The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) (4 page)

Adam was on the roof of Redland Manor when the guy from Chapman’s Architectural Salvage brought the tiles. The previous week’s torrential rain had given way to beautiful spring sunshine. The builders had their shirts off and were working on their tans.

‘Mr Lawley?’ someone shouted up to him.

Adam looked down and saw a stocky forty-something man standing by a pickup full of tiles. If this was Barry Chapman or one of his drivers he was early. Adam was impressed because, in his long experience, suppliers were almost always late. It was encoded in their DNA.

‘I’ll be with you now,’ he called. He made his way along the rafters, over sheets of bright blue polythene that covered half the roof, through a dormer window and back down to the ground.

‘Hello, Mr Lawley, good to meet you,’ said the fair-haired man, offering his hand to Adam. ‘Barry Chapman, boss of Chapman’s Architectural Salvage.’

‘Good to meet you, too.’ Adam shook Barry by the hand. ‘I’m sorry I missed you at the yard last week. But your assistant seemed to know her stuff.’

‘Yeah, she’s good, is Cat.’ Barry Chapman nodded. ‘Great all-rounder – brilliant organiser, makes the office run like clockwork, takes an interest in the stock, and she’s always pleasant to the customers and suppliers. She’s getting to be quite a fair negotiator, too.’

‘She told me you’d been called away.’ Then, feeling it would be polite, he added, ‘How’s your wife?’

‘Annie’s doing great.’ Barry Chapman found his mobile phone. ‘She had a sticky time of it, though – fourteen hours in labour, ended up with forceps. God, who’d be a woman? But it was all worth it. She had a seven pound girl and she’s a little darling, as pretty as her mother. Here, have a dekko – ain’t she the cutest thing? We’re going to call her Roxie Jane.’

‘You must be thrilled,’ said Adam.

As he looked at Barry’s child, he felt a sudden longing, and he imagined Maddy, sleepy-eyed and pregnant with the bump just visible, summer-brown and gorgeous in a white cotton dress.

She’d be sitting on a terrace somewhere warm and Mediterranean, somewhere where the air was scented with wild thyme and lemon blossom, where the nights were velvet-soft and starry, made for love, and where—

He forced himself to come back to reality.

‘These roof tiles are a find,’ he said, as Barry Chapman flicked through yet more pictures of his baby daughter, the image of a proud and happy father. ‘I’d rung and e-mailed all around the country, trying to track some down. Your place was my last resort.’

‘Whatever you need, give us a bell. If we haven’t got it, we can almost always find it and give you the best price.’

‘You only had three hundred in your yard,’ said Adam, glancing at the lorry. ‘Where did you find the rest?’

‘A mate of mine in Stroud, he had a few hundred going spare. I picked ’em up as I drove over here.’ Barry Chapman grinned and then he shoved his mobile back into his pocket. ‘Cash is fine,’ he added casually.

As Adam checked then signed the paperwork and counted out the balance of what he owed in tens and twenties, Barry looked up at the house again. ‘What’s the set-up here, Mr Lawley? You’re the subcontractor, project manager or what?’

‘I’m the project manager,’ said Adam. He found a couple of his business cards and handed them to Barry.

‘So you’re a freelance, are you?’ Barry grinned again. ‘Do you do any of the actual work yourself?’

‘Yes, once in a while,’ Adam replied. ‘My father was a builder, and when I left school I did all my City and Guilds stuff while I worked for him. When he died I worked for English Heritage and the National Trust for several years. I set up on my own last summer. I specialise in Tudor, Jacobean and Georgian restoration nowadays.’

‘You go all round the country, do you?’

‘Yes, I get about. I’ve got two projects here in Gloucestershire, another down in Cornwall, some in Middlesex and one in Dorset. I’m going to spend a week or two in Italy next month. Then I’ll be off to Scotland in July.’

‘What’s in Scotland, then?’

‘A Victorian castle needing total restoration and it’ll be my biggest challenge yet. But it’ll be fantastic when it’s done.’

‘You’re obviously a very busy man.’

‘When you’re a freelance and you’re offered any work, you always take it. Or I do, anyway. I’m gradually getting better known, so these days I don’t have to bid for jobs or send in complicated estimates, which used to waste a lot of time.’

‘You see your bloke, you name your price.’

‘I do.’

‘Yeah, so do I – and I reckon that’s the only way to run a business.’ Barry Chapman nodded at the builders who were working on the roof. ‘Do you think your lads could lend a hand with all this stuff?’

As he helped the men unload the tiles, Adam thought about the girl from Chapman’s yard, remembering how kind she’d been, how helpful, when he had been so surly.

What was her name? Barry had mentioned it only a beat or two ago, but it had gone again. All the same, he could recall her face – sweet and heart-shaped, lightly freckled, with the most attractive jade-green eyes, all framed with dark blonde hair.

A Celtic princess, he decided.

If she had a prince, he was a very lucky man.

The chirpy woman, whose name was Fanny Gregory, wanted Cat and Jack to go and meet the team from Supadoop Promotions at the Melbury Court Hotel.

The brochures, DVDs and sample menus had arrived last week. Cat and Tess and Bex spent ages sprawled on Cat’s new sofa, salivating over them. They agreed it all looked wonderful, especially the food laid out on white tablecloths with silverware and crystal, beautifully photographed by glowing candlelight.

‘This smoked salmon and fresh crayfish starter,’ Bex suggested, as she ran a perfect scarlet nail down the list, ‘followed by rack of lamb with new potatoes – wilted greens – Beaujolais and cranberry reduction – and to finish off, the triple chocolate soufflé with chocolate and almond petits fours.’ Bex looked up and grinned. ‘All sorted – yes?’

‘No, it’s damn well not,’ retorted Tess. ‘What about us vegetarians? If this menu’s planned around you carnivores, we veggies will be given rubbish that’s been in their freezer since Jesus was in Pampers. Nasty quiches full of greyish leeks, boring pasta something, glutinous risotto. You should begin with goat’s cheese tartlets, Cat, and then go on to aubergine and pumpkin gratin topped with saffron custard. Or zucchini parmigiana, that looks good as well. You can keep your soufflé, Bex, but what about this loganberry panna cotta as a second choice?’

‘It’s my wedding,’ Cat reminded them.

‘Oh, you’ve found a bridegroom, then?’ Bex twirled an ash-blonde strand around one finger and scowled down at the vegetarian options, which Cat was inclined to think looked dull. They were mostly based on cheese, and whereas cheese was fine for rats and mice—

‘The bridegroom’s in development,’ said Tess.

‘Omigod, don’t tell me Jack’s been sighted?’

‘No,’ admitted Tess. ‘But there are several other options. Quite a few, in fact.’

‘Online dating, eh? Desperate of Leyton seeks anything in trousers?’

‘Shut up, Bex,’ said Tess.

‘The Royal Marines Commando Challenge, extreme sports weekends, bungee jumping off tall buildings, right? That’s a sure-fire way to meet some guys, doing something really stupid, preferably wearing awful clothes and looking like a mutant from a Steven Spielberg movie. What if you break your neck?’

‘Shut
up
, Bex,’ said Cat.

‘Mail order, that’s another possibility. What about some guy from Indonesia or Sudan? Or an asylum seeker – there are lots of them about, and maybe one would marry you?’

‘Bex, could you go and put the kettle on?’ suggested Tess. ‘Cat and I are having a serious conversation here. Cat, I think zucchini parmigiana – don’t forget.’

‘Rack of lamb,’ called Bex, as she turned on the kitchen tap and started rattling mugs about.

After Tess and Bex had gone, Cat had Fanny on the phone again.

God, this woman works ridiculous hours, she thought, as she realised who was speaking – it was nearly midnight.

But there was no escaping Fanny now, and so Cat went for gold. She could almost hear the soundtrack from that movie
Chariots of Fire
as she lied her socks off.

Yes, she was really looking forward to meeting Fanny and the team from Supadoop Promotions at the Melbury Court Hotel. No, getting down to Dorset wouldn’t be a problem. Yes, she’d already checked up on the trains. Yes, this coming weekend would be fine.

‘As it happens,’ she continued glibly, ‘Jack’s away on business at the moment. But I’m sure you’d like to get things moving, so I’ll come to Dorset by myself.’

‘We were rather hoping we could meet you
and
Jack,’ said Fanny Gregory briskly – or was it suspiciously? ‘What’s his line of business, angel?’

‘He does stand-up comedy.’ Then Cat crossed the fingers of one hand behind her back and crossed her eyes as well. ‘He’s just beginning to make his name in pubs and clubs in Manchester and Liverpool. So he couldn’t miss an opportunity which came up this week.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Fanny. ‘What’s his name again?’

‘Jack Benson,’ Cat replied.

‘I’m googling him now.’

‘He—he’s not famous yet!’

‘Maybe not, my darling, but Google ought to find him.’

Okay, Cat told herself, come clean. Tell Fanny Whatserface Jack’s disappeared, the wedding’s off, and say the runner-up can have the prize.

But then she thought – I don’t want Fanny Gregory to think I’m some sad loser who invented a fiancé just so I could win a competition. When I filled in that entry form, I did it in good faith. I did have a fiancé, and the photographs I sent, they were of Jack and me.

‘You’ll need to know his stage name,’ she told Fanny. ‘He’s on Twitter, Facebook, all that stuff, as Zackie Banter.’

‘Zackie what?’ drawled Fanny Gregory sarcastically. ‘You’re sure he’s not a circus clown, my sweet? I’m seeing someone in those ghastly flapping shoes, a swivelling bow tie and with electrocuted hair. The sort of man who’s hired for children’s parties by people who live in bungalows in Essex.’

‘He does stand-up comedy,’ repeated Cat. ‘You could try googling Zackie Banter stand-up, that should find him.’

‘Oh, yes – here he is – no tweets for weeks. He should get his act together, shouldn’t he, if he wants to make a good impression on the web? So tell me, darling – what’s his shtick?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What is he, alternative, political?’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Cat. ‘Alternative, Jack’s definitely alternative. All his stuff is very off the wall.’

Get out now, you idiot, she thought. Stop this insanity, confess, tell Fanny Gregory you can’t meet her in Dorset, tell her why.

‘You say you’ll be in Dorset this coming Saturday morning?’ Fanny said, and Cat could hear her tapping on a keyboard, no doubt looking through her jam-packed diary and slotting people in.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Cat, ‘that will be fine.’

Well, she told herself, there would be no harm in going to have a little look.

‘A little look?’ shrieked Bex, when she and Cat and Tess met in a coffee shop for lunch the following day.

‘Yes, why not?’ asked Cat.

‘You’ve mislaid your fiancé, that’s why not.’ Tess peeled the crinkled paper off her double chocolate, raspberry sprinkles and marshmallow muffin. ‘I think you should call the whole thing off.’

‘So why did we bother to talk about those menus from the Melbury Court Hotel?’ demanded Cat. ‘Last month, you were telling me to find another man and go for it.’

‘But you haven’t found one, have you, dumbo?’ Tess shot back. ‘You haven’t been out anywhere to look.’

‘Jack might come home,’ said Cat.

‘I haven’t noticed any flying bacon.’ Bex glanced through the café’s plate glass window. ‘Tess, do you see anything with wings?’

‘Alas, no angel pigs out there.’

‘So, as Tess has pointed out, you need to call the whole thing off,’ said Bex.

‘Cat, it would be for the best,’ soothed Tess.

‘But I’ll look such a fool,’ objected Cat.

‘You’ll look a bigger fool if you arrange your wedding and you don’t have a bridegroom.’

‘What will you do, rope in a waiter or a cook?’

‘Or will you skip the wedding and go straight to the reception?’

‘That would be rather stupid, wouldn’t it?’

‘Stop going on at me,’ said Cat. ‘Or you two won’t be getting invitations anyway.’

‘You could always marry Tess,’ smirked Bex.

‘Or marry Bex,’ grinned Tess.

‘Yes, okay,’ said Bex. ‘But I want to be the one who wears the wedding gown and carries the bouquet and there’s to be no tongue stuff when we kiss.’

‘Otherwise, it’s off,’ said Tess.

‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ said Cat.

‘Listen, honey, this is getting serious.’ Bex looked hard at Cat. ‘Yeah, we had a lot of fun discussing all those menus and watching all those DVDs. The catering sounds fabulous and we don’t dispute the place looks gorgeous. But we’re your friends, we want what’s best for you and we think you should stop this madness now.’

‘We do indeed,’ said Tess. ‘So, bearing that in mind, we’re going to keep you occupied. We’ll stop you mooning round the place like some pathetic adolescent who’s in love with Johnny Depp.’

‘We’re taking you to do some heavy-duty shopping on Saturday afternoon,’ continued Bex. ‘We’ve got three tickets for an Abba tribute gig that evening.’

‘So we’ll have some jolly super fun,’ concluded Tess.

‘But Tess, I always thought you hated Abba?’

‘I do,’ admitted Tess. ‘But I still like them ironically, especially when I’m drunk, and I intend to be extremely drunk. I’m going to work my way through twenty pints of Guinness.’

‘Tess, you’re very silly.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Tess. ‘You should be silly too, once in a while. It might help you loosen up a bit. So – who’s going to be the pretty one?’

‘Me,’ said Bex, ‘because I’ve got the patent leather boots and miniskirt, because I have the longest, blondest hair, and because when we go out together guys all ask if you’re my ugly sisters, anyway.’