A Groom With a View

by Sophie Ranald

  The next couple of days passed in a blur of sunshine, cooking and frantic note-taking. I was learning all the time, I loved the new people I was meeting and the new ingredients I was tasting and experimenting with. Even Florence appeared to have calmed down and was restricting her calls to two or three per day – or perhaps Guido was just limiting the number he answered. I was busy and stressed, I’d broken four fingernails and was sporting a sunburned nose from a lunchtime spent playing truant in the swimming pool. And I’d managed to put my worries about Nick to the back of my mind.

  We landed back in Johannesburg on another brilliantly sunny morning, and Guido announced that we’d have the day off before our flight home in the evening. He was going to meet an old friend for lunch, he said, so I was on my own.

  “Go shopping, Pippa,” he suggested. “You deserve a treat, you’ve been working very hard. We need to be at the airport for six o’clock. I’ll meet you there.”

  This suddenly seemed like an excellent idea. I entrusted Guido and our driver with my luggage and got in a taxi.

  “Take me to the good shops,” I said.

  “Sandton City,” said the cabbie. “That’s where all the ladies go to shop till they drop.”

  He wasn’t joking. I hadn’t seen very much of South Africa beyond the inside of restaurants, but I had seen heartbreaking glimpses of the poverty in which many people lived: shantytowns sprawling for miles alongside motorways, manual labourers carefully counting their coins before buying roast corn on the cob for their lunch, and women with babies begging for spare change at traffic lights. Sibongile had told me without a trace of self-pity that she was putting her three younger sisters and two brothers through school on her freelance wages.

  But Sandton City was all about wealth. It was a vast mall, glittering with Christmas decorations and housing just about every high-end designer store I’d ever heard of, along with a few I hadn’t. Everyone was immaculately dressed and there was just the same air of controlled frenzy you get on Bond Street on a Saturday. I mentally flexed my credit card and entered the fray.

  Two hours later, I was buckling under the weight of packets of biltong for Nick, a book of South African poetry for Mum, wine for Dad, scent for Callie, gorgeous tigers-eye necklaces for Tamar and Eloise, a biography of Nelson Mandela for Erica, a giraffe on a stick for Spanx and two pairs of shoes for me. I just had time for a late lunch and a final browse before getting the train to the airport.

  I was heading for the nearest coffee shop in the manner of a weary traveller struggling through the desert towards a distant clump of palm trees that might be an oasis or might be a mirage, when I saw the dress.

  It was as if the bright lights of the mall had been dimmed and the chattering of the crowd stilled. It was as if there was nothing in the world but me and the dress. It was as if sweet music started to play. . . Okay, it was just a dress. But it was seriously cool. It was the only thing in the window of a little boutique, styled to look like a winter wonderland with sparkly icicles and frosted fir trees, and the dress itself looked like it was made of snow – not the horrid icy, sludgy kind but the soft pillowy kind you want to lie down and make angels in.

  I stopped noticing my aching feet and hurried towards the shop as fast as I could. It was only a few yards away, but what if someone else got there first? I was quite out of breath by the time I burst through the door, grabbed the nearest assistant and gasped, “That dress in the window! I have to try it!”

  “But, madam,” he looked bemused, “That dress is left over from our winter collection. It’s only in the window for display purposes, it’s not actually for sale.”

  “Please!” I said. “It’s so beautiful, and I’m flying back to London tonight and I’m getting married in February and I don’t have a dress, and if you don’t let me try it, I’ll. . . I’ll cry. And you don’t want to make me cry, do you?”

  He looked understandably alarmed at the mad English woman who had invaded his store. I could see him wondering whether to call security.

  “Please,” I said again, a bit more calmly.

  He shook his head. “I’m going to have to call my manager.”

  It took him three goes to get through, while I paced up and down, looking longingly at the dress.

  “Yes,” he said. “The one in the window, the Trina Joubert. The lady really wants to try it on.” He lowered his voice and I didn’t catch what he said next. I suspect it may have been something along the lines of, “And I’m worried that if I don’t let her, she’ll tear my head off with her bare hands and then go after my family.” But after a bit more persuasion, he said, “Okay. Yes, of course I will. Okay. Cheers.”

  “She says yes,” he said.

  “Thank you!” I said, “Thank you so, so much. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

  It took him ages to make his way through the faux forest and get the dress off the mannequin, while I stood shifting from foot to foot and looking at my watch. I was going to have to get into the frock in record time and make the fastest decision ever, or I’d be horribly late to meet Guido. Eventually it was liberated.

  And it was perfect, far better than the last one I’d tried with Katharine. It wasn’t even particularly weddingy, just a lovely column of plain white silk that clung in all the right places and slid forgivingly over all the other bits. It had a low back that was just high enough for my bra not to show. It had sparkly straps almost exactly the same as the ones on my shoes, and it came with a little faux fur wrap that covered my shoulders and would stop me freezing to death. I couldn’t stop smiling as I emerged from the fitting room to give the assistant, who’d told me his name was Valli, a quick twirl.

  “Look!” I said. “I’ve found my wedding dress! And it’s all thanks to you!”

  “Aww, that’s just beautiful,” he said. “It’s like it’s made for you, hey? And you won’t believe this. My boss called again while you were trying it on, and she said that because it’s old stock, it’s been reduced by seventy five percent. And – this is seriously amazing – Trina Joubert has emigrated to New Zealand and she’s not making wedding dresses any more. So it’s not just a bargain, it’s a one-off!”

  By the time I’d paid for the dress, Valli and I were best mates. He told me that he and his boyfriend were getting married next year too. I promised to friend him on Facebook, and gave him one of the bottles of wine I’d bought for Dad. I even told him that if he happened to be in London in February, he must come to our wedding. Then I legged it to the station and flung myself and my legion of shopping bags into a carriage just as the sliding doors were closing.

  “Good shopping?” Guido asked, when we finally located each other at the airport.

  “Amazing!” I said. “Look at the stunning jewellery I bought for the girls in the office, and the shoes I found. And you won’t believe it, but I’ve finally bought a wedding dress. It was such a bargain and it’s gorgeous. I’ll show you.”

  But I couldn’t. The books were there, and the shoes and the wine and all the rest, but not the dress. I’d left it behind, somewhere in the mall or on the train.

  When I told Nick about it, I cried. As soon as I got home, he ran me a hot bath with some aromatherapy oil in it, brought me a cup of tea and perched on the lid of the loo.

  “So,” he said, “tell me all about the trip. How did it go?”

  And instead of recounting all my adventures and waxing lyrical about the scenery and the amazing food and the challenge of it all, instead of telling him I’d read the blog and asking him if he was back in touch with Bethany, I said, “I found a wedding dress. But I lost it.” And I let out a huge, gulping sob, and soon I was having a good old howl on his shoulder, drenching his shirt with jasmine-scented water.

  “My lovely Pippa, don’t cry,” he soothed. “We’ll get it back, surely? Someone will have found it and handed it in?”

  “They won’t,” I sniffed. “There are so many poor people there, Nick. If they found a dress that cost a mont
h’s wages, they’d keep it. Of course they would. Or sell it. And I wouldn’t blame them at all. It’s my fault for being such a stupid idiot.”

  “You’ll find another dress,” Nick said. “I know you will. You know what kind you want now, get Callie to help you look on Google. And anyway, you’re so beautiful, you could get married in your nightie and still look stunning, and I’d still love you.”

  I managed a feeble laugh. My nightie is an ancient sweatshirt of Nick’s with a picture of Robert Plant on it and a big hole under the left armpit, and I wouldn’t let anyone but him see me in it.

  “Anyway,” I said, “how’s the rest of it going? The wedding stuff?”

  “Great!” he said. “Mum and I have done all the invitations, they’re ready to post. I printed some extra ones for you to see, they look awesome. Mum thinks we should send them in batches, in case there’s some sort of terrorist action and our local post box gets blown up. I can’t decide if that’s bonkers or actually quite sensible. And I’ve emailed Royal Mail to ask whether they do first-class stamps in silver, because they’ll tone in so much better with the colour scheme. And then we’ve got our menu tasting at Brocklebury Manor next week. Mum’s going to come along to that, she’s got loads of good ideas about catering for the kids. And Callie says everything’s sorted for your hen night – having it on New Year’s Eve is going to be brilliant, don’t you think? And I asked your mum to make a list of suggested readings for the ceremony, so when you’ve got a second, have a look and tell me whether you like them. . .”

  He carried on, saying something about the flowers he and Callie had chosen and something about the plans Iain was making for his stag night. I closed my eyes and lay back in the hot water. He wasn’t going to mention Bethany, and I couldn’t summon up the courage to, either. I suddenly felt very, very tired and the excitement of the past few days had evaporated along with the last whiff of jasmine.

  “Oh, and I bought you a present,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll go and find it.”

  I heard the door of our wardrobe open and close, then a few drawers opening and closing too, and then Nick came back.

  “Look!” he said proudly. “I ordered it online. Mum found the website, she’s gone a bit online-shopping crazy.”

  He held up a black cotton T-shirt. In large, squirly foil letters across the front was printed ‘Mrs Pickford’.

  I’d been wondering when to talk to Nick about what Guido had said about work, and now I was faced with another conversation I really didn’t want to have. Mrs Pickford was Erica, not me. I was Pippa Martin, and I had no intention of changing that, no matter what it would say on my passport.

  I pulled the plug out of the bath and wrapped myself in my towel.

  “I’d better unpack and get to work,” I said. “I told Guido I’d try and be in by lunchtime.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  From: nick@digitaldrawingboard.com

  To: imogen@brockleburymanor.co.uk

  Subject: Numbers

  Hi Imogen

  I hope you’re well. You’ll be relieved to hear that we have finalised our guest list at last, and the invitations have been sent out. As it’s been such short notice, we’re expecting a relatively high attrition rate, so I expect there will be about 150 guests. As soon as we have RSVPs I’ll be able to confirm the exact numbers. Obviously this will affect the menu to some extent, but we’d like to go ahead with the tasting on Friday anyway, as discussed with Hugh.

  Hope that’s all okay, and thanks again for your patience. Look forward to seeing you then.

  Nick

  “Well, this is very nice, isn’t it?” said Erica, as the taxi’s headlights illuminated the stone façade of Brocklebury Manor. “What an attractive building. When was it built?”

  Nick launched into a potted history of the place, which I realised he must know off by heart by now. I had to admit that it did look gorgeous – the huge hall was dwarfed by a giant Christmas tree, festooned with twinkling white lights and tasteful gold and silver decorations, not at all like the tatty multicoloured ones that Nick and I have on our tree at home. There was a gorgeous smell of pine needles and mulled wine hanging in the air.

  Imogen greeted us at the not-a-reception-desk.

  “Hello, Nick, hello, Pippa, how lovely to see you again. You do look well, have you been somewhere hot? And you must be Mrs Pickford, how nice to meet you.” She kissed us and shook Erica’s hand. “Now, if you’d like to come through to the dining room, Hugh is waiting to meet you.”

  Hugh Jameson was hard to miss. He made the solid dining chair he sat in look like something out of a doll’s house, and when he stood up to greet us he towered over Nick, who’s six foot two, and I almost had to reach up to shake his hand. Restaurant kitchens aren’t renowned for their spaciousness, and I decided that Hugh must have serious talent to make up for what was a quite significant physical disadvantage. I remembered Nick’s joke about him being called Huge Amazon, and caught his eye and realised he’d remembered it too. We only just managed not to giggle.

  “Now,” said Imogen, “You’ve got your work cut out here, Hugh, because Pippa’s a chef too and she’s extremely hard to please! I’ll get a bottle of champagne sent out for you and leave you all to it.”

  “Where is it you work then, Pippa?” Hugh asked as we sat down.

  I told him about Guido and Thatchell’s and the television shows, and then said, “But Imogen mentioned that you used to work for Marcus Wareing. Amazing! Is he as scary as he seems on telly?”

  But just as Hugh opened his mouth to tell me, Erica said, “Now, Pippa, you know it’s rude to talk shop,” as if I was about six years old. I felt myself flushing with annoyance, Hugh shut up and there was a bit of an awkward silence while the champagne was opened.

  “Er. . . This is a sparkling wine from the Loire region,” Hugh said. “It’s a very popular choice with our wedding couples but of course there are many other options on the list at a range of price points, if you’d like to have a look.”

  Nick said, “Do you have any with silver labels, rather than gold?”

  “Nick!” I said, “Shouldn’t we be tasting the wine, not doing a design crit on the label?”

  Poor Hugh. I could see him thinking that this was going to be a long afternoon.

  “I have three menus to show you,” he said, “Of course we’re completely flexible and can accommodate just about anything, within reason, but these are just a few of the choices that have proved popular at the weddings we’ve hosted recently.”

  He handed us each a little sheaf of printed cards.

  “This looks fab,” I said. “I really like the selection of canapés on this one, and I love the idea of serving venison. And cheese toasties at midnight sound great. But then so does this one, with the monkfish. It all looks gorgeous, it’s going to be so hard to decide! I’m so glad you don’t do boring, horrible menus like something out of the seventies, with melon then supremes of chicken. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  Hugh said something about how it was an honour as well as a challenge to be catering for a fellow cook, and I glowed a bit with pride, especially as he was way out of my league professionally.

  Nick said, “I could have some personalised sticky labels printed to go with the design of the invitations. I’d have to do them slightly larger, so they’d cover the gold labels, or we could just soak them off, I suppose. It wouldn’t take long.”

  A look of alarm crossed Hugh’s face at the idea of his hard-pressed waiting staff spending hours peeling labels off wine bottles, but he said diplomatically that he was sure the front-of-house manager would be happy to discuss whatever thoughts Nick had about serving the wine.

  Then Erica said, “Now, there are a few people who have dietary preferences that we’ll have to bear in mind. I’ve made a little list.” She took a sheet of A4 paper, covered in dense print, out of her bag and smoothed it out. “My niece Deirdre has a severe nut allergy, so that rules out anything with chocola
te, as well as the cherry tomato and pesto canapés and the lavender and almond-crusted lamb. My niece Alison and her husband recently converted to Islam, and understandably they object to anything containing pork being prepared at the same time as their meals. So we won’t be able to serve the Iberico ham croquettes or the monkfish, because I see that is wrapped in pancetta. But that wouldn’t be an option anyway, because my brother David has never been able to eat fish. Andrew and his wife Barbara dislike foreign food, and will only eat well-done meat, so I must ask that if we do serve venison, it’s cooked through. Although Patricia has a moral objection to eating game anyway, she feels it’s elitist and I’m inclined to agree. And of course we have quite a few children attending, and I always believe it’s wiser to keep things simple for them. It’s so important that the little ones eat a good meal at all-day events or they can get a bit fractious. And of course I’m a vegan and prefer to eat locally produced, organic food, but apart from that I’m not fussy at all.”

  I gazed at her in horror. Was the menu at my wedding going to be dictated entirely by the innumerable cousins and their horrible offspring? If parents were worried about their kids slipping into hypoglycaemic comas because they were too fussy to eat perfectly normal food, why the hell couldn’t they just stop off at MacDonald’s on the way or bring bags of crisps in their handbags? Erica’s idea of locally produced food seemed to include tinned tomato soup from our corner shop. And Alison was one of the few of Nick’s cousins who I had actually met, when we’d been to her wedding just a few months ago, and they’d served a hog roast, so I took this Damascene conversion story with a pinch of salt.

  As if reading my mind, Erica went on, “And of course, as a healthcare professional, I have grave concerns about the level of salt in modern diets, so I think it’s important that we keep that to a minimum across all the dishes, and don’t serve it on the tables unless it’s a low-sodium alternative.”

  I drank some champagne and said mutinously, “But salt in cooking is important. I’d never serve food to a diner that wasn’t properly seasoned and the low-sodium stuff just tastes of chlorine. Don’t you agree, Hugh?”