‘Is it really too much to ask that we just lose these two large oak trees,’ sighs Jessie, ‘so that my photographer’s drones stand some chance of capturing the aerial shots I have specifically asked for?’
Striding across the hotel’s manicured lawn in a pair of entirely too high heels, sinking as she stomps but refusing to break stride so the hotel’s incredulous wedding planner can catch her up, Jessie Jones, highly motivated bride-to-be, is heading straight for the trees in question.
‘Look, it’s very simple,’ she says, flicking a freshly manicured finger to the diary page of her smartphone. ‘If we start the work now, it will be finished in plenty of time for my guys to begin planting the additional magnolia and cherry blossom trees I also need. You can’t expect me to host a champagne reception on a sun terrace that has no sun because your three-hundred- year-old trees are blocking it all. Hugo really won’t appreciate the lack of light.’
‘Sorry, Hugo who?’ the planner is calling after her as she appears to be struggling to think of a single other thing to say to please the force of nature charging ahead of her. And what can she say? This is clearly a woman not familiar with disappointment.
‘Oh for crying out loud! Hugo Burnand! Royal wedding photographer to Kate and William and Camilla and Charles before them. Don’t you read Tatler?’
‘Um, not always, but I think I have the latest issue tucked away somewhere in—’
‘Then let me enlighten you. Hugo negotiated his way through royal protocol with such dexterity for Charles, that he was the only choice when it came to documenting the wedding day of the new duke and duchess of Cambridge.’ Meaning that if he possessed the level of diplomacy, tact and planning skills required to successfully present the nuptials of Kate (the commoner) to William (the future king of England) to the world, then he may – may – also be able to help her stage-manage the uniting of two of the most mis-matched families Gloucestershire has surely ever seen.
‘OK, got it. Hugo’s obviously very accomplished, Ms Jones, I don’t doubt that but—’
‘He spent three days planning the lighting alone in the throne room at Buckingham Palace for William and Kate’s official wedding portraits. Lighting is everything to him. So you can see that clearly, obviously, these trees need to go.’
She’s so pleased her mum isn’t here to witness this bratty outburst, she would die of shame and so would her mother. Jessie’s being a bully and she knows it. And the worst kind. Talking down to this poor girl, in exactly the way she hates other people doing to her. That paralysing fear of being judged, deemed inferior. Perhaps months of feeling that way have rubbed off on her in the worst possible way too.
‘It’s just the work you’re asking for is going to be incredibly costly Ms Jones and I’m not even sure—’
‘It goes without saying that I will cover the cost in full for the work that is needed as well as generously compensating the hotel for any inconvenience it may cause. I understand you may be looking for some additional funding for two new tennis courts? Well, there’s your answer,’ continues Jessie. ‘Let’s agree a timescale by end of play today.’ Jessie raises both eyebrows and cocks her head expectantly at the poor planner.
‘That is wonderfully generous Ms Jones and I can put it to the general manager of course but—’
‘Having prized Hugo out of semi-retirement to capture this wedding, I am not prepared to let anything stand in the way of a beautiful collection of images – ones that will be expertly edited by me to show what will at least look like a stress-free day. I hope I am making myself clear?’ Oh God, she’s on a roll now, incapable of controlling herself.
‘You are indeed but if I can just point out that…’ the planner has all but given up trying to finish a sentence now, her presence seemingly surplus to Jessie’s requirements.
‘Right, I’ve got my first dress appointment with Helen across the road at The White Gallery in five minutes, but when I come back we need to discuss where exactly the dessert room is going to be positioned, your thoughts on how we scent the day and what progress you’ve made with the vicar and that God-awful aisle carpet of his. See you in exactly one hour from now.’ It’s almost as if every ounce of stress that Jessie is feeling about this wedding is being dumped on to the planner. If Jessie has to worry about all these things, then bugger it, the planner can too. Just for once, she wants someone else to get a sense of what she is dealing with, the expectations she must hit, the sheer number of people she must please.
Jessie spins her head in the direction of the planner, forcing eye contact, and immediately catches the whiff of terror coming off her. Jessie’s eyes slide down her body, noticing the not-quite-crisp-enough white shirt and that the very tips of her patent courts are scuffed and muddied. A question slices silently through the air between them: is this girl capable of bringing to life everything that Jessie’s budget can so easily afford?
When Jessie discovered another couple had booked the seventeenth-century Willow Manor in the idyllic north Cotswold village of Little Bloombury on the very day she wanted it, she simply paid them off – generously enough to cover the entire cost of their wedding elsewhere. She then booked the property – one of the finest in the whole of the West Country and surrounded by centuries-old cottages and boundless English countryside – exclusively for one week, effectively enabling the in-house wedding planner to hit her revenue target for the entire wedding season in one lump sum. So a bit of co-operation would be appreciated.
It’s the look of fear in the planner’s eye that does it. That and the fact that Jessie is yet to hear the words, Absolutely, that won’t be a problem. All her mild faffing ignites the low-level irritation that is Jessie’s daily default setting and like a precocious child on the rampage, Jessie unleashes a series of wild arm movements so exaggerated by her frustration, that she is in danger of losing the Carolina Herrera pale blue calf-skin bag that is swinging precariously from one of them.
Time to go in for the kill.
‘You are up to speed on the dessert room aren’t you? Because there is a hell of a lot to consider – and you’ve seen the guest list so you know we’re dealing with three hundred very-hard-to-impress people here.
‘How exactly are you planning to engineer the display of my ten-tier gravity-defying Peggy Porschen Madame de Pompadour strawberry and champagne buttercream wedding cake? Have you even checked that we have height clearance under the crystal chandeliers – not forgetting of course the fresh floral cake stand which, when all seven thousand of the David Austin Avalanche roses are in place, will stretch to at least four metres high and three metres wide?
‘Tell me please you have given at least some thought to the fifteen-hundred hand-painted mini Maitre Choux eclairs, the Bonpass & Parr bespoke jellies I have commissioned in the shape of the church and the hand-piped biscuits decorated to mimic the lace on my dress? I suggest we need a full mood board of ideas on how exactly this lot is going to be presented.’ She stops short of sobbing, because I would really love to be able to sleep soundly for perhaps just one night in the run up to this wedding, without waking in a pool of stress-related sweat, imagining the moment my future mother-in-law arches an eyebrow at me across the top table, slowly shakes her head and silently confirms that I am indeed not good enough for her son – and stupid me for even trying to fool them all I could be.
Tantrum over, Jessie is off at pace – leaving hot tears to bubble up in the planner’s eyes – her freshly blow-dried blonde hair bouncing in the fittingly crisp spring morning air, huffing loudly and feeling relieved that she had dressed for business today.
She had a feeling it was going to be challenging, so opted for Look No. 32 from the new Carolina Herrera Spring/Summer collection: wide-legged cream crepe trousers sitting high on the waist, worn with the matching silk crepe mix blazer, stylishly edged in black ribbon, cut in neatly at the waist and accessorised with Herrera’s rose gold and pearl pendant, the matching bracelet and the don’t dick with me five-inch laser-cut lace courts. Jessie put this look together precisely as the designer intended, right down to the way the blazer’s black silk belt is tightly knotted at the front.
In fact, the only thing not from the House of Herrera is Jessie’s De Beers platinum and diamond engagement ring, its mere presence somehow giving her the right to say exactly what she wants. Even Ms Herrera herself might have winced at the extravagance of the six-carat, cushion-cut diamond solitaire, in its diamond-encrusted halo setting, with yet more diamonds running around the band. The future heirloom had been individually crafted at a bespoke appointment at the jeweller’s Old Bond Street store in London just to ensure no one else in the world would have the same ring.
This is Jessie’s time and she is determined to let absolutely nothing get in the way of the perfection she is planning – least of all some slow-on-the-uptake wedding planner who simply has no concept of the scale of what is looming, six short months from now.
September 1st, the day when Jessie Jones will marry 38-year-old Adam Coleridge, the only son of Henry and Camilla Coleridge, two of the wealthiest landowners in the county. And the only man on earth with the power to make Jessie feel so much more than good enough. The kind of man whose life never should have collided with hers, but did. Then when he loved what he saw, how he felt around Jessie with all her raw, unapologetic lust for life, she barely dared to dream it was going to happen. He could have had anything, any woman in the world, but he chose her. And Jessie worships him for that. All her happiest times trace directly back to Adam, like an intricate treasure map, his heart the ultimate reward.
But there is a lot of work to do between now and the big day, not least of which is getting her socially challenged family to some level of understanding of the magnitude of the event. The etiquette involved in hosting a collection of people whose personal wealth could solve the entire nation’s austerity issue… not to mention the level of grooming that Jessie plans to impose on her relatives.
This is all a very long way from the depressing south London council estate where Jessie grew up – and they all still live. She had battled her way past the bullies at the local school who confused her ambition for snootiness and, from as young as she can remember, she would walk the residential streets of the neighbouring and more salubrious Putney-upon-Thames, choosing the houses she might one day live in – wondering what the hell you had to do for a living to afford to live like that. Then she’d return home to see the pile of grubby ten-pound notes appear on the mantelpiece each week in their tiny house – her mother Margaret’s housekeeping money – and watch as she struggled to stretch it as far as she could to feed and entertain three children and two worn-out parents. Never once did she see her mother spend anything on herself. There was never enough money, ever. Her father Graham’s school caretaker wages never stretched quite far enough.
She knows this was what gave her such an incredible drive to succeed, spurred on by two parents who love their family dearly and were sensible enough to spot Jessie’s potential and nurture it, somehow managing to support her through university. She beat 269 other graduates to land that first job as executive assistant to the planning partner at Hunter Bentley property developers. On day two she met Adam Coleridge, the company’s marketing director, and three days later they were sipping champagne on their first date. She remembers the thrill of excitement coursing through her as the Friday night crowd pushed them closer together at the bar and, as Adam tried not to touch her too often, she silently willed herself not to fall for him. She knew there might never be a second date and she couldn’t handle just a glimpse at what might never be hers. But the heady combination of a fizz-fuelled confidence, Adam making it all so easy, attractive women working hard to get his attention when it was all hers, her head swimming with the exciting chit-chat all around her – clever people with fabulous lives – was fatal. By midnight she was completely undone, totally his if he wanted her. But Adam wasn’t making any assumptions. He took her by the hand out to a waiting Mercedes, ready to whisk her home. As he kissed her softly on both cheeks, letting his lips linger tantalisingly close to hers, he opened the car door, but didn’t follow her in. On the back seat sat an enormous bouquet of hand-tied flowers. About to explode with happiness, she almost missed the smart black ribbon holding the blooms together with the words Beautiful Jessie in gold calligraphy running the length of it. Then the handwritten note simply suggesting ‘Dinner tomorrow night?’
Now Jessie Jones, with her limitless wedding budget, is impatiently pressing the doorbell of The White Gallery, Gloucestershire’s most luxurious wedding boutique, just as her mobile phone interrupts her with a sharp buzz that indicates a voicemail message. Jessie stabs the play button and hears the painfully slow and distracted voice of her mum.
‘Jessica, it’s Mum here… I hope you’re having a nice day… Dad and I are doing our weekly shop later and I thought I’d better call you first. You know what he’s like when he gets in to the Co-op. We’ll be in there forever looking at all the deals. Graham, can you grab a handful of carrier bags from under the stairs? I’m not paying 5p for them all again… Are you still planning to visit this weekend Jessica? What would you like for your tea? Let me know and then I can buy it while I’m out today. Anyway, the reason I am calling is I got a huge package from you this morning delivered by a very nice man. It took me ages to open it, it was so well-wrapped. Anyway, I’ve looked at all the dresses and it was very kind of you to send them Jessica. I am very grateful and the last thing I want to do is upset you but I think they might all be a bit… oh, what’s the word, um… showy for me. Your dad thinks I should wear the lilac trouser suit he bought me for our wedding anniversary last year. I’ll see if Next have some nice shoes and a handbag the same colour to go with it. Maybe you can help me choose them at the weekend? Love you, see you soon, love you. Let me know about your tea. Bye, bye Jessica.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ Jessie spits at the phone, just as Helen Whittaker, the calm, unshakeable owner of The White Gallery opens the door to greet her.
Not one for the snooze button, Helen is up and out of bed moments after the alarm – set forty-five minutes earlier than her usual 7.30 a.m. today – stirs her. Heavy white towelling robe on, she is immediately on autopilot preparing a hearty breakfast of two free-range boiled eggs, thickly buttered white toast (crusts discarded) and half a zesty grapefruit – a meal that will set her up perfectly for the full day of back-to-back bridal appointments that await her downstairs in the boutique. In the four minutes it takes for the eggs to reach her idea of perfection, Helen gets the kettle on and lays out her favourite bone china cup and saucer ready for its morning splash of Earl Grey. Already multitasking, she scans the cream leather-bound appointments diary between sips of hot tea to refresh her memory of exactly who she will be seeing today.
As she runs a finger slowly down the page she sees the names of seven women. Two will be pinned today for their first round of alterations, one has decided on the dress and is coming to select accessories, one is shopping for her bridesmaids’ gowns, two are collecting their finished dresses and one – the first of the day at 10 a.m. – will be attending her very first appointment. Helen particularly loves these sessions, charged as they are with such excitement and wonder.
‘OK then,’ she says aloud to herself. ‘Time to get on.’
Fifteen minutes and one piping hot shower later, Helen is covering herself in a comforting layer of Ponds cocoa butter, expertly working the rich cream into her middle-aged and slightly dehydrated elbows and knees then sweeping it along her arms, down her once-toned legs, across her tummy and the stretchmarks she made peace with years ago. Trusty Marks and Spencer’s cream lace balcony bra and matching knickers on, Helen turns to the whitewashed armoire where last night she sensibly hung out her clothes for the day, knowing she would want to feel organised.
She takes a seat at the antique dressing table next to her divan with its pretty patchwork bedstead to blow-dry her shoulder length light brown hair. She does this in the same unrushed way she does every morning, into the same style she has worn for decades. She’s using the hairdryer’s warm blast to tease out layers of soft feminine waves that she gently sweeps away from her face – a face that is framed by an expertly tamed fringe, thanks to the can of Elnett that sits on the table alongside several bottles of Estée Lauder perfume, her daily make-up essentials and a useful box of tissues.
Helen retrieves the yellow-gold stud earrings from the glass trinket box in front of her and smiles warmly as she remembers the expensive bottle of Chablis she and Phillip shared over lunch at their favourite local bistro, celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Her husband had waited until they were both enjoying a velvety crème brûlée from the same plate before slipping the small jewellery box across the table to her with a simple, ‘Happy birthday, my darling’.
Today every inch of Helen’s appearance radiates togetherness – a woman who would appear to have everything under control. And that’s exactly the look she’s hoping to convey, because the truth is far less palatable. No one wants to hear that, and she’s certainly not ready to share it with the world. Not yet. The understated, easy elegance of a successful businesswoman is all anyone will see today.
Helen steps into her shiny cream patent L.K. Bennett mules, grabs the appointments diary and descends the small uneven staircase from her neat two-bedroom apartment above the The White Gallery. It occupies the lower level of Helen’s pretty Cotswold stone cottage, one in a row of four that bend gently around the corner, towards the old mill. The shop stands opposite Willow Manor hotel and the local church, separated only by one single-track road and the shallow stream that runs towards the mill.
The frames of the cottage’s tiny glass windows are painted the traditional Cotswold green like every other property in the village and aside from the one small white sign hanging above the door, passers-by would never guess at what treasures are hidden inside. Helen designed the boutique so that stepping through its sixteenth-century solid oak front door is like passing from an ancient world into a bright, white, hopeful future.
She enters the boutique this morning from the back door at the bottom of the stairs to her apartment and gets to work lighting her favourite Jo Malone candles. By the time the boutique opens in just over an hour they will have filled the air with the delicate scent of jasmine. She switches on the glass wall lights, softly illuminating the room’s Dior Grey walls, the perfect backdrop shade to a sea of white. On the boutique’s large, central glass-topped table, Helen has positioned an ornate crystal vase filled with her favourite wildflowers; the same varieties she carried in her own bridal bouquet thirty-five years ago. The pale pink foxgloves, honey-coloured sweet peas and sky-blue lupins mixed with cow parsley provide the only soft splash of colour today. They sit next to a decorative porcelain plate filled with freshly baked biscuits in the shape of miniature wedding gowns that have been iced a brilliant white.
The only other decorations on the table are three beautifully framed photographs. Helen suppresses the swell of emotion building inside her as she tenderly traces her finger along the frame of the first image, swallowing back her tears. No time for that right now. It’s a black and white image of a twenty-one-year-old Helen with Phillip, taken on that roasting hot day in July 1981, just after the two of them had said their wedding vows and run out of the Bristol registry office, overflowing with happiness. Buoyed by the excitement of the day, Helen had stumbled on the hem of her ivory taffeta gown, and just as it looked as though she might tumble down the stone steps in front of their assembled well-wishers, Phillip caught her, at the very moment the photographer took his shot. It remains to this day her favourite image of their wedding.
Both had thrown their heads backwards in a fit of relieved giggles. Phillip saved Helen’s blushes that day – as he would many times over – and every time she looks at the picture now she can’t help but compare her fortunes favourably to that year’s other far more famous bride – Lady Diana Spencer. Helen may have been nearly undone by a tricky hem, but Diana – a year younger than Helen at the time – had to make the three-and-a-half minute walk up the aisle of St Paul’s Cathedral in front of a global audience of 750 million eyes, all trained on her. The other two framed images on the table are of Helen and Phillip’s own children Betsy and Jack on their graduation days, joyous daily reminders of the very best of family times together. She just wishes she saw them more often.
Helen circulates around the boutique, small cloth duster in hand, ensuring there are no rogue fingerprints and no clutter, then checks the small waste-paper bin in the fitting room for tear-soaked tissues from the previous day’s fittings. Betsy has repeatedly suggested her mum get a cleaner to help every morning, concerned that she has more than enough to worry about, but it’s a role Helen enjoys. Besides, a lifetime of caring for and cleaning up after a hardworking husband and two children has more than qualified her for the job.
9.15 a.m. – plenty of time for Helen to buff the duster around the boutique’s single rose-gold clothes rail that runs the perimeter of the room. It is on this rail that all of Helen’s wedding gowns are hung, each on its own softly padded white silk hanger, draped so that every hemline softly kisses the thick cream carpeted floor beneath it. Helen starts to the left of the front door, in her experience the direction most brides turn when they first enter the boutique, and where she has positioned her collection of six modern romantic Jenny Packham gowns.
Helen approaches the rail, running her hand carefully between each gown to check none of the beadwork has caught a neighbouring dress, lifting the skirt of each one upwards carefully in one brisk fluid movement, filling it with air to show it off to its very best advantage. She straightens the embellished beaded cap sleeves of one, smoothes the silk tulle overlay on another, before adjusting the sparkling beaded lace bodice on the next. She decides to move one of Jenny’s latest designs, a gown with a show-stopping cascading tiered skirt to the front to create some serious wow factor for everyone entering the boutique today.
This season Helen has bought Jenny’s more form-fitting silhouettes – those adorned with wild flower and foliage appliqués, crystal illusion bodices, daring open backs, and plunging necklines. They may not be entirely to her own taste, but when it comes to ultimate contemporary glamour, Helen knows that no one does it better than Jenny – and so do her brides, judging by the stream of orders already placed.
Helen works her way along the rail and on to the five expertly structured Peter Langner gowns including her personal favourite, a ballgown in embossed Shantung silk, with flutter sleeves and embroidered with falling chiffon petals. Next come the legendary bias-cut Pronovias gowns – the ones she knows her more fashionable brides are sure to gravitate towards. Sharply cut racer-backs, a second-skin embroidered lace dress, peek-a-boo sheer chiffon and thigh-high splits are not for every bride, but the ones who love these looks are usually more than happy to pay the higher price tag these gowns demand.
There is just time to complete her circuit of the remaining gowns, before finishing with the eight exquisite designs from Oscar de la Renta, all strapless save for one plunging V-neck A-line gown, which Helen takes the time to adjust on its hanger so it sits perfectly symmetrically. Each dress has been given one incredible defining feature which Helen double-checks now: a back adorned with an oversized bow (straightened); intricate guipure lace (smoothed); a neat peplum skirt (lightly fluffed) and a lace bolero edged with mink and fox fur (lifted higher on its hanger).
Happy with the rail, Helen walks to the back of the boutique and enters the sumptuous fitting room with its floor-to-ceiling ornate gold-framed mirrors on both sides. There is a luxurious chaise, generously upholstered in cream velvet running the length of the room, providing plenty of space for mums and maids to perch and an extravagant crystal chandelier hanging centrally over the space. One small glass table in the corner is where Helen keeps her ‘Mary Poppins bag’, as she affectionately refers to it. Just like the old fashioned leather doctor’s bag carried by its namesake, it opens up like a gaping mouth to reveal dozens of individually boxed and ordered pins, clips, ribbons and elastic – everything she might need to turn a too big or small gown miraculously into the near-perfect size for the bride within it.
The fitting room is where three more super special gowns are today suspended from a floating rail. Knowing that these dresses would take some extra time to present properly, Helen positioned them here last night after closing, giving them longer for any stubborn creases to disappear from the fabric. It’s important they look perfect and, analysing them closely again now, Helen is happy that she has done her work well.
9.50 a.m. – Helen returns to the front of the boutique and unlocks the door, ready ten minutes ahead of schedule for her first bride of the day. She uses the time to flick through the file she keeps on every bride she serves – the bible that carefully charts each woman’s dress progress from her initial measurements to styles chosen, alternations needed, final refinements and delivery dates. The file never leaves a locked cupboard under the boutique’s till – Helen knows she would be lost without it. Opening the concertina box to the section marked Ms Jessica Jones, Helen re-scans the fifteen emails that she has print. . .
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