Page 7 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

‘Daisy?’

Oh bugger.

I swung round, plastering a guilty smile on my face.

Sue gave me a look. ‘I hope you’re not starstruck.’

I shook my ponytail so hard it slapped against my back. ‘Nope. Not at all.’ That wasn’t strictly true, of course, but I guessed that was what she wanted to hear.

‘Good, because remember what I said: professional and friendly, but ghost-like. Waitress and then vanish.’

Trying not to envisage myself as Casper the Friendly Ghost, I retrieved the bottle of champagne from the top of the breakfast bar and filled a few more glasses.

Sue nodded her approval at me. ‘Right. Off you go then.’

She pushed open the kitchen door, allowing me to angle myself out.

Faces I instantly recognised from stage and screen wavered in front of my eyes. I had to get a grip.

I’d worked at so many events before where there were famous people, but this was on another scale. If Carston Manor were to blow up this afternoon, half of Britain’s acting royalty would be wiped out. That must have been why everything was so secret squirrel about who was attending.

I drilled my eyes into the glasses of bubbling, pale gold I was carrying.

It was no good. I had to star spot. I couldn’t help myself.

Making my way through the grand hall, I spied Dame Judi Dench, Sir Ian McKellan, Dame Joan Collins and Hannah Waddingham. I wheeled this way and that, proffering the champagne flutes from the tray.

Hannah bloody Waddingham!

Oh God… I loved that woman!

I gripped my tray tighter and headed down the chequered hallway to where the humungous garden room was decked out with row upon row of gigantic silver balloons. The number 60 bobbed in front of the windows.

I glanced back.

Aiden, Iris and Jasmine were bringing up the rear, each with platters of coronation chicken sandwiches, miniature venison pies, caviar crackers, egg mayonnaise with truffle and mustard cress, as well as a tower of crumpets, laden with pale pink smoked salmon and cream cheese.

Sue was taking care of the cakes, which ranged from traditional Victorian style fare to mini sticky toffee puddings, vanilla and passionfruit bites, rich slices of chocolate cake and apricot and almond tarts. Then there were the obligatory flour-dusted fruit, plain, cinnamon, cheese, treacle and coconut scones.

Over by the floating balloons were a couple of TV directors I recognised from the stream of auditions I had attended, engaged in animated conversation. The Saturday sunshine outside was playing hide and seek amongst the trees.

I was smiled at and thanked for the champagne, and not acknowledged at all by only a very small minority.

The atmosphere was jovial and relaxed as we ferried glasses to and from the kitchen and slithered around with the sumptuous food.

In the kitchen, it was a throbbing hive of activity, with clattering crockery and the Armand de Brignac flowing like a river.

My feet were beginning to sting thanks to the endless walking up and down, but I kept reminding myself of the generous paycheque to come, and that I’d soon be jumping into Marlene and making my way back up to Strath Ross to see Grandpa.

I had a fresh tray of bubbling champagne and was weaving in and out of the chattering bodies when two sparkling morganite cufflinks and a hand appeared and took one of the flutes. ‘Thank you,’ rumbled a male voice. ‘I bet you’ll be glad to finish after pandering to this lot.’

I looked up.

A pair of dark chocolate eyes were regarding me, framed with black lashes.

They belonged to a tall, well-built man with thick, floppy, blueberry black hair. He was very imposing – and very handsome.

‘Yes,’ I faltered, trying to gather myself. ‘It has been rather non-stop.’