Page 8 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

I said hello to Una and Derek, the two receptionists on duty this morning, and clipped my way down past the dining room that overlooked the rolling tree- and flower-studded grounds. There was the clink of cups and the rattle of breakfast cutlery.

My office was located past the ice-blue frosted glass of Sensations Spa and further down the corridor.

No sooner had I shrugged off my jacket and fired up my PC to take a look at my diary for the day than Heston barrelled in, with his severe side sweep of ink-black hair and pinched expression. His thin fingers tapered down his claret Castle Marrian tie, with its gold C&M initials stitched into it.

“How was your Sunday?” He bathed me in a crocodile smile.

On high alert, I steepled my hands together on my semi-circular walnut desk, with its couple of photographs of my parents and a lovely shot of my grandma on her seventieth birthday, holding her lilac and pink birthday cake. “Okay, Heston, what favour are you about to ask me?”

He feigned shock. “Can’t I just enquire after my favourite wedding planner?”

Before I could reply, he snatched up the chair opposite me and arranged himself in it. “I’ve decided to take a week’s holiday from this afternoon. Pablo wants me to meet his parents in Spain.”

I almost shot out of my chair. “But Heston, look at this.” I twisted my screen round to face him. My packed calendar glowed out of my PC in lime-green. “This isn’t a game of Tetris. This is my calendar of meetings for this week. How can you expect me to juggle all this, as well as your commitments?”

Heston dismissed my clogged diary with a flick of one bony hand. “Don’t you go getting your panties in a twist, darling. I’ll postpone some of my appointments until I’m back next week.”

Well, that would be something, but I was still faced with an avalanche of weddings at various organisational stages to contend with in the meantime.

“But if you could take over the organising of Ulrika Bonnington’s nuptials, that would be wonderful. I was supposed to be meeting with her and her mother at eleven this morning, but I’ve got sooooo much to do before I head off.”

Heston’s final blow sent me reeling. What!? No way! He couldn’t do this to me. He just couldn’t.

But judging by the way his wiry frame was now bolting out of my office, he could – and indeed was.

Ulrika Bonnington was the daughter of Chastity and Spence Bonnington, who owned a luxury fleet of cruise liners that gave tourists the ultimate Scottish experience. She was marrying some mealy-mouthed politician’s son here at Castle Marrian on 22nd December. When Ulrika had contacted the hotel to say she wanted her nuptials held here, Heston had insisted he handle the arrangements personally as it was such a “sexy and high-profile wedding.”

However, according to Casper, our Swedish receptionist, Ms Bonnington was driving even Heston to distraction, with her endless string of ridiculous demands, ranting emails and screechy phone calls.

I darted out from behind my desk in hot pursuit. “Heston. Heston! Hang on a second! You insisted that you wanted this one. You pulled rank on me.”

Heston was already making impressive progress back along the floral festooned corridor. Fresh vases of flowers had just been deposited on the plinths, giving off a Columbian rain-forest vibe. “Oh, the experience will do you good,” he gushed over his shoulder. “Now must dash. Sorcha said she could squeeze me in for an eyebrow threading at half nine. Ciao!” His suit jacket then disappeared through the spa double doors.

I stomped back towards my office, festering with indignation and temper.

Shit! Shit! Talk about being dropped right in it! But what could I do? A couple of the glossy showbiz magazines would be covering the wedding and the amount of money the Bonnington family were spending here was obscene.

I had no option. I would just have to deal with the Bonningtons in Heston’s absence.

My email pinged, irritating me further. It was from Heston. He had fired across notes from his initial meeting with Ulrika Bonnington and her mother. He hadn’t wasted any time.

Slumping back down defeated into my chair, I managed to rearrange my intended 11a.m. meeting with a new florist touting for business to later on in the week, so that the Bonningtons could be accommodated.

If I managed to keep my meeting with them to within the hour, I might just have enough time to eat my packed lunch, before my next meeting with a newly engaged couple at twelve-thirty.

I swivelled in my chair to glower out at the throng of trees and rear lawns cascading past my office window.

Heston owed me for this. Big time.

Ulrika Bonnington looked around my office, with its petrol-blue carpet and sashed, chequered drapes, as though she were trapped within the bowels of Satan. “I thought Heston Cole was dealing with my arrangements.”

So did I.

I hid my annoyance with a professional smile. “Mr Cole is on leave this week and has asked me to step in.”

Ulrika Bonnington’s snub nose shot upwards.

“So…” I tapped away on my keyboard, pulling up the electronic copy of Heston’s notes for the Bonnington-Barclay wedding. “You’re getting married here at Castle Marrian on 22nd December.”