by Laura Briggs
Guests seemed impressed by the Cliffs House champagne luncheon, judging from the 'oohs' and 'aahs' when Dinah's decorative spread was revealed. Antique china trays of cream-colored cakes decorated with sugared flowers in pale pink and bright gold-orange, milk and dark chocolates lightly sprinkled with candied orange, and spicy ginger and cinnamon biscuits with only a hint of citrus in each crisp bite.
Lord William played host briefly, popping the cork on the first bottle of champagne to pour a round for toasting the bride to be. Petal was blushing, but in a way that only enhanced the pink rouge dusted over her flawless cheekbones. As Gemma predicted, her dress was a pale orange-brown print featuring white butterflies, matched with a pair of shoes so expensive I couldn't imagine ever dreaming about them, much less owning them. An engagement present from Donald, she told the girl at her elbow, the American chief bridesmaid Trixie Nelson.
Until now, I hadn't been aware that anybody in the world was still named Trixie, much less anyone as young and supposedly chic as Petal's fellow model. Trixie dabbled in acting, apparently, which she informed a few members of the press as she brushed aside the strands of platinum blond hair swept across her face by the breeze.
"Looks like it's gone off smashingly," whispered Pippa as she passed me, circulating one of the trays of champagne. I smiled, feeling as proud of Cliffs House's success as she did. It was my first big event, and it was going smoothly by all accounts.
I circulated the room, making sure that the cakes remained ornamentally stacked and that the truffles weren't running low. I helped Gemma chill more champagne, then edged closer to a journalist who seemed to be taking a strong interest in Dinah's beautiful citrus saffron cakes.
Only the journalist was really interested in the conversation taking place between Petal and Donald. Who were arguing over something about the wedding.
"And I hate the thought of carrying them down the aisle!" hissed Petal. "It's hideous, and I won't do it, Donald. I want something from the shops in London. Anything. Even a bundle of half-dead roses."
Her beautiful features had twisted into a scowl. I realized, with chagrin, that she was talking about the sketches we had discussed yesterday, the ones for her flower bouquet. I had prided myself on coming up with a Cornish bouquet that would match her wedding colors — a mixture of blooms the color of heath in autumn, paired with orchids and colored daisies — and had mentioned that most of the flowers were available in the manor's hothouse. Apparently, Petal's polite smile for my suggestions had been extremely fake.
"Why? It's a bunch of dead leaves and flowers, love," said Donald, disgustedly. "Toss 'em in the dustbin after it's over."
"You know why I feel that way," she said. "It's uncomfortable, Donald. I simply prefer to bring something down from London the day before and be done with it. Besides, it would go better with the dress. It's a couture gown, Donald. Not some fish wife's costume." She muttered this last part.
Donald rolled his eyes. "This is the Cornish Riviera, love," he said. "Stop moaning because it's not the beach house at Newquay. We were both bored there, and half the crowd's in Truro now for the summer."
"Then why couldn't we get married there?" she said. "Why did you have to pick this shabby little spot in the middle of nowhere where I'm reminded of a past I loathe every time I'm here?"
The color drained from my face, and I burned with indignation on behalf of Cliffs House and the impossible-to-pronounce Ceffylgwyn described as 'shabby.' I wanted to snap at Petal that a place that breathed this much history and local pride was too good for her, but I bit back my words.
I remembered my role at this event, and that this was their party, and they were entitled to their privacy, even if it was privacy for the sake of trash-talking the venue. Even with their voices low, people around them could still hear their argument, and I didn't want that — for both Petal and Donald, and for the sake of Cliffs House's reputation. "Sorry," I said, nudging the listening-in journalist as I passed him. "Oh, did I do that?" I said, as his champagne sloshed over his wrist. "My apologies. Can I get you a towel?"
"Watch where you walk next time!" he snapped. Obviously he was annoyed that he had lost track of their conversation. Petal and Donald had noticed him standing nearby and moved to a more private part of the room. A moment later they were both laughing at the best man's stories, and feeding each other pieces of saffron cake.
I retreated through the open glass doors for a breathing moment. I wanted to slip off my heels and relax, but there were still hours to go. But since nothing disastrous was happening at the moment, I took off in the direction of the garden paths where some of the wedding party's guests were wandering.
On the other side of the hedge, I could hear a woman's laugh, a high falsetto one that sounded a little like a yapping dog. Curious, I stepped through the opening, and found Trixie the chief bridesmaid and Matthew Rose the gardener. There were two glasses of champagne present, one in Trixie's hand and one on the lawn beside Matthew.
He had been in the middle of tending the roses, but now Trixie was sitting on his wheelbarrow tilted on its side, her dress's ornamental wrap slipped low enough to bare her shoulders to him. Matthew was laughing, though not as heartily, at whatever had struck them both as funny a moment ago.
"Sorry," I said. I stepped backwards. "I didn't realize anyone was here." Not true, but I said it anyway.
"Oh ... the wedding planner, right?" said Trixie, squinting at me. "Yes, I do remember meeting you earlier." That was all the attention she was willing to give me, turning her attention to Matthew again. "Did you really meet David Bowie?" she said.
"Only once," he said. "And at a party of a friend, who merely wanted me to give him some advice on landscaping. Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid."
"I wanted to hear you tell that story — I've always been jealous when other people get to meet famous people that I wanted to meet." She leaned closer to him. "So how many other famous people have you met?"
Matthew blushed. Her face was much closer to his than before, her whole body sidling towards his. The look in his eyes was strangely conflicted — even confused — but it wasn't the look of someone utterly shocked or repulsed by this bold maneuver.
Two champagne glasses — obviously the two of them had been here for a little while, getting acquainted. I tried not to let my feelings show, those of disappointment and mortification, as I turned and left without bothering with any polite farewells. Obviously I wasn't wanted at this little gathering.
I made myself busy for the next hour or so back at the reception, although blood was thundering in my ears. What was wrong with me? It wasn't as if Matthew ever suggested he was attracted to me. I made it all up in my imagination, based on some silly roses and a couple of glances. He sent those edible flowers to save Dinah's reputation, not mine. And those roses — that was just his way of flirting with the newest female employee on the estate, or maybe his way of flirting with every woman he ever met.
I was pretty sure I wouldn't be fond of seeing roses around for awhile.
More people were strolling around the grounds, and the press was almost finished with 'exclusive interviews' or 'one on one' questions, and beginning to make small talk in the dining hall. I discreetly swept some crumbs off the table and removed an empty truffles platter.
Petal was on the stairs as I passed through the hall to the kitchen. Someone else was with her, and it only took a second before I recognized the platinum blond hair and gold party dress from before.
"... he was just so attractive," said Trixie, who was almost whining. "Don't be such a stick, Pet. There's nothing wrong with me hooking up with him for a few weeks, anyway. It's not as if he's private property, is he?"
"It's inappropriate," said Petal. "I don't want you doing it, Trix."
Automatically, I stepped back against the wall. It was my second time to eavesdrop today — this time intentionally — and I found I didn't want to be seen before this conversation ended.
"Why? Because I'm an American on
vacation here?" her friend retorted. "Or is it because —"
There was a crash from the kitchen. "Dearie me, there goes a bucket of ice!" I heard Dinah say, the last threads of patience in her voice wearing out.
"Sorry," squeaked Pippa. "It just slipped." The sound of ice clattering as they swept it up.
Both Petal and Trixie had been listening, too. Trixie tossed her hair. "I don't care what you say," she said. "I want him and that's that." She trotted up the stairs quickly, ignoring Petal's pouting scowl and crossed arms.
I waited until they were both gone to finish walking to the kitchen. Even if Matthew was a flirt and probably deserved someone like her, I still didn't like the idea of her 'hooking' him for a few weeks time. I tried not to think too hard about why as I helped Dinah and Pippa finish cleaning up the spilled ice.
***
