“Because there was no arguing with her.”
“There is always arguing with everyone,” Mum retorts. “You simply need to work out how. You’re much stronger than you think, Sophie.”
“I don’t know,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “This seems like a lost cause.”
“We support whatever you want to do, of course, darling. But I’ve never known you to quit before, and I’m not sure the person you’re working for deserves to get her way. Her mum hired you for a reason. From the sound of it, they could afford a wedding planner or an assistant for her daughter. But she didn’t hire anyone else. She hiredyou.”
At first, I think Mum is just being Mum. In her eyes, I can do anything if I put my mind to it, and since she’s a solution-finder herself, quitting is never really an option in her world.
But what she’s saying makes sense. It would be easier to quit tomorrow and go back to my normal life, working for grateful, wonderful brides and grooms who are desperate for my expertise and don’t go out of their way to humiliate and insult me.
It did feel good, though, when I told the Swann family that I had managed to pin down a world-famous photographer for the wedding. Cordelia looked blown away by the news, and excited by it. I felt like I really achieved something she didn’t think I could do. And maybe Mum was right about me letting Cordelia get away with things because I wanted to be on her good side.
Would I feel happy about quitting? Would I feel good about myself?
That night, I lie in bed wide awake, unable to think about anything else, ideas beginning to bubble in my brain. If I push the horrible persona of Cordelia aside for a moment and thinkabout her simply as a bride, there are some pretty amazing things I could do to add some personality to her wedding. I turn my bedroom light on and reach for a pen and paper.
The next day, Mum phones at about 10:00A.M.I’ve been up since four thirty.
“Have you called the bride and her mother?”
“I haven’t. No need.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not quitting after all. And sorry, Mum, but I have to go. I’m in the middle of ticking off one of the jobs from her list.”
“That’s my girl,” she says, and I can hear her smiling down the phone.
We meet at the Ritz.
I considered Lady Meade’s offer to come to their Grosvenor Crescent house, but I politely suggested that a more central location would be better for me. I haven’t seen her or Cordelia for a few weeks and I’ve been gearing up for this meeting for a while. I’ve never felt more nervous and powerful at the same time. This could be acompletedisaster. But at least I can say I’ve tried.
They’re already at the table when I arrive, ordering some drinks. They’re sitting in the main gallery of the hotel, on a cluster of sofas just outside the Rivoli Bar. The hotel is in full countdown-to-Christmas mode, with elegant red and gold decorations hanging among the glittering chandeliers and in the spectacular Palm Court bustling with afternoon-tea tourists, taking selfies with their finger sandwiches and melt-in-the-mouth scones.
I remind myself of what I’m here to do—I’m a professional, not a friend—and walk toward them confidently, extending my hand as I approach them.
“Good afternoon, Lady Meade,” I say, as she stands up togreet me, looking surprised at the handshake. “Good afternoon, Lady Cordelia.”
I’ve purposely used her formal title. There’s no need to pretend we’re friends with no guests or family members present.
“Good afternoon, Emily,” Lady Meade says, taken aback. “How have you been?”
“Very well, thank you,” I reply, sitting down opposite them.
Cordelia is watching me curiously. We haven’t spoken since the swan incident. I assume she knows I realized it was all a setup. Jimmy must have told her what happened. But I decided it would be best to pretend it never took place, rather than send her a text full of expletives, cursing her until the end of time, like I wanted. I haven’t messaged, asking her about the wedding and how it’s getting on, and she hasn’t messaged me to tell me anything willingly. I’ve had some updates from Lady Meade, so I’ve been able to keep on top of things, but there’s been no other reason to be in touch.
I place my folder on the table and smooth my skirt, noticing Cordelia look me up and down as she examines my outfit. I’ve come dressed for a business meeting today, in a cream blouse and a black pencil skirt with heels. Cordelia is more casual, in a red roll-neck woolen jumper that’s tucked into black trousers, and her black Chelsea boots. Her hair is tied in a messy ponytail and she’s wearing minimal makeup.
I, on the other hand, went for full-on eyeliner today as though I was applying war paint.
“Would you like a glass of champagne?” Lady Meade offers, as the waiter reappears with a bottle and three glasses.
“No, thank you, not while I’m at work.” I smile at the waiter. “Please may I have a glass of sparkling water?”
“Of course,” he says, pouring champagne for the others.
I wait until he’s placed the bottle in the ice bucket and left before launching straight into the conversation.
