Page 13 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

I fired on my PC. I realised I was fidgeting with the mouse and stilled my fingers. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Taylor?”

Oh God. Why am I talking like someone out of a 1950s Ealing comedy?

She took a considered sip of her coffee and rested the cup and saucer on my desk with a decisive rattle. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Sophie.”

I’d guessed as much. Taylor didn’t do those. I felt my throat narrow.

She sat back in her chair, elegantly draping one toned leg over the other. My stomach leapt with tension. What the hell was going on?

Her cool, azure eyes raked me from head to toe. “I’m sorry to say there has been a complaint made.”

I blinked back at Taylor across my desk, hoping I could ignore the twisting sensation in my chest. “Sorry? A complaint? By who? What about?”

Taylor laced her manicured fingers together in her lap. “I’m afraid the complaint is about you.”

I could feel my mouth opening and closing and clamped it shut. A strange noise echoed around my office. For a brief moment, I wondered where it had come from, before realising it was me.

“About me?” I croaked, with a forced half-laugh. “I don’t understand. What am I supposed to have done?”

The dappled Friday morning light glanced against Taylor’s coiffed tresses. I could see she was couching her words with care. “It’s not about your work, Sophie. It’s widely known your wedding planning skills are exemplary.”

I could hear my voice becoming more tense. “Well, what is the complaint about? I’m very confused.”

Taylor shifted forward in her sleek silk charcoal suit. “I’m sorry to say a complaint has been made about your attitude.”

My eyebrows zinged up to my hairline. “My attitude? Sorry. I’m lost.”

Taylor read my bewildered expression. “A complaint has been lodged by a Ms Ulrika Bonnington.”

It took a few seconds for this revelation to sink in. My initial shock gave way to a bark of laughter. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Taylor lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. The light caught the elaborate amber dress ring on her right hand. “She claims you were intransigent, rude and unhelpful when she and her mother had a meeting with you on Monday.”

“That’s rubbish,” I blustered, catching images in my head of her medusa like extensions. “She was demanding we move her wedding from 22nd December to Christmas Eve. I apologised and explained to her that would be impossible—”

Taylor cut me off. Her plucked brows arched. “”And why would that be impossible?”

I prickled at the inference. “The problem is that 24th December is the date of the wedding of Ivy Dunsmuir’s son. You know Ivy, one of our cleaners here who for twenty-five years has shown excellent dedication and service to this hotel.” My voice was heavy with sarcasm, but I didn’t care.

One of Taylor’s brows arched further.

“You must know that it’s traditional that the Marrian hotels don’t stage any weddings or huge events on Christmas Eve. Sir and Lady Marrian have always made it clear this is a time for families. But when I explained to them about Ivy’s son and his fiancée, they were only too happy to bend the rules on this occasion.”

Taylor nodded. “I am aware of that policy, Sophie. I’ve worked for this organisation for twelve years.”

I straightened my shoulders, determined to defend my record. “I’ve never had a complaint about my work before. Not a single one. All my appraisals have been exceptional. You know that.” I reached down to my desk drawer. “And I’ve got a pile of thank-you letters from happy couples, delighted with my organisational skills.” (Describing six thank-you notes as a pile was somewhat of an exaggeration, but it was a reference in itself. I don’t think the majority of Castle Marrian brides ever gave my strenuous efforts a second thought after their nuptials. Hey-ho.)

Taylor adopted a more conciliatory tone. “Look, I sympathise. I really do.” She dropped her husky voice another octave. “But you have to realise the financial and social profiles of Ulrika Bonnington and her family.”

I rolled my eyes, my temper at the injustice of this situation growing. “But as they were leaving, the bride-to-be agreed, albeit grudgingly, to stick with their original date of 22nd December. What’s changed?”

Taylor waggled her brows. She was siding with them.

She sucked in her red lips as I tutted under my breath. “Ms Bonnington reflected on the situation and decided that an actual Christmas Eve wedding would afford them and us far more publicity in the long-run. She also said that as her parents got married on Christmas Eve, the date carried a great deal of sentimentality for them. She has therefore said she will let her complaint drop, if Castle Marrian are able to rectify the situation.”

Seething resentment took over. Why didn’t Ulrika Bonnington mention before about her parents supposedly marrying on Christmas Eve? I knew why. The conniving madam had no doubt made it up to try and manipulate the situation to her own advantage. I folded my arms. Taylor’s implication was clear. She wanted me to capitulate. She was expecting me to perform one unholy U-turn, just so that spiteful woman could have Ivy’s family wedding moved, to allow her to sashay down the aisle on Christmas Eve instead. I sucked in a mouthful of air. I was fighting to maintain an element of calm. “But we have already explained to Ulrika Bonnington that 24th December isn’t available for her. I did however assure her that her Ice Palace themed wedding on the 22nd would be spectacular—”

Taylor cut me off with a sudden raise of her jewelled hand. “They are spending a great deal of money here, Sophie. I don’t have to tell you that. Plus, what with all the glossy magazine coverage and the importance of that date to them…”