about arrangements. And for the bouquet we compromised.”
“How so?”
“I wanted white roses and white heather, but she says heather is out of the question. She thinks she can get thistles, though. They grow wild in the mountains at this time of year.”
“Be careful how you carry it then,” Amanda advised. “Thistles and roses. That’s a lot of thorns. Aren’t you worried about the symbolism?”
“The thistle is the symbol of Scotland, so I thought I was all right on that score. Besides, you can go crazy if you worry too much about symbolism.”
“Which brings us to
“I’ll worry about that later!”
“But do you have a sixpence? That’s the last line you know:
“I’ll call Cameron. They don’t use them anymore, of course, since Britain went off the lovely monetary system they used to have for a boring old decimal system. I expect he can find one, though. What’s next?”
“Flowers for the bridesmaids, boutonniere for the groom and ushers, corsages for the mothers.”
“All done. Cameron is getting one white rosebud and a thistle for his boutonniere.”
“And your attendants?”
“Red roses, white baby’s breath, and thistles, with tartan ribbon.”
Amanda nodded her approval. “That brings us to the wedding gown. I cannot believe that you have left it this late.”
Elizabeth sucked in her stomach. “I was waiting until the last possible pound,” she admitted.
