The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter

quartet sense the atmosphere, their instruments scraping to a discordant halt. The absence of the beautiful music highlights the ugly words slicing through the stillness.

      I’m mortified. What’s the etiquette in such a situation? Do I go outside and tell them to keep it down, or do I shut the windows quickly and hope that we are all English enough to pretend that this isn’t happening? Deciding on the latter, I start to wrestle with the windows.

      Oh no. The doors are stuck. And Susan Ellis is yelling with more volume than a 747 taking off.

      ‘I’ve kept quiet because I didn’t want to ruin our Samantha’s big day,’ she hollers. ‘But she’s married now so I don’t have to lie any longer. And neither do you.’

      A mumbled response from Geoffrey Ellis, that none of us can hear.

      ‘I know you’re sleeping with Marion from next door!’

      I turn to look at the audience – I mean, the guests – and a large woman dressed in violent magenta linen blushes the same colour as her frock: Marion from next door.

      Oh, God. It’s my worst dream come true. My lovely wedding, Sam and Adam’s perfect day, has turned into The Jerry Springer Show.

      ‘I’m not wasting another minute with you!’ shouts Susan and then, just in case Geoffrey misses the point, ‘I want a divorce!’

      A gasp of shock/outrage/callous enjoyment ripples through the guests. Samantha squeals in horror and for one awful moment I think she’s going to faint. I run for my emergency wedding kit and start to rummage for the smelling salts.

      Susan Ellis steps into the room with a fake smile pasted on her face and tears in her eyes. But once she realises that everyone’s looking at her, the smile drops and she looks confused. Then she notices the open windows and gasps.

      ‘Sam!’ she yelps, realising too late that every ugly word has been overheard. ‘Oh, darling!’

      ‘Sweetheart,’ Geoffrey Ellis is right behind her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      ‘Not half as sorry as me, Daddy,’ Sam sobs. ‘How could you? It’s my wedding day!’

      ‘Darling …’ Susan reaches out to Sam who recoils furiously.

      ‘Don’t touch me! I hate you, both of you! You’ve ruined my wedding! I’ll never forgive you!’

      Leaping up from her seat, Sam flees from the room, sobbing wretchedly, while her groom and the guests look on in stunned horror. The chief bridesmaid bunches her skirts up into her fists and follows.

      Susan glares at her husband. ‘This is your fault, Geoffrey.’

      ‘My fault?’ he echoes, ‘Why is everything always my fault?’

      ‘Because it is, that’s why! I’m sick of this marriage!’

      ‘That makes two of us,’ he retorts. ‘Thirty years of being stuck with you. People get less for murder!’

      No! Stop! This isn’t the way that it is supposed to go. Weddings are supposed to be the happiest days of people’s lives. This is a disaster.

      Scooping up my emergency wedding bag I follow the bride, whose sobbing can still be heard. I’ll do my best to sort this somehow, but I think it might take more than headache tablets and a sewing kit.

      Sam has locked herself in the bathroom of the honeymoon suite.

      ‘Sam,’ I tap on the door, ‘it’s Robyn. Let me in, please.’

      ‘It’s no good.’ The bridesmaid shakes her head. ‘She won’t listen.’

      But I am Miss Fix-it Extraordinaire. A superhero. Wedding Planner Woman. As well as knowing where to find the best antique lace or freshest flowers, I also have peace-keeping skills that would land me a job at the UN.

      Luckily.

      ‘Sam, this is your special day,’ I say, through the door. ‘Yours and Adam’s. You are the bride. Everyone is looking at you, not your parents.’

      There’s another sob.

      ‘The guests are taking their cue from you,’ I continue. ‘If you dry your eyes and come back down they’ll think it’s all blown over, I promise. Honey, it’s up to you: you can stay here and I’ll send the guests away, or you can dry your eyes and join poor Adam. He’s your husband now and he really needs you down there.’

      ‘Really?’ she says. Or at least I think she does. It’s hard to tell because her voice is so clotted with tears.

      ‘Really,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s your call, Sam.’ I cross my fingers and hold my breath.

      There’s the sound of a key turning and the door swings open. Sam, bottom lip wobbling, make-up smeared all over her face, is perched on the edge of the bath.

      ‘I’m a mess,’ she hiccups. ‘My face is ruined.’

      ‘Nothing we can’t fix.’ I take her chin between my thumb and forefinger and gently wipe the tears away with a face wipe from my magic box of wedding-saving tricks. Once her face is clean I pull out my emergency make-up bag. ‘I’ll have you looking as good as new, I promise.’

      Sam takes a shaky breath. ‘Thanks, Robyn. What would I have done without you today?’

      ‘All part of the service, hon,’ I say.

      I squeeze tinted moisturiser onto a sponge and set to work. Thanks to Pat and his antics I’m an expert at restoring tear-stained cheeks to peachy glory.

      After ten minutes Sam feels brave enough to venture back to the reception. Luckily everything seems to have calmed down. The DJ has arrived and is playing a selection of upbeat 80s tunes. Fortunately, the Ellis seniors are nowhere to be seen. Sam, every inch the dignified bride again, rejoins Adam with a tender kiss, while the caterers whiz around filling champagne flutes for the toast. Helping myself to one I gulp it gratefully, relief and alcohol hitting my bloodstream in equal measure.

      Next time I need an adrenalin rush I’ll take up something more sedate than wedding planning, like bungee jumping or white-water rafting.

      From across the room Patrick catches my eye, grins at me and raises that trademark eyebrow.

      ‘Jaysus!’ he mouths.

      And I must admit, I couldn’t have put it better myself.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      May

      ‘Welcome to Swing Heaven!

       The place to be if you’re passionate about swing dancing!’

      At last, I think, scrolling down the advertisement. My internet quest to locate a swing dancing course has certainly opened my eyes. I’ve not exactly led a sheltered life but some of the websites that popped up on my computer practically turned the monitor blue.

      Maybe I was asking for trouble typing ‘swing’ into the search engine.

      ‘I want to Lindy Hop,’ I mutter, ‘not bed hop.’

      Swing Heaven is a great way to keep fit. Come along and begin a love affair with the 1950s dance craze.

      My love affair with the 1950s began ages ago. It’s more like an obsession.

      I scan the details: the class takes place in an adult education centre only a few streets away from my favourite bespoke lace shop. Making a mental note to sign up the next time I’m in the area, I exit the advert and surf for a bit; anything to distract me from the fact that I’m a freelance wedding planner with no weddings in sight. So much for having my career sorted out by Christmas!

      With mammoth self-control I log out without checking eBay. Once I land some really big clients I’ll bid away on vintage goods to my heart’s content.