Kit Davies. He wondered idly whether Kit was short for Catherine, and even now he couldn’t help but chuckle at the priceless expression on her face when he’d turned to face her for the first time. Her green eyes had been wide with alarm; her full lips caught half open in the act of greeting.
He found himself wondering what those lips would feel like trapped under his, and without warning he felt an unwelcome stirring. Irritated, he pulled on his shirt. He wasn’t an adolescent for God’s sake, and while pretty in an elfin way, she certainly wasn’t fantasy material. He thought back to their conversation and frowned. It was pretty clear that she hadn’t got a clue what she was doing.
He’d been so tempted to call her up on it – it’s what he would have done to any of his junior officers, but somehow, looking at her pale determined face, trying so hard to look as if she had everything under control, pen poised above her empty filofax, he just hadn’t got the heart to reduce her to a shivering wreck. Not yet anyway.
Nevertheless, everything he’d said to her was true. She certainly needed to get it together pretty quickly if this wedding was going to happen in the College at all. He may not be a complete bastard, whatever she and her friends privately believed, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the plug on the whole thing at the last minute if he deemed it necessary to do so.
~*~
‘Hey Peps, who’s a good boy then? No sweetie, please don’t hump my foot.’
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’ve just arrived at Aunt Flo’s for lunch. Her dog Pepé has launched himself at my right leg like some kind of limpet - his idea of showing affection is to mate furiously with whatever appendage he can access. I frequently thank God that he’s less than a foot tall. It may be he developed this habit living with an owner who writes porn for a living – makes total sense when you think about it.
‘Come in sweetheart.’ Aunt Flo’s voice is coming from the kitchen, so after gently shaking my leg from Pepé’s fervent embrace, I head into the room that’s always felt to me like the heart of my aunt’s cottage.
Not that she’s the world’s best cook per se – her culinary skills tend to border on the eccentric – but so much of my teenage years were spent seated at the old pine table discussing philosophy, the state of the world and whether to include the use of a Rampant Rabbit in her latest bonk buster.
As I enter the kitchen, Aunt Flo has her back to me and I sniff to see if I can guess what we’re having for lunch. Mmm, decidedly fishy.
‘Sit down my lovely and help yourself to a glass.’ There’s a bottle of white wine in a cooler on the table with more than two thirds already gone. Aunt Flo likes to cook with her wine…
‘I’m driving Flo, so I’ll save my one glass for dinner. What are we having?’
‘Scallops with black pudding and spaghetti,’ she responds without turning round. I frown a little at the idea of a north country delicacy in my pasta, but I know better than to say anything. Telling my Aunt Flo that you don’t like anything usually makes her cook it for you all the more. She’s always believed that having a varied palate is the sign of good breeding.
‘Grab the garlic bread out of the oven for me will you sweetheart, it’s just about ready.’ As I open the oven door, the delicious smell of roasted garlic wafts into the warm kitchen air, and putting the large loaf onto the table, I snatch a piece from the end, juggling the hot bread and nibbling bits off the edge.
‘Here we are,’ she says, turning finally with a large pan full of enough pasta to feed the five thousand.
‘Is someone else coming for lunch?’ I can’t help but ask, popping the last bit of garlic bread into my mouth and greedily licking the butter off my fingers.
‘You need to put on some weight my girl,’ she responds, ladling a large helping into my bowl. ‘If you had Victory’s curves, you might bag yourself a hot actor like hers.’
‘That wasn’t what you were saying when you served Tory that cabbage soup the last time we were here,’ I mumble round a mouth full of pasta.
‘That was then,’ she responded with a wave of her hand before digging in to her own lunch. ‘Big beautiful women are now all the rage. My latest book is a BBW mystery romance.’
I look up with interest. ‘Is it finished yet?’ I ask, eager to get first dibs. I’ve always been the first to read my aunt’s books. I suspect when I was fifteen, it was her way of giving me sex education without all the boring stuff. Mind you, it did set the bar a bit high – probably why I’m still single.
‘I’ll email you the mobi file so you can read it on your Kindle,’ she replies nodding. ‘Neil’s not even seen it yet, but my publishers want it out in time for Christmas.’ She sighs as she helps herself to garlic bread. ‘I think this might be my last one Kit. I’m getting too old for deadlines.’
I look up in surprise. Aunt Flo’s always lived for her writing. The sun is shining through the French doors leading out onto the flower strewn patio so I can’t see her face clearly, but her voice sounds frighteningly weary.
‘Are you ok Aunt Flo?’ I ask, suddenly concerned. There’s a short pause, causing my heart to bump uncomfortably, then she responds with a smile. ‘I’m fine my lovely, don’t you worry about me. You know how I am when I’ve come to the end of a story. I get a bit maudlin and soppy. Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about the wedding. How did it go on Friday?’
I knit my brow slightly at the abrupt change of subject, a little uneasy and unwilling to let the matter go so easily. My aunt’s face however shows clearly that the topic of her writing is now closed – and if she doesn’t want to talk about something, she won’t. Apparently I get that trait from her…
‘It could have gone better,’ I admit eventually, causing her to raise her eyebrows and stare at me, clearly waiting for me to continue.
‘Did you know that Captain Taylor is no longer at the College? He was replaced last week.’
‘I had no idea. It must have been a quick decision. There was no mention of it at the Ladies Afloat meeting last week.’
‘Yeah, well, as much as they like to think they’re a font of knowledge regarding all things naval, your middle aged dinghy sailing cronies are not always the first port of call when it comes to College appointments.’
‘Very obviously,’ is her quick response, ‘But it’s not often I’m the first with the gossip. So spill.’
‘It’s not good Aunt Flo,’ mumble finally, after making her wait while I finish the last of my spaghetti. ‘You remember when we went up to Scotland and I told you all about Jason Buchannan?
‘You mean, the complete moron whose father owned the place you were staying in?’
‘Yep, that’s the one. Well, he’s the new Captain.’
‘Oh,’ is her answer.
After that, we put off the rest of the discussion until after lunch, Aunt Flo citing that talking about rude obnoxious people while eating can bring on indigestion. So we kept the conversation light, and two more helpings of pasta, followed by a generous piece of apple pie and cream later, I waddle out onto the patio while Aunt Flo makes coffee.
I sink into one of the old comfortable garden chairs with a sigh of satiated contentment and Pepé wastes no time in giving my leg a quick token hump before jumping up to settle himself on my lap. Although situated high up overlooking the sea, the terrace is nevertheless sheltered on three sides and the weak October sun is hitting all the right spots. Slowly I feel myself relax and begin to drift.
I recall the first time I met Jason Buchannan in Bloodstone Tower. It was clear from the onset that he didn’t like either Tory or her father – or any of us for that matter.
I still don’t know all the ins and outs of the story about the Admiral and the Thai prostitute (pardon the pun). Tory’s been very cagey – says her father would disown her if she told me everything. I think the real reason she’s not spilled the beans is probably because she doesn’t know what really happened either. But like or not, there’s still such a thing as manners, an
d Jason Buchannan most definitely didn’t have any - even though he’d taken my breath away when I first clapped eyes on the bloody man.
Damn it, why do the good looking ones always have to be either gay or complete idiots?
I’m brought back to the present by Aunt Flo’s arrival with coffee and cream and a side shot of Cointreau. ‘Bloody hell, I can’t drink that, I’m driving,’ I protest weakly as she places the tray on the table.
‘Well, you’re not leaving any time soon are you?’ Aunt Flo responds with a shrug, ‘And anyway, you can always stop over. There are advantages to not being tied to a bricks and mortar business you know.’
It’s actually quite embarrassing just how quickly I give in. I decide there and then that I will stay overnight. Aunt Flo and I haven’t spent much time together over the last few weeks with the whole gallery thing, and I’m still feeling a little bit of disquiet over our earlier discussion. Settling back, I take a small sip of my liqueur followed by the hot aromatic coffee and freshly whipped cream. No one makes coffee like Aunt Flo.
We sit for a few moments, enjoying the peace and quiet, content for the moment to let the silence run. Idly I watch the dappled sunlight flicker on the deep water swell far out to sea, until abruptly the stillness is broken by Pepé’s loud snore.
‘So, tell me.’ Aunt Flo further disrupts the tranquility in her usual brusque no nonsense manner.
Sighing, I sit forward, dislodging a disgruntled Pepé from his comfortable position. ‘There’s not really much to tell,’ I answer vaguely at first, earning me a rude snort – the only indication that she doesn’t believe me for one second. I try again.
‘We just don’t get on Aunt Flo. He’s… well, he’s the very worst kind of naval officer. You know the sort - thinks he can just wave his hand and his subordinates will scuttle around to obey his every whim. And he’s just so bloody rude.’
‘What does he look like?’ she asks, completely ignoring my scathing assessment of Jason Buchannan’s character.
I slump back in defeat. ‘Drop dead gorgeous,’ I mumble, causing my know it all aunt to nod her head shrewdly.
‘So was he rude to you on Friday?’
Silence. I so want to say that he was a complete jerk, but my sense of fairness would get in the way. In the end I content myself with a sullen, ‘Not exactly.’
Still no response. Aunt Flo has a way of dragging things out of you like she’s pulling teeth. The problem is, I can’t really explain my feelings about Jason Buchannan. Just thinking about his near perfect face and body gets my heart racing, but he just has to open his mouth and it starts racing for completely different reasons.
‘I don’t think he believes I’m capable of organizing such a large affair,’ I say quietly after a while. ‘The thing is Aunt Flo, I think he might be right. I so want to do the right thing for Tory, but I’m frightened I’m going to mess up. There’s just so much to do. This is so not like me. When did I ever turn down a challenge? Then I spend half an hour in Captain Buchannan’s company and I feel like a pathetic little girl. And what’s more, I act like one.’
There’s a small silence while my aunt processes what I’ve said. ‘I think you need to take a step back my lovely,’ she says after a moment. ‘You’re getting completely overwhelmed, which is understandable given the importance of the occasion. But you’ve organized tons of events for your gallery in the past. This is no different – just bigger, that’s all.
‘For starters you need to make a list of tasks, then put them in order of importance. Then we’ll get everything onto a spreadsheet and look at the critical path timeline.’ I look over at her, for the first time feeling something approaching, not confidence exactly, but less of a desire to throw myself off the edge of her patio.
‘Come on sweetheart, we might as well get stuck in now if you’re staying. Go into the fridge and grab us another bottle of wine.’
Chapter Four
It’s Wednesday evening and the four of us - that is me, Tory, Noah and Freddy - are sitting round the kitchen table in my flat. It’s a bit of a squeeze, especially seeing as the open pizza boxes are competing with the ever increasing guest list and various brochures depicting everything from flowers to favours. And that’s without the mound of ideas I’ve printed off the internet.
Noah has just arrived, and after kissing his bride to be as though he’s never going to let her out of his sight again, he throws himself into a chair, sighing with pleasure as Freddy hands him a beer.
‘Tell me again why we’re planning the biggest event of the year in your pokey flat as opposed to Noah’s sumptuous six bedroom house?’ We completely ignore Freddy’s sarcasm as he removes Dotty from his seat. The little dog wastes no time in jumping back up onto his knee without taking her eyes off the half eaten pizza slices.
‘You know why Freddy,’ I remind him impatiently. ‘We want to keep the details of the wedding under wraps for as long as possible. As long as it’s simply a rumour, we’re unlikely to see the world and his dog descend on the town in a tail back that’s likely to turn the M Five into a car park.’
‘I think most of the shops and hotels would leak the information themselves given half the chance. They’ve never had such a busy twelve months. Any one of them would worship at the altar of Noah in a heartbeat.’
‘You’re such a cynic Freddy.’ Victory’s observation is shrugged off nonchalantly. ‘I’m just a realist sweetie. So how are you getting everyone to keep quiet? You forcing them to sign the official secrets act?’
‘Everything will be on a need to know basis and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to risk such a potentially lucrative contract - not to mention the publicity they’d generate after the wedding – just to get five minutes of fame now.’
‘You’d be surprised just what people will do to their picture on TV,’ Noah butts in drily.
I nod my head in agreement, before continuing, ‘So the fewer people involved in the early stages, the better.’
‘Do you think Jason Buchannan will keep it under his hat?’ Tory’s voice is a little anxious.
‘I don’t think you have any worries there honey,’ Noah reassures her. ‘Captain Buchannan has issues about security as it is, so he’s unlikely to want to make things more difficult for himself. Anyway, he sounds like a pretty straight kind of guy.’
‘Yep, as a poker,’ Freddy interjects caustically, and I grin despite myself – poker straight sums up the knob exactly. Still, time to get back to business.
‘Right, has everyone finished eating?’ I clap my hands to get attention and even Dotty takes her eyes off the leftovers for all of two seconds.
Standing up, I pick up the mostly empty cartons and take them into the kitchen, leaving the little dog sitting faithfully guarding them for the rest of the evening. I don’t think an earthquake would get her to move right now. That’s what I call dedication.
Despite Tory’s assertion that pizza really is not good for dogs, I sneak her a little piece of pepperoni to reward her for her staying power. Then seating myself back at the table, I proudly pick up my beautiful new spreadsheet before handing everyone a copy.
‘Wow someone’s been busy,’ comments Freddy, then subsides into silence as I frown over at him.
‘I’d just like to say thank you Tory and Noah for giving me the honour of organizing your special day. I know you’re doing it for me…’ I hold my hand up with a small smile as Tory opens her mouth to interrupt.
‘You don’t have to deny it, we all know it’s true. I just want you to know how much I appreciate it. You could have used the best, but instead you chose to use me. I really hope I don’t let you down.’
Unaccountably the stress of the last couple of weeks chooses this moment to make itself known, and my bottom lip begins to wobble as I say, ‘down.’
‘Oh Kitty Kat, please don’t be upset.’ Tory jumps up and rushes round the table to enfold me in her arms. ‘You could never let me down. I really don’t care if it turns out a complete and u
tter disaster. You’re my best friend and I love you. Whatever happens, I know the day will be memorable.’
Prophetic words…
By the end of the evening, we’ve whittled down preferred caterers; florists; photographer, wedding cake, chair covers; table decorations and a choice of Champagne. Apparently Noah’s going to be in charge of organizing the band for the evening, which causes a brief flurry of excitement. He refuses to elaborate however, saying it’s a surprise.
We have a guest list of just over one hundred and fifty people – two thirds of them connected to Noah, who’s promised to get me all their dirty secrets going back to the Norman Conquest, before the deadline on Saturday.
The locals on the guest list shouldn’t prove too much of a problem since most of them have been in Dartmouth since the year dot and any dirty secrets they have are probably already in the College archives. That only leaves the Admiral’s personal guests. Let’s hope he doesn’t know any Russian spies…
Thank God we haven’t got Hello magazine to contend with.
~*~
Admiral Shackleford was sitting in his study, ostensibly to put together a list of friends he’d like to personally invite to Victory’s wedding, but the sad fact was, there weren’t any. Not really. Jimmy was pretty much it.
Oh there were all his retired cronies, but although he was a bit thick skinned, he was well aware that they only tolerated him. He’d always been too outspoken to fit in with most of the lily livered landlubbers.
They’d had no hesitation in hanging him out to dry when they thought he’d be ending his days in the Bangkok Hilton, but now look at them all. One sniff of a celebrity wedding and he’s suddenly the best bloody thing since sliced bread.
The only one of the buggers who’d kept in touch over the years had been Bible Basher Boris. When the shit had well and truly hit the fan over the summer, old Boris had been firmly on his side, loyally defending him to all the damn scuttlebutts queuing up to point the finger.
All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3) Page 3
