Page 39 of Paper Roses

“It will cost nothing,” I say. “Because it’s not going to happen.”

He blinks at me in astonishment.

I continue in a firm tone. “I’m not in the business of destroying other people’s dreams just to get Clarissa hers. Sorry,” I say, not at all apologetically. “If that’s what you want, you’ve come to the wrong firm.”

Apparently, my old police voice is still effective.

“Oh, ofcourse,” he says quickly, blanching as he sits back in his chair. “It was just a light-hearted bit of banter.”

“As I thought,” I say. “Praise laughter for bringing us so much joy.”

Artie glances at me, the laughter and approval in his eyes warming me.

Other men’s opinions don’t usually concern me, but somehow Artie’s do, and so I’ve been aware of a slight distance between us in the past two weeks.

Oh, he’s as lovely as ever, but there’s something new—a separation I can feel but can’t quite grasp. It’s driven me mad, and I’ve tried everything to bridge the gap and failed.

It’s something to do with the night after we’d met Eric at Artie’s horror of a house. I’d had way too much to drink at dinner and woke in my bed shirtless, plagued by a hangover that made death look appealing. My memory of the previous night had been embarrassingly vague, but Artie didn’t say much when I’d questioned him about it.

Now I brighten because he’s once more looking at me in approval.

I smile at the customers sitting in front of my desk. “So, we’re agreed to try for next year in December, yes?” Everyone nods and murmurs agreement, except Clarissa. She makes a moue of distaste, which I’m pretty sure makes an appearance at least seventy times a day when life isn’t conforming to her plans.

“But I still want Fiona to cater the event,” she says.

I consider banging my head on the desk but offer her a patient smile instead. “As I said, Clarissa, it’s impossible to do that with your choice of venue. The Florentine is a top hotel, and they always go with their own selections of caterers and florists. It’s very difficult to get on their list of suppliers, as they already have a trusted team of people.”

“But she’s my best friend,” Clarissa protests. “And she’s been in the business for a few months.”

Unless she’s capable of bribing the venue with a bung the size of Brazil’s national debt it’s not happening. There are so many kickbacks going on between venues and suppliers they put the World Cup to shame.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “But that’s a no-go. Maybe she could cater your engagement party.” Which I’m thankfully having nothing to do with. If I were, I’d enter a monastery beforehandand enthusiastically take a vow of silence. Even better, they could wall me up in a room and leave me there in peace.

“That’s a very good idea,” she says, brightening. She snaps her fingers. “Mummy, take a note.”

I bite my lip. I thought the woman in the corner of the room was Clarissa’s PA. Family occasions must be interesting in their household. For a second, I worry I’ve said this out loud, and from the quirk of Artie’s mouth he knows what I was thinking. We share a glance full of humour before I return my gaze to my clients.

“So, we’ve agreed on the budget and the venue. I feel this has been a very productive meeting.” The size of the zeros on the budget that Mr Barrington gave me should make my eyes bleed, but he’ll need all of them and probably more. Christmas society weddings aren’t for the faint of heart, because venue and staff costs triple, or in some cases, even more. “Leave it with me.”

Everyone smiles and gets to their feet except for Clarissa who remains seated. “And what about my wings?” she asks querulously.

I offer her a wan smile even though I want to throw myself out of the window and run away screaming. “Are you really set on that?”

Her lower lip juts like a five-year-old’s on the verge of a tantrum. “I want it.”

“Well, that’s doable, of course. We just need to be careful. The last time—” I trail off, wondering how to say this.

Her eyes narrow. “Carry on.”

“Well, we had a bride with wings last year, and there was a rather unfortunate incident with the wings and an outdoor clock’s hands.”

The whole room is now locked in an expectant silence. “What happened?” Mr Barrington asks.

“The minute hand caught her wing,” Artie says. “It’s a shame it wasn’t the hour hand. She wouldn’t have taken flight quite so rapidly. It was a lovely flight, though,” he concludes, brightening.

“Yes. And then she fell,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “She spent her wedding night in traction.”

James looks at his bride, expression almost cheerful as he seems to consider this idea.

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