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‘That’s it. I’d like you to leave now.’
‘What? Where am I supposed to go? I’ve just driven for hours to get here. Aren’t you going to let me in?’
‘Of course I’m not!’
‘But what am I supposed to do? I can’t drive back to Devon now.’
‘I don’t know. Check yourself into a hotel or something. I don’t care.’
‘I can’t afford that!’
‘That really isn’t my problem. I didn’t ask you to come, did I? You’re not welcome here and, if you’re thinking of sleeping in your car overnight, let me tell you that Gerald has CCTV and will call the police if you’re not gone by the time I get back to the house. Goodbye, James.’
Before he has a chance to object any more, I fire up the quad bike and set off at top speed back down the drive.
17
I’ve been back at work for a month and, for the most part, I’m loving it. The only fly in the ointment is that I don’t seem to be as sharp as I used to be. Although I’ve set up all the same spreadsheets and checklists that I’d used for years, I somehow seem to miss something every time. Luckily, I’ve managed to either correct my mistakes or work around them so far, but I’m starting to wonder if I’m not up to it any more. Annabel is delighted that I’m back, and we’re incredibly busy, but the mistakes are definitely starting to dent my confidence a bit.
Thankfully, even with the monthly payments for the car, I’ve still got a decent amount left for rent and living expenses. I’ve also got enough left from the sale of the Land Rover to put down a deposit on a flat, when I find one. I definitely need to find something, and soon. The commute is horrible, but the only accommodation I seem to be able to afford in London are rooms in grotty run-down flats like the one I lived in before I was married. Flat sharing is fun in your twenties, but I need my own space now. I’ve registered with lots of agents, but so far nothing has come up that’s even close to my budget. Thankfully, our expenses policy allows for me to stay overnight in a hotel when we have an evening function, as I did yesterday. The last train from London to Uckfield leaves just after eleven at night and, even if that wasn’t way earlier than the function end time, I wouldn’t have felt safe on my own on a train that late at night. Di always says I’m welcome to stay with her and even offered to give me a key, but I don’t like the idea of barging into their house in the early hours of the morning, especially as I’m terrified of accidentally setting off the alarm.
I’m engaged on another fruitless scan of all the property websites I’ve bookmarked while sitting on the train heading for Kent. Toby Roberts, the photographer who did my wedding, is having a charity gala evening at his studio in Sevenoaks, and he’s engaged us to organise the hospitality element for him. He’s auctioning off signed copies of some of his most famous photographs and some other donated items, with the aim of raising several thousand pounds for a cancer charity. Given my recent record, I’m leaving nothing to chance and I’m getting there early to double-check everything. This is a high-profile event with a celebrity guest list, and it could be very good for us as long as it goes smoothly. I’ve already been here a couple of times to meet with the various contractors I’ve brought in, so, even though this is the first time I’ve come by train rather than driving, I know the route to his studio well, arriving there just after ten. Toby is already there, arranging artworks and removing his studio equipment, and he smiles warmly as he lets me in.
‘Hi, Sophie. All set for tonight?’
‘I hope so. Have the fridges, Champagne, and glasses arrived?’
‘Yes, the fridges are all plugged in and the glasses and Champagne are in the kitchen, I think. I’ve been busy with the art, so I haven’t really done anything except let people in and leave them to get on with it.’
‘Okay, brilliant. I’ll go and take a look.’
Toby goes back into the main studio area, which is surprisingly large. I’ve been in a few photographic studios in my time, and most of them are pretty poky, with barely room to move without banging into a light or some other piece of paraphernalia. Toby’s studio is like a barn, and he’s making the most of the space, with displays around the walls and on carefully arranged stands. It looks beautiful, so let’s just hope that the stuff I’ve organised will do it justice.
The three industrial fridges I’ve ordered are in place and humming quietly, which is a good start. One of them is purely for drinks. It’s impossible to tell how much people will drink at these occasions, so I’ve ordered seventy-two bottles of Champagne, with the option to return any that are unused. That’s a bottle per person, which should be more than enough. I’ve spent a long time working with the caterers to select the perfect range of canapés to cover every dietary restriction we could think of without compromising on taste and presentation, and Annabel happily gave her blessing for me to use the shirts and blouses with our company logo tastefully embroidered on them that we ask the waiting staff to wear at high profile events like this.
I set my laptop down on the counter and start working through my checklist. I put on my rubber gloves and go through the boxes of glasses to make sure that they’re all pristine without any fingerprints or lipstick marks on them, and that they all match. So far, so good. The trays for the canapés, napkins, and plates also pass muster. I’m particularly pleased with the plates, which have a little cut-out in them so the guests have somewhere to put their Champagne glass when they’re eating. In my opinion, it’s this kind of attention to detail that makes us stand out.
Humming quietly to myself, I open the wine fridge. I count the bottles of still and sparkling water, checking them off against my spreadsheet. The freshly squeezed orange juice is also present and correct, but I can only see twelve bottles of Champagne. That’s not right. I count them twice, in case my eyes are deceiving me, and then scout round the kitchen to see if I can find the others, but there’s no sign of them anywhere. I pull out my phone and call the wine merchant.
‘Hi Ian, it’s Sophie from Rushmore Events here. I’m just going through the inventory, and I can only find twelve bottles of Champagne. Are you able to contact your driver to find out where he put the rest?’
‘Let me have a look.’ I can hear him shuffling pieces of paper and tapping on a keyboard.
‘Umm. Sophie, you only ordered twelve bottles.’
‘I ordered twelvecases, Ian, I remember distinctly. Twelve bottles wouldn’t even come close to what we need for an event like this!’
‘I was a bit surprised, but Sharon said she’d double-checked it with you, and you’d said very clearly that it was twelve bottles.’
‘I haven’t spoken to Sharon about it, Ian. I promise you.’
‘Hang on, let me check.’ He obviously puts his hand over the mouthpiece, as I can hear muffled sounds of conversation but I can’t make out any of the words.
‘Hi Sophie, I’ve just checked with Sharon, and she said she spoke with one of your colleagues – Emily someone. Does that sound right?’
Somewhere in the dim recesses at the back of my head, a penny is starting to drop and a murderous thought is forming, but I can’t deal with that yet. I need to solve the immediate problem that I’m sixty bottles of Champagne short.
‘Okay. I’ll follow up at this end. I really need those other sixty bottles though, Ian. What can you do?’
