“Jonathan may be convinced for now but there’s no chanceyou can keep up this façade,” Cordelia says. “People will look into you.”
“They won’t find anything. They will only ever know Emily Taylor. This secret is safe. People are more trusting than you think.”
“You won’t last a second. Anyone can see through you.”
“Look, I appreciate that this wasn’t your idea,” I say, refusing to take the bait and argue with her. “I get that you don’t need any help or any new friends, that’s fine. But I promise you, I can pull this off, if you let me. I do it all the time. It’s my job and I intend to do it properly. I’ve been hired to help you with your wedding and then that’s it—you never have to see me again. Lady Meade is adamant that I stick around. I’m your employee, here to do whatever you want. I don’t have to be yourrealfriend. Just give it a chance. If it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out, but we should at least try.”
“And if it doesn’t work out, you’ll quit,” she says, looking thoughtful.
“It always works out,” I reply confidently.
“But if it doesn’t,” she says, taking a few steps forward, closing in on me, “then you’ll quit.”
It’s an order, not a suggestion. A lump begins to form in my throat as she towers over me, her expression fierce and determined. But I can’t let her see my fear. She’s definitely the sort of person to thrive on it. I can’t understand how someone as cold and calculating as her once launched a hugely successful range of unicorn and rainbow hair scrunchies. “I’ll do whatever is best for you and your wedding,” I say, holding her gaze. “If my employment ends up obstructing your plans and your happiness, then I will, of course, step away. But that’s not going to happen. I’ve never quit a job before, and I don’t intend to do so now.”
She takes a step back and flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Fine, then. I’ll give it a try.”
“Great,” I say, with a warm smile.
“And we agree, when it doesn’t work out, you’ll quit.”
“I won’t quit.”
“Oh, yes, you will.” She turns on her heel and marches to the door, then looks over her shoulder at me. “You can be sure of that.”
I wait a few minutes before I go back to the party, collecting myself and checking my reflection in the mirror. I’m a little disappointed that such a posh toilet doesn’t have deodorant lurking in a basket somewhere—it would come in handy for all the society fallouts that must happen in bathrooms like this all the time. After my “chat” with Lady Cordelia, I feel a bit clammy.
I’ve had difficult brides before, who aren’t naturally open to me, and it’s definitely unusual for a parent to hire me—it’s only happened a few times before. And I can understand why some might be a bit thrown or confused by the idea: it’s not your average job.
But for her to be so rude isn’t something I’ve come across previously. I’ll have to steel myself for this wedding process, because I doubt she’ll make it easy.
“I have to think of the long game,” I tell my reflection. “This is a big step for my career. I can do this.”
I pop open my clutch and reapply my lipstick, then march out of the door with my shoulders back and my head held high.I can do this.
“There you are,” Lady Meade says, appearing next to me. “Where’s Cordelia? Have you seen her?”
“Yes, we had a very pleasant chat. She should be around here somewhere. Would you like me to find her?”
“If you could keep an eye on her,” she says, smiling graciously at a passing guest. “She’s never been fond of big events.”
“Lucky she’s not having a big wedding,” I joke.
Lady Meade does not share my sense of humor, shooting me a concerned look. “I suggest you mingle and introduce yourself to people, before Cordelia gets the opportunity,” she says.
“Why do you say that?”
“I overheard her telling my friend Clarissa that you were a gate-crashing mime artist,” she informs me wearily. “She’s clearly hoping to embarrass you out of the job.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“I’d better get back to the guests,” she says, placing a cold hand delicately on my shoulder. “Good luck.”
I wait until she’s gone to down the rest of my champagne, popping the empty glass on a waiter’s tray, then waltz into the crowd and join in with the first conversation I reach. A blond woman is telling the group about a disastrous date she’s just been on and I slot in happily next to a tall, mustached young man in his twenties. He politely shuffles round to make room.
“He took me to a bar that had all this neon lighting and I thought it was a bit tacky, considering the first date was in a really lovely, cozy pub,” she’s saying, everyone nodding along. “But then the background music stopped and it turned out to be a karaoke bar.”
The mustached man gasps. “Not my scene.”
