Shopaholic Ties the Knot
Page 35
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Wow.
This is actually… quite nice.
Oh, sod it. It’s amazing.
“You’re in luck!” says Mr. Ferguson with a beam. “We have a wedding on Saturday, so you can see the room ‘in action,’ as it were.”
“Nice flowers,” says Robyn politely, then leans toward me and whispers, “We’ll have something far more special than these.”
More special than these? They’re the hugest, most spectacular flower arrangements I’ve ever seen in my life! Cascading roses, and tulips, and lilies… and are those orchids?
“So, you’ll come in through these double doors,” says Robyn, leading me along the terrace, “and then the bugles will play… or trumpets… whatever you wish… You’ll pause in front of the grotto, arrange your train, have some photographs. And then the string orchestra will begin…”
“String orchestra?” I echo dazedly.
“I’ve spoken to the New York Phil,” she adds to Elinor. “They’re checking their tour schedule, so, fingers crossed…”
The New York Phil?
“The bride on Saturday is having seven harpists,” says Mr. Ferguson. “And a soprano soloist from the Met.”
Robyn and Elinor look at each other.
“Now that’s an idea,” says Robyn, and reaches for her notebook. “I’ll get onto it.”
“Shall we go and look at the Baroque Room now?” suggests Mr. Ferguson, and leads us to a large, old-fashioned elevator.
“The night before the wedding, you’ll probably want to take a suite upstairs and enjoy the spa facilities,” he says pleasantly as we travel upward. “Then on the day, you can bring in your own professional hair and makeup people.” He smiles. “But I expect you’ve already thought of that.”
“I… er…” My mind flicks madly back to Janice and Radiant Spring Bride. “Kind of…”
“The guests will be served cocktails as they pass along the corridor,” explains Robyn as we leave the elevator. “Then this is the Baroque Room, where hors d’oeuvres will be served before we go into the Grand Ballroom. I expect you haven’t even given hors d’oeuvres a thought yet!”
“Well… um… you know…” I’m about to say that everyone likes minisausages.
“But for example,” she continues, “you could consider a caviar bar, an oyster bar, a Mediterranean meze table, sushi, perhaps…”
“Right,” I gulp. “That… sounds good.”
“And of course, the space itself can be themed however you like.” She gestures around the room. “We can transform it into a Venetian carnival, a Japanese garden, a medieval banqueting hall… wherever your imagination takes you!”
“And then into the Grand Ballroom for the main reception!” says Mr. Ferguson cheerfully. He throws open a pair of double doors and… oh my God. This room is the most spectacular of all. It’s all white and gold, with a high ceiling and theatrical boxes, and tables set around the vast, polished dance floor.
“That’s where you and Luke will lead the dancing,” says Robyn with a happy sigh. “I always say, that’s the moment of a wedding I love the most. The first dance.”
I gaze at the shining floor, and have a sudden vision of Luke and me whirling round among the candlelight and everyone looking on.
And seven harps.
And the New York Phil.
And caviar… and oysters… and cocktails…
“Rebecca, are you all right?” says Mr. Ferguson, suddenly seeing my expression.
“I think she’s a little overwhelmed,” says Robyn with a little laugh. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”
“Well… yes. I suppose so.”
I take a deep breath and turn away for a moment. OK, let’s not get carried away. This may all be very glitzy, but I am not going to be swayed by any of it. I’ve decided I’m going to get married in England — and that’s what I’m going to do. End of story.
Except… just look at it all.
“Come and sit down,” says Robyn, patting a gilt chair beside her. “Now, I know from your point of view it still seems far off. But we’re on a pretty tight schedule… so I just wanted to talk to you about your overall view of the wedding. What’s your fantasy? What, for you, is the image of pure romance? A lot of my clients say Scarlett and Rhett, or Fred and Ginger…” She looks at me with sparkling eyes, her pen poised expectantly over the page.
This has gone far enough. I have to tell this woman that none of this is actually going to happen. Come on, Becky. Get back to reality.
This is actually… quite nice.
Oh, sod it. It’s amazing.
“You’re in luck!” says Mr. Ferguson with a beam. “We have a wedding on Saturday, so you can see the room ‘in action,’ as it were.”
“Nice flowers,” says Robyn politely, then leans toward me and whispers, “We’ll have something far more special than these.”
More special than these? They’re the hugest, most spectacular flower arrangements I’ve ever seen in my life! Cascading roses, and tulips, and lilies… and are those orchids?
“So, you’ll come in through these double doors,” says Robyn, leading me along the terrace, “and then the bugles will play… or trumpets… whatever you wish… You’ll pause in front of the grotto, arrange your train, have some photographs. And then the string orchestra will begin…”
“String orchestra?” I echo dazedly.
“I’ve spoken to the New York Phil,” she adds to Elinor. “They’re checking their tour schedule, so, fingers crossed…”
The New York Phil?
“The bride on Saturday is having seven harpists,” says Mr. Ferguson. “And a soprano soloist from the Met.”
Robyn and Elinor look at each other.
“Now that’s an idea,” says Robyn, and reaches for her notebook. “I’ll get onto it.”
“Shall we go and look at the Baroque Room now?” suggests Mr. Ferguson, and leads us to a large, old-fashioned elevator.
“The night before the wedding, you’ll probably want to take a suite upstairs and enjoy the spa facilities,” he says pleasantly as we travel upward. “Then on the day, you can bring in your own professional hair and makeup people.” He smiles. “But I expect you’ve already thought of that.”
“I… er…” My mind flicks madly back to Janice and Radiant Spring Bride. “Kind of…”
“The guests will be served cocktails as they pass along the corridor,” explains Robyn as we leave the elevator. “Then this is the Baroque Room, where hors d’oeuvres will be served before we go into the Grand Ballroom. I expect you haven’t even given hors d’oeuvres a thought yet!”
“Well… um… you know…” I’m about to say that everyone likes minisausages.
“But for example,” she continues, “you could consider a caviar bar, an oyster bar, a Mediterranean meze table, sushi, perhaps…”
“Right,” I gulp. “That… sounds good.”
“And of course, the space itself can be themed however you like.” She gestures around the room. “We can transform it into a Venetian carnival, a Japanese garden, a medieval banqueting hall… wherever your imagination takes you!”
“And then into the Grand Ballroom for the main reception!” says Mr. Ferguson cheerfully. He throws open a pair of double doors and… oh my God. This room is the most spectacular of all. It’s all white and gold, with a high ceiling and theatrical boxes, and tables set around the vast, polished dance floor.
“That’s where you and Luke will lead the dancing,” says Robyn with a happy sigh. “I always say, that’s the moment of a wedding I love the most. The first dance.”
I gaze at the shining floor, and have a sudden vision of Luke and me whirling round among the candlelight and everyone looking on.
And seven harps.
And the New York Phil.
And caviar… and oysters… and cocktails…
“Rebecca, are you all right?” says Mr. Ferguson, suddenly seeing my expression.
“I think she’s a little overwhelmed,” says Robyn with a little laugh. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”
“Well… yes. I suppose so.”
I take a deep breath and turn away for a moment. OK, let’s not get carried away. This may all be very glitzy, but I am not going to be swayed by any of it. I’ve decided I’m going to get married in England — and that’s what I’m going to do. End of story.
Except… just look at it all.
“Come and sit down,” says Robyn, patting a gilt chair beside her. “Now, I know from your point of view it still seems far off. But we’re on a pretty tight schedule… so I just wanted to talk to you about your overall view of the wedding. What’s your fantasy? What, for you, is the image of pure romance? A lot of my clients say Scarlett and Rhett, or Fred and Ginger…” She looks at me with sparkling eyes, her pen poised expectantly over the page.
This has gone far enough. I have to tell this woman that none of this is actually going to happen. Come on, Becky. Get back to reality.
