Page 9 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

“Yes, about that,” chipped in Chastity Bonnington, the bride’s mother, sitting beside her like a nightclub minder. “We’ve decided we’re not happy with the date and would like to change it.”

A frisson of concern snaked through me. Don’t tell me they were intending to bring it forward. Dates between now and the end of the year had been snapped up. I hoped my voice sounded calm. “May I ask why?”

Ulrika pinned me to my swivel chair. She was looking at me as though I were the village idiot. “22nd December isn’t Christmassy enough.”

I blinked back at her cascade of bright yellow hair extensions and baby pink fur jacket. “Not Christmassy enough?”

“That’s right,” she primped. “I’ve discussed it with Gideon and we would like to move our wedding to Christmas Eve.”

Oh, you have to be joking.

A chill wind swirled around my office.

We never accommodated weddings on 24th December – the Marrian family believed that staff were more than entitled to time with their families, especially at Christmas. But a special exception had been made for Sonya and Tony, the son and future daughter-in-law of our longest serving domestic employee, Ivy Dunsmuir. They were such a lovely family. The owners of the Cascada Marrian Hotel Group, Sir Guy Marrian and Lady Josephine Marrian, had insisted they be given special treatment when I’d made a surreptitious call to Head Office and extolled the virtues of the festive heart-warming PR this would generate. Head Office had even insisted on paying fifty per cent of the final bill, knowing the publicity this would draw was priceless.

“I’m afraid we don’t accommodate weddings on 24th December. It’s company policy.”

I smiled pleasantly, aware of the two women training their unimpressed attention on me.

“Let me see if I can find an alternative.” I scrolled to December. The bright red of reservations shone back at me. All that was left was a cancellation for the afternoon of 18th December.

Ulrika Bonnington erupted. “The 18th? That’s even less Christmassy than the 22nd!”

I jumped back with alarm as Ulrika Bonnington bolted around to my side of the desk and directed an accusing, ruby talon at my computer screen. “You don’t accept wedding bookings for Christmas Eve? Well, what’s that then? What’s that at 11a.m. on 24th December?”

I scrambled to click away from the wedding diary but it was too late. She had already seen it. I should have been more careful, but I didn’t expect her to move so fast in those Perspex wedges. I tried to bluff my way out of it. “What booking?”

Ulrika Bonnington wobbled back round to the other side of my desk and stood beside her still seated mother, her hands planted on her bony hips. “That booking which said Sonya and Tony – Dunsmuir and Lovegood wedding.”

My widening eyes darted across to the bride’s mother, who was now aiming suspicious daggers at me, every bit as chilling as her daughter.

Ulrika Bonnington thumped herself back down in her chair, eager to hear my explanation.

Now it was my turn to look grim-faced. I folded my arms. I could guess what their reaction would be. “I do apologise. That event can’t be moved. It has been in the diary for months.” There was no way I was about to sacrifice such a special day for Ivy and her family, just to accommodate the fluctuating whims of Ulrika Bonnington.

Ulrika’s cat-like green eyes narrowed. “Yes. Well, I’m sure these people will understand when you tell them about us.”

I made a tiny noise of indignation. Did she really just say that? The audacity of this woman was staggering. They would understand that a spoilt, demanding heiress had suddenly decided she wanted their wedding slot?

I shook my head, my vanilla blonde plait waggling down my back. “I’m very sorry, Ms Bonnington, but that’s impossible.” I delivered a cool smile. “As I’ve just explained, we can accommodate you on the 18th or you can keep your reservation for the 22nd. Either way, I would be more than happy to lay on – on a complimentary basis, of course – our Christmas horse-drawn carriage around the grounds for you and your guests to enjoy.”

I ignored Ulrika’s grunt of disapproval. “Castle Marrian would also ensure that your snow and ice magical kingdom theme is second to none.”

Ulrika Bonnington’s complexion grew puce under her make-up. “I don’t want a carriage with some knackered old donkey pulling it! I want Christmas Eve for my wedding.”

I fought to maintain an aura of calm, while inside, I was beginning to rage at the blatant privilege. Beside Ulrika, her mother reached out one ringed hand in an attempt to calm her. It wasn’t working.

“Ms Bonnington, I understand your disappointment,” I lied through my teeth, “but I can assure you that your wedding on 22nd December will be the perfect festive experience for you and your guests.”

Ulrika’s twiglet-brown arms peeped out from under the fluffy sleeves of her jacket. “This is ridiculous. Where’s Heston? I want to speak to him.” Her cold eyes flashed. “What’s that saying about the organ grinder and not the monkey?”

I could feel my fists balling under my desk. “Ms Bonnington, I have just told you that Mr Cole is preparing to go on leave.”

“Ah. So, he isn’t away on holiday yet then.”

Ulrika Bonnington sat back, arms folded, like a glowering blonde Medusa.

Bugger! I didn’t mean to let that slip.