All For Victory
By
Beverley Watts
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2015 by Beverley Watts. All rights reserved worldwide.
No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author.
Cover Design Karen Ronan
www.coversbykaren.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Author’s Note
Claiming Victory
Chapter One
It’s not often that a fledgling career in Event Management kicks off with the wedding of a Hollywood superstar. Of course the fact that this particular Hollywood star is marrying my best friend might have had something to do with the fact that little old me landed the job.
It’s amazing just how things can change in the blink of an eye. Two months ago I was the owner of a small but very successful gallery here in Dartmouth. However, unfortunately the word owner didn’t actually include the property the gallery was housed in, which was (and still is – just) owned by my self-absorbed and largely absent parents.
Until a month ago, I hadn’t actually seen them for five years, and before that only sporadically.
Just after my fourteenth birthday they left me in the care of my dad’s sister Florence while they travelled. Mum had inherited a substantial amount of property in Dartmouth – even back then, it fetched a premium - and over the years, they sold each one until there was only the property on Fore Street left. My gallery.
Dad said they needed to sell it so he and mum could do true justice to South America – after all, travelling on a budget is no fun at all. He made it clear that he thought they were doing me a favour – giving me the push I needed to get proper job.
I have to say it feels more like a kick in the nuts (or I’m sure it would if I had any).
I’m trying very hard not to be bitter, telling myself that everything happens for a reason.
By the time my parents finally arrived back in Dartmouth after dropping their little bombshell, I’d managed to sell most of my stock, so when they visited me at the gallery, I suppose their image of a daughter playing at being an entrepreneur seemed justified. But then, they really don’t know anything about me.
Don’t get me wrong, life as a teenager with Aunt Flo was the best part of my childhood; for one thing, it was never, ever dull.
My Aunt Flo is a well known author of romantic bodice rippers, which she thankfully writes under a pen name, as her books generally abound with heaving bosoms and throbbing members.
By the time I left school I knew at least twenty different words for penis in three different languages…
She was, and still is the most wonderful loving person, and I know she adores me. Plus I have Victory, my best friend since forever, and the soon to be wife of multimillionaire Hollywood golden boy Noah Westbrook.
Which of course is why, when it looked as though I was about to become homeless and penniless, she announced that she wanted me to plan her wedding.
There is one other teensy weensy reason that I’ve landed the job that wedding planners everywhere can only dream of – one that only Noah and I know about.
Tory is pregnant.
Apparently it happened on the night of their big reconciliation just over six weeks ago…
Now, delighted they both are, but here’s the kicker. Noah is refusing to wait until after the birth to make an honest woman of her. (To be fair I can’t blame him. Tory is my dearest and oldest friend and I love her to pieces, but it has to be said she has a disturbing tendency to make life difficult for herself, and consequently everyone around her.)
So Noah is determined that the wedding will go ahead before he begins filming his next movie in the spring– even if he has to drag her to the altar.
Tory has absolutely refused to be a bride with a bump – citing the fact that her father would have a coronary. We are of course talking about the Admiral here, who’s a stickler for protocol when it comes to anyone other than himself.
So the wedding has to be pre-bump and is tentatively planned for the twentieth of December.
Seven weeks away…
Of course the Admiral is insisting on full pomp and ceremony for his only daughter, which means he wants the whole shebang held up at Britannia Royal Naval College which he presided over as Commodore for a brief, though apparently memorable, period.
So, just to recap and make sure you’re in the loop so to speak. I am being asked to organize a wedding in seven weeks time with approximately one hundred and fifty guests - including several Hollywood A listers, as well as anyone who’s anyone in Hello magazine – all to be held in a naval establishment requiring full details of every single guest down to what they had for breakfast, as well as the names and addresses of all their ancestors going back to the middle ages.
And I’ve never done it before.
Still, never let it be said that I don’t like a challenge and at least it’s stopping me thinking about my woes.
Who knows, it could well lead to an exciting new career. If I don’t balls it up in the meantime as the Admiral would say.
~*~
It had just started to rain as Admiral Charles Shackleford (retired) finally opened the door of his favourite watering hole. Before striding into the bar at The Ship Inn, he glanced down to see exactly where his dog Pickles was. The elderly Springer Spaniel had recently developed an irritating habit of getting under the Admiral’s feet which had caused him to go embarrassingly arse over tit a few times in polite company. Anyone would think the bloody dog was worried about being left behind.
Pickles however, was way ahead of him, happily fussing round the small man already seated at the bar. Jimmy Noon looked up as his oldest friend made his way noisily to his usual seat. Huffing and puffing, Charles Shackleford hoisted himself up onto the stool. It had to be said, this ritual was getting a trifle difficult – the Admiral admitted privately to himself that he might have put on a smidgeon of weight. Mabel had been threatening to put him on a diet. Bit of a bloody cheek since it was her cooking that had caused the sorry state of affairs in the first place. Never any problem with putting on weight when Victory was cooking.
‘How are you Sir?’ Jimmy interrupted his maudlin reverie, and the Admiral sighed before taking a long draft of his pint, ready and waiting for him.
‘Would you believe the damn wedding’s been brought forward to December,’ he responded finally after putting his glass back onto the bar. ‘December, I ask you. What’s wrong with having a decent length of time to plan the bloody thing properly?’
Jimmy frowned, a little perplexed at the Admiral’s attitude. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he asked with a bewildered shrug. ‘I know it’s a bit quick, but it’s not like you’ve got to organize it, and come on Sir, it’s good news really. Now you and Mabel won’t have to wait so long to do the necessaries.’
The Admiral glared down at his friend before sighing again. It wasn�
��t Jimmy’s fault that he’d gone and got himself in a bit of a tight spot. Of course the problem was, as usual, that he was too charitable for his own good.
The Admiral took another drink of his pint while he debated whether to just come out with it. He wasn’t sure exactly what Jimmy would be able to muster up to salvage the situation, especially given the fact that his best friend would be inclined to lose a debate with a doorknob. Still, it had to be said that Jimmy was probably the only person he could speak to about the slight issue. Well, either him or Pickles.
After a couple of minutes meditating into his pint, the Admiral plonked his now empty glass onto the bar decisively before turning determinedly towards the smaller man. ‘The thing is Jimmy lad, you know me. Sometimes I’m just too bloody giving for my own good.’
Jimmy stared silently back at him with his glass poised half way to his mouth. The Admiral waited a second for his friend’s agreement, but after a few seconds it appeared Jimmy had lost the use of his tongue. Not the first time it had happened.
Sometimes he privately thought that his former master at arms might not actually have both oars in the water. So, frowning slightly, he continued.
‘Well, a couple of weeks ago, I had a phone call from that amen wallah – you know, the one who used to be chaplain up at the College when I first signed up?’
Jimmy frowned. ‘You mean Bible Basher Boris? The one with the terrible flatulence problem? I thought he died years ago.’
‘Well, it has to be said, so did I,’ responded the Admiral glumly. ‘Then he just popped out of the woodwork a few months ago. He must be ninety if he’s a day. Thing is, he’s heard about Noah and Victory and put two and two together…’
‘Well, that’s nice of him,’ Jimmy mused taking a sip of his pint. There was a certain measure of relief in his response, but he couldn’t help wondering what on earth his meddling friend was getting so worked up about. ‘Perhaps he wanted to buy them a present. Did you tell him about the wedding? I thought we were all supposed to keep schtum about it.’
‘No he didn’t want to buy them a bloody present,’ the Admiral replied irritably. ‘Thing is, old Boris did me a bit of a favour a few years ago – got me out of a spot of bother so to speak.’
Jimmy’s heart started its familiar thumping, and he held his breath, sensing that Charles Shackleford was about to deliver the punch line. He closed his eyes, waiting to see what disaster the Admiral had got himself into this time.
‘Well, of course when he got me out of this tight spot, I was suitably grateful, and, well… come on Jimmy lad, you know how sentimental I am.’ He paused for a reaction, but for some reason Jimmy was sitting with his eyes shut, so, shaking his head slightly, he ploughed on.
‘Well, our Victory was only a few weeks old at the time, and in the heat of the moment I sort of promised him he could do the business when she got married.’
‘Do the business, what business?’ Jimmy opened his eyes up again with a frown.
‘I promised him he could marry her.’
‘You said he could marry her? Oh Sir, why on earth did you say that? She’s marrying Noah.’
‘What the bloody hell are you talking about Jimmy? Have you finally lost your marbles? The Admiral was now waving his hands about in agitation. ‘I didn’t say he could be her bollocking husband, I said he could take the ceremony. He’s a God walloper isn’t he?’
‘But Sir, he’s got that awful wind problem.’ Jimmy response was a disbelieving whisper. ‘You know he once cleared out the Old Naval Chapel at Greenwich.’ Then he paused slightly before going on to hammer the final nail in the coffin, ‘Have you told Tory?’
The Admiral opened his mouth to speak, then sighed and shook his head mournfully before taking another swallow of his pint. Then, despondently staring into its amber depths, he said finally, ‘No, I thought there was no sense in sticking a bloody spanner in the works when we had months to go ‘til the damn nuptials, and chances were old Boris would’ve had the decency to pop his clogs in the meantime.
‘But now, well, now we’ve got seven bloody weeks. And he’s unlikely to cash in his chips before then.’
‘Well, why don’t you just tell him he can’t do the ceremony?’ Jimmy responded reasonably. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand. After all, he’s pretty ancient. Probably be too much for him anyway.’
‘If only it was that simple Jimmy lad,’ the Admiral replied sorrowfully. ‘The problem is, he says he’s got his heart set on seeing my daughter wed properly. When he spoke to me, he said that doing this wedding would be his life’s pinnacle, and once he’d done it, he could die happy.
‘And I promised him Jimmy, on my mother’s grave. And you know what a sensitive soul I am, so how the bloody hell do I break it to him that he can’t live out his lifelong dream because of his anal acoustics…’
~*~
So, here I am, brand spanking new filofax in hand battling my way up through the gates at BRNC with what feels like a ten force gale trying its best to bring me to my knees. So much for the up to now glorious autumn weather.
I have an appointment with the Captain of the Naval College to talk about my best friend’s upcoming nuptials and to discuss the detailed plan I have to avoid the whole thing turning into a media circus.
The problem is, I don’t have one. Not yet. But as I’ve already postponed this meeting twice, I can’t do it again.
So I spent all last night (and I mean all) trying to work out just how we’re going to manage it. By three o’clock I hadn’t even come up with a preliminary strategy. The sad fact is that I’m so far out of my depth the fishes have lights on their noses.
The trouble is Tory thinks it’s all in hand. She trusts me. Oh God…
I’ve dressed extra carefully this morning – might as well look the part at least. I’ve exchanged my customary jeans and t-shirt for a business like skirt and blouse.
Before leaving my flat, I stared critically at myself in the mirror. I had my hair cut a couple of weeks ago into a short pixie crop with some funky gold highlights. I thought it looked pretty cool, and Tory said she loved it. However, Freddy - our local guru of all things fashionable, insisted that the look was more reminiscent of an extra out of The Hobbit.
At the time I thought he was being bitchy, but looking at myself before leaving for a hugely important meeting, I could actually see his point.
I’m suddenly very glad my outfit isn’t green.
I’m given a pass at the College Gate by a guard, who after having a few minutes of every word being swallowed by the howling gale, resorts to pointing at the visitor’s book and handing me a pen to fill in my details.
As I hang my temporary ID card around my neck, I shout to confirm that Captain Taylor is expecting me. Unfortunately his reply is pretty much lost in the storm, so I simply wave my thanks and pass through the gate, tucking my head into the collar of my jacket, in an effort to lessen the impact of the gale and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
I’ve been inside the College grounds several times, and normally I enjoy the walk up the hill, with the beautiful Edwardian red brick building of the Naval College towering above me on one side and the breathtaking view of the River Dart below me on other. Today however, the part of me not quaking in my shoes at the thought of the upcoming meeting is doing its best to keep said shoes on my feet.
Up to now the weather has been lovely, carrying on from the fabulously hot summer we enjoyed. This year’s autumn colours have been amazing with the leaves drifting down from the trees in a gradual cascade of red, yellow and orange.
As I fight my way up the path, I can’t help but reflect that today’s blustery weather might have seen off the last of autumn, and plunged us kicking and screaming into winter.
By the time I finally reach the turn off to the Captain’s house at the top of the hill, I feel as though I’ve done a marathon, and pause in the drive for a quick breather, and a chance to restore some semblance of order to my hair, whic
h I suspect now bears more resemblance to a gonk than an elf.
Standing in the shade of a large azalea bush protecting me from the worst of the wind, I notice a white Audi TT in the drive next to the house. Somehow it looks familiar, as though I’ve seen it somewhere before. I frown, racking my brains for a second before dismissing the notion. It’s not as though Audis are a rarity.
Taking a deep breath, I tuck my filofax under my arm and march determinedly towards the large front door before I have the chance to lose my nerve and run back down the hill.
I can hear the bell ringing somewhere deep in the house and mentally I rehearse my excuses – mainly focusing on the idea that I’m currently working on several different approaches to the problem (which is true really – I’m definitely working on them, it’s just that none of them make any sense as of yet).
A couple of minutes later, the door is opened by what appears to be a butler. Bloody hell, it’s like stepping into Downton Abbey. After leading me into a large central hallway, obviously serving as the main avenue of traffic and entrance area to the adjacent rooms, the butler (if that’s who he is) politely asks me to take a seat, then promptly disappears. Sitting gingerly on one of the formal chairs up against the wall, my nerves lessen slightly as I look around me with interest.
The hallway flows into a large wide staircase and everywhere are paintings and memorabilia depicting our glorious naval history. It’s all very queen and country – in fact it all looks very similar to Tory’s house. I can so picture the Admiral ensconced in this building and can’t help but smother a grin at the mayhem he probably caused while he was here.
‘The Captain will see you now.’ I jump at the quiet voice abruptly coming from the entrance to what I assume is the drawing room. I’ve no idea how he got there, he left through a door in the other direction.
Heart suddenly pounding, I hurriedly get to my feet feeling as though I’m heading towards my execution. ‘For pities sake get a grip girl,’ I tell myself sternly as I cross the hall, ‘He’s not bloody royalty.’ Mentally I go over his name – Captain John Taylor. With a nod I step past the butler, my hand already held out in preparation. ‘Captain Tay…’ I start with an artificial smile plastered on my face, only to sputter to a halt as the man facing the window turns towards me and my eyes meet the icy silver gaze of Jason Buchannan.
All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3) Page 1
