Page 11 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

Heston trailed after her. “Are you sure that’s acceptable, Madam? Is that all right?”

When Ulrika grunted a brief yes, Heston picked up his pace. “Are you leaving already? I thought you came to discuss the reindeer and white Christmas trees you wanted for decorating the aisle.”

Ulrika Bonnington faltered to a halt in her wedges. She shot me a glower over her furry shoulder. “Sorry, Heston, but I would really rather deal with you.”

I plastered on a polite and relieved smile. “That’s your prerogative, Ms Bonnington.”

Heston looked like he had swallowed something foul. He began escorting mother and daughter away from my office and up the hallway, but not before delivering me a look at would have frozen Antarctica. “I will be back at work next Tuesday. I’ll contact you straightaway, Ms Bonnington, and we can arrange another meeting to further discuss your arrangements.”

He was almost bent double with subservience.

Ulrika Bonnington thrust her cream and gold Marc Jacobs handbag further up her shoulder. She speared me with another white-hot glare. “Thank you. At least I know I will be dealing with a professional.”

I cocked one eyebrow at her. Someone standing up to her clearly wasn’t a common occurrence.

Heston oozed after them. I watched the three of them disappear around the corner in a flurry of expensive scent and growls, then prepared myself for his verbal onslaught.

When he returned a few minutes later, he banged my office door shut behind him. My tie-back curtains gave a shudder of protest. “What the hell was all that about?”

“It’s about having morals, Heston. I wasn’t only thinking about Ivy and her family, I was also thinking about the reputation of Castle Marrian.”

Heston sucked in his cheekbones as I continued.

“I don’t have to tell you Castle Marrian’s reputation is second to none. If we had caved in to Ulrika Bonnington’s demands and given her the Christmas Eve slot, we would have been committing a PR disaster.”

Heston opened his thin lips to speak, but clamped them shut again as he digested what I said.

I flicked him a look. “Something tells me the Marrian family wouldn’t have approved either.”

I could see Heston’s hooded eyes registering this. They had been more than happy to bend the rules for Ivy’s son and prospective daughter-in-law to have their wedding here on Christmas Eve. They were only too aware of the years of dedicated service Ivy had given.

In fact, when I had mooted the suggestion to them, Head Office had come back almost immediately, saying that Mr and Mrs Marrian had insisted on it.

“Yes. Well.” Heston adjusted the cuffs of his starched, white shirt.

I tapped my keyboard, casting an eye over my emails, which seemed to have multiplied within the last half an hour. “I’m sure Ulrika Bonnington will get over it.”

Heston didn’t look convinced.

Chapter Six

The rest of the week was a blur of juggling my work commitments, as well as keeping on top of Heston’s calendar.

Every time I thought of him sunning himself in Spain with Pablo, and downing sangria under a tangerine sunset, my resentment fired up again.

I didn’t object to my boss taking a holiday, but he couldn’t have picked a worse time. April saw the start of wedding madness and I found myself screeching from one meeting to the next. From finalising details with anxious brides to meeting with new suppliers who were keen to have their wedding décor/floristry/bands recommended and recruited by Castle Marrian, the days melted into one.

The faces of loved-up couples, in the majority of cases from privileged and monied backgrounds, soon became a blur. They exclaimed and sighed at the rambling, romantic grounds, before admiring the hotel’s understated yet sumptuous artwork.

All were keen to lock in their preferred weekend, in some cases twelve to eighteen months in advance, to avoid disappointment.

At least none of them were as vile as Ulrika Bonnington.

I drove home to my flat each evening, my eyes scorched with weariness. If I had to look at one more eight-tier cake encrusted with diamonds or another swathe of French silk tulle, I was in danger of experiencing a meltdown.

Mum was concerned about me “not eating properly” when I arrived home, and insisted on delivering fish pie one evening and lasagne with salad and crusty garlic bread another night.

Despite me only living ten minutes up the road from them in Briar Glen, Mum was so laden down with provisions, she would stumble out of her car outside my block of flats, as though she had struggled through a hostile jungle to get here.