The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter

Faye agrees. ‘But I’ve got quite enough on my plate right now.’

      We both look at the cake and then laugh at our old joke.

      ‘Literally,’ smiles Faye. ‘But I did have contacts in mind, only not for me but for you …’

      ‘Me? I can’t cook.’

      ‘You may burn water,’ Faye says, rolling her eyes, ‘but you can plan the most fantastic weddings. Davie Scott was admiring the wedding photo on Si’s desk. Si told Davie what a fantastic wedding planner you are.’

      ‘Good,’ I say.

      ‘It’s better than good!’ cries Faye. ‘I’ve been dying to tell you! Davie was really impressed with what you’d done, Robs, and borrowed our wedding album. Apparently Saffron has been dating a music producer – Fergus Mason – for a couple of years now—’

      I roll my eyes at Faye. ‘I know that. Everyone knows that. Don’t you read the gossip mags?’ Faye looks blank so I fill her in. ‘They met when she was interviewing Madonna and he was producing Madonna’s album. Apparently, Madonna was delayed with a childcare crisis and they started chatting. And, well, the rest is history.’

      ‘I forgot you had your finger on the pulse.’ She laughs. ‘Anyway … Saffron and Fergus are about to announce their engagement.’

      ‘That’s great! Whenever they get papped they look so loved up.’ It was thrilling to hear this news first-hand, rather than via the media.

      ‘They’re planning a December wedding – and are looking for a wedding planner. So Davie showed her our photos …’

      I think I can guess where she’s going with this, but I’m not letting the words sink in yet.

      ‘She loved what you did for us,’ Faye continues, ‘and wants you to pitch for the job of planning her wedding!’

      It’s just as well I’m sitting down because my legs have gone wobbly. This could be it! A chance to break into the big time and plan the kinds of weddings that I only dream of. And a Christmas wedding too! I love Christmas so much and already my mind is racing.

      ‘Saffron Scott wants Perfect Day to pitch for her wedding?’ I ask, to check that I have not slipped into a dream.

      ‘She certainly does.’ Faye rummages in her huge shoulder bag and plucks out a card, handing it to me with a flourish. ‘She wants you to call her.’

      Oh. My. God.

      I can’t believe it. This could be it, the life-changing opportunity that I’ve been waiting for. My dreams are so close to coming true that I can almost taste them.

      I gaze at the card but I don’t see it because I’m visualising the fabulous wedding that I could organise for Saffron. White roses, red velvet bridesmaids’ dresses, holly and ivy twined around the pews …

      My stomach seesaws in excitement. This is my golden opportunity to show the world exactly what I can do.

      ‘Remember me when you’re hired to arrange Prince Harry’s wedding,’ says Faye, beaming with pride.

      ‘I’ll call her as soon as I get home,’ I promise, wondering how I’ll manage to contain myself until then. ‘Thanks, Faye. I owe you one.’

      ‘You certainly do.’ Faye looks serious. ‘I’m fully intending to call in this favour.’

      ‘Anything,’ I promise, and then wonder what I’m letting myself in for. The last favour I did for Faye was attending one of her dinner parties where I spent a dismal few hours swigging wine while all the couples talked about catchment areas and breast pumps. I’d rather fold another thousand paper cranes than go through that again!

      ‘Don’t look so scared.’ Faye opens a cupboard and pulls out a slab of sponge. ‘It’s not another dinner party.’

      Don’t you hate it when your friends can read your mind?

      ‘It was a great dinner party,’ I say, crossing my toes, fingers and anything else crossable.

      ‘You always were a useless liar,’ Faye says. ‘Here, take these.’

      She hands me a tub full of green goo and a palette knife.

      ‘What’s this?’ I sniff it.

      ‘It’s your fee for my networking,’ says Faye. ‘Once we’ve had lunch you are icing the Balamory hillside.’

      ‘For getting the chance to pitch for Saffron Scott’s wedding I’ll ice twenty hillsides,’ I declare.

      ‘Excellent,’ grins my friend, flinging open another cupboard to reveal an Everest of containers. ‘By a strange coincidence I seem to have at least twenty more.’

       CHAPTER FIVE

      The next morning I wake up late and it feels as though someone is break-dancing inside my skull. Even though my eyes are tightly shut I can sense the daylight burning through the windows ready to blast me into dust. The churning in my stomach would make even Ellen MacArthur spew.

      This is all Gideon’s fault. When he popped in to collect Poppy yesterday evening I was so wound up with excitement after having spoken with Saffron Scott that I was practically nailing myself into the floor. I’d drunk so much coffee that I could have moonlighted as a Pro Plus tablet. My notebook was brimming with sketches and notes, and scraps of fabric for mood boards had drifted onto the carpet like fresh white snow.

      ‘Christ!’ Gideon exclaimed when I opened the door. ‘What’s happened to you?’

      Glimpsing in the mirror I saw a pink-cheeked woman with glittering eyes and a mass of curly dark hair pinned up with a biro.

      I looked manic.

      ‘Something really exciting,’ I’d said, inviting Gideon in. His eyes were like saucers when I mentioned Saffron Scott – he adores Scorching! – and he was almost as excited as I was by the thought that I could be planning a wedding where the likes of Posh and Becks would be guests.

      ‘We have got to celebrate,’ Gideon declared, pulling me into his arms and waltzing around the kitchen. ‘This is it, Robs!’

      ‘I haven’t got the job yet,’ I pointed out, but to Gideon this was a minor detail. He dragged me down the stairs to his place where I ended up sampling James’ whisky collection until the small hours.

      I may have sampled his wine and spirit collection too …

      Ouch! I open my poor eyes but needles of light stab my retinas and my brain swivels inside my skull. I stagger to the bathroom, slosh cold water onto my face and wince when I glance in the mirror. Then I drag myself into the shower and blast my body with hot water, rinsing the hangover away. Several coffees and two paracetamol later I’m almost human again. Now the mirror reveals that, although not perfect, I won’t scare small children if I venture outside.

      The bright May sunlight pokes through the blinds and I decide to go out and get some fresh air, or what passes for it in London. I need to visit the lace shop to pick up some samples so on my way I’ll sign up for that swing dancing class.

      Putting up my hair into a loose ponytail and hitching my Chloé bag onto my shoulder, I prepare to face the world. To give myself a boost I decide against wearing my flip-flops and plump instead for a really cute pair of low-heeled character shoes in a pale pink to match my lovely vintage summer dress and fluffy cardigan. OK, so it’s not quite warm enough for it – but I’m an optimist, remember?

      It’s just past noon when I leave the flat. The sunshine is starting to fade a little and the sky is filling with wispy clouds. A breeze rustles through the green leaves on the trees and spots of rain patter on the bin bags. Experience tells me there’ll soon be a spring shower of the type only found in London, where