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There was the smallest of sighs down the phone. ‘When you leave the chapel, darling. Well, in this instance, the ceremonial platform.’
‘Oh, you mean the “confetti bit”,’ said Brooke.
He coughed meaningfully. ‘Alessandro Franchetti doesn’t do confetti, sweet thing. I was thinking hundreds of butterflies released from an aviary. Maybe red admirals, as red is traditionally good luck at Chinese weddings?’ he mused aloud. ‘Although blue is the lucky colour in the West, isn’t it?’
‘What do they say about working with children and animals?’ said Brooke, smiling to herself, but Alessandro didn’t seem to be listening.
‘Maybe I’ll give Princess Olga of Greece a call,’ he said. ‘You must know her, right? She’s a butterfly expert. I’ll call her right now. Get her view on it and call you straight back.’
Gratefully, Brooke put down the phone and threw herself back on the sofa, gazing out at the greying Manhattan sky. It was funny how quickly the dark nights came in, she thought. She grabbed the controls for her TiVo, and decided to watch World Watch which she had recorded earlier in the week. It featured the thirty–minute documentary segment David had recorded in Iraq. He had a presence and substance you didn’t often see in TV presenters. The critics seemed to agree with her and were already calling it one of the documentaries of the year, while at the network there were rumours about a promotion for David to lead anchor, or even his own show. Brooke hoped he got it; to her mind, that was a better fit than politics.
When her phone rang, she debated not answering it, but while she’d definitely had enough of Alessandro Franchetti for one evening, it was better to get this guest book and butterfly business sorted out sooner rather than later.
‘I was just thinking,’ she said, snatching up the phone, ‘maybe we should go for red butterflies. I think David’s dad is inviting lots of prominent Republicans, so I think he’ll prefer the party colours.’
‘Butterflies? What are you talking about, Brooke?’
‘Matt, is that you?’ she said, pleased to hear his voice.
‘The same.’
She giggled. ‘God, save me from wedding madness. I’ve just been debating whether I should have five hundred red or blue butterflies released after my wedding.’
‘What happened to the plain old shower of confetti?’
‘Too plain and old, apparently.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said. ‘Where did you get to?’
‘Just busy,’ said Matt vaguely.
‘Well, how about doing something this weekend?’ She ran throug
h her diary in her head. David was away again and although Tess had said she and David should meet Matt together, what harm could a coffee or a pizza do?
‘I think I’m busy this weekend.’
‘Long shift?’
There was a long pause.
She knew instinctively what he was doing that weekend.
‘You have a date!’ she said, chiding him.
‘I guess.’
‘I thought we were friends, Matthew Palmer,’ she said over–brightly. ‘But you tell me nothing.’
Matt laughed. ‘There’s nothing much to tell. We’ve only been out a few times.’
‘You’ve been out a few times and there’s nothing to tell? You have a girlfriend!’
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Matt. ‘She’s called Suzy, she’s fun, she’s an aromatherapist.’
‘Ooh, just think of all those sexy, oily massages.’
