“What?” He frowns at me. “But what about our food?”
“Get it to go and bring it to the shop. There’s been an emergency. Thank you. Bye.”
And, with that, I fling his coat at him and stumble out onto the street.
Chapter Four
It takes about two hours for my cheeks to return to their normal temperature. Elliot thought the whole thing was hilarious. He even said I should have told Ollie, “Better out than in”! But he doesn’t understand. What happened today was the closest I’ve ever gotten to being asked out on a date by someone I have an actual crush on. I bet in the All-Time History of Dating no girl has ever told a boy who has just asked her out that she has fleas—and then farted! Or at least sounded as if she farted. That has to go down as the worst response ever?!
From my seat behind the counter, I look around To Have and to Hold. Andrea is over by the rails of dresses helping a young woman decide between a Barbie-and a Cinderella-themed wedding. The young woman’s fiancé is sulking in an armchair in the corner after being told we don’t do a Grand Prix theme. It’s only about three o’clock but outside the light’s already beginning to fade. The shoppers rushing by look grim-faced and wind-swept. I’m glad I’m in here, even if I am working. To be honest, coming to the shop doesn’t ever feel much like working. Mum has created such a beautiful space it’s more like coming to a fairy grotto, what with the twinkling lights and the scented candles and the music. I reckon we must be the only shop in Brighton—if not the UK—to play background music on a vintage record player. But the crackling of the needle on the vinyl really adds to the atmosphere, especially with our playlist of soulful love songs. It’s impossible to leave To Have and to Hold without feeling all warm and melty inside. Unless of course you’ve just told the boy you’ve had a crush on for the past six years that you might have fleas.
To take my mind off “Flea and Fart Shame,” I decide to go and check the window display. Every couple of weeks Mum changes the display to feature our newest theme. At the moment it’s Downton Abbey so the bridal mannequin in the window is wearing a white ruffled long-sleeved dress with a collar so high it looks more like a blouse. I notice that the brooch on the collar has gone slightly askew so I climb into the window to adjust it. When I turn around to go back, I see a couple outside looking at the display. The woman is gazing at the bridal gown and although I can’t hear what she’s saying I can definitely lip-read that it’s “Oh my God!”
As I walk back to the counter, the bell over the door jangles and the couple walks in.
“It’s the cutest thing ever!” the woman says in a strong American accent.
I look at them and smile. “Hello, can I help you?”
They both smile back at me—their teeth are as perfectly straight and dazzling white as the keys on a piano.
“Yes, we were just wondering if you cater for international weddings?” the man asks.
As they reach the counter, I’m hit by a waft of aftershave. But it’s not the cheap stuff that Tom wears before a night out in town; it smells more subtle and spicy. It smells expensive.
“Well, I’m not exactly sure,” I tell him. Mum has organized some weddings abroad before. But they’ve always been for friends. I’m not about to lose her a potential client, though. “What was it you were interested in?”
“We’re supposed to be getting married right before Christmas,” the man says. He must see the shocked look on my face because he continues: “Yes, this Christmas, as in just over a week away! But we just this morning heard that our wedding planner has other commitments . . .”
“He ran off with the bride from the last wedding he organized!” the woman exclaims.
I fight the urge to grin. That’s exactly the kind of story that Elliot and Tom would find hilarious. “Oh dear,” I say.
“It’s so stressful,” the woman says. “Especially as we’re here in the UK on business so we’re not able to meet with any other wedding planners back home.”
“We were thinking of calling the whole thing off,” the man says.
“But then we saw your adorable display in the window,” the woman continues. “I just love Downton Abbey . . . we’re all in love with it in the States.”
“And so we were wondering if maybe we could hire you guys to take over our wedding,” the man says.
“It would be so cute,” his fiancée says.
The man sulking in the armchair mutters something.
“Of course,” I say quickly. “My mum’s the manager of the business but she’s out at the moment. Can I take your details and get her to give you a call when she gets back?”
“Sure. I’m Jim Brady.” The man hands me a business card. It’s one of those expensive ones where the writing is embossed and the card is really thick and silky smooth.
“And I’m Cindy Johnson—soon to be Brady,” the woman says with a smile, handing me an equally expensive-looking card.
“Obviously we have the venue booked already so you guys would just need to do the styling,” Jim says.
“We’re getting married at the Waldorf Astoria in New York,” Cindy adds. From the expectant way she’s looking at me I’m guessing that’s a very good thing.
“That’s lovely,” I say with a smile.
“Oh, y’all have the cutest accent!” Cindy turns to Jim, her eyes wide. “Honey, if we do have a Downton Abbey wedding maybe we should say our vows in British accents.” She turns back to me. “Wouldn’t that be adorable?”
I smile at her and nod. “Yes, absolutely.”
The sulking man in the armchair looks at me and rolls his eyes.
? ? ?
“Why did the chicken cross the road, roll in mud, and cross the road again?” Dad asks me as soon as I walk into the living room.