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I hopped over to the phone with one foot in the dress and picked it up. “Hello, you’ve reached Events by Camilla, how can I help you?”
“Oh, good morning.” The voice on the other end of the phone was distinctly upper-class with the kind of pronunciation only usually heard in the Queen’s Speech on Christmas day.
All right.
Not that posh.
But posh enough. With a weird little southwest twinge.
Like a fancy farmer.
“Is Camilla Hopkins available please?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I replied, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder so I could get dressed while I spoke. “Camilla isn’t here right now, but I can take a message for you.”
“Will she be back soon?”
“Not until this evening.”
“Oh, very well. I’m calling on behalf of Anna, The Duchess of Devon.”
Look at that.
I was right.
Fancy farmer, indeed.
I scribbled that down. “And your name is?”
“Nancy Porter.”
Fancy Nancy, then.
“May I ask your reason for calling?”
“The Dowager Duchess of Devon is turning eighty next month, and Lady Devon would like to hire Miss Hopkins to arrange the party for her mother-in-law.”
Look at Camilla go.
Next month was a little tight, though.
Not that it mattered. She’d have to make it happen.
“Do you have a contact number she can call you back on?”
“Yes.” She reeled it off. “Please ask for me as I will be the point of contact for her ladyship’s household.”
This was feeling very Downton Abbey.
I felt as though I should curtsey or something.
“Absolutely. When should I tell her is the best time to return your call?”
“Her ladyship would like the planning to begin as soon as possible, so please ask Miss Hopkins to return the call at her earliest convenience.”
She clearly didn’t have working hours stated in her contract.
Poor woman.
