The Country House

by Cathy Bramley

Genres: Friendship; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Seeking: Highly organised Events Planner who can adapt to the unexpected... Holly has her life planned out, making her the perfect new events planner for Wickham Hall. She has always felt a connection to the beautiful country house, but could taking her dream job be the key to unlocking the secrets of her past? But there isn't a lot of time for wondering as the calendar is full of events to plan, with everything from intimate family weddings to summer parties. Keeping organised isn't hard for Holly, but she's about to discover that life and love can still surprise you. Especially when sparks start to fly with her gorgeous boss, Ben... Soon Holly's realising that life isn't as easy to plan as an event at Wickham Hall. Can she learn to let go and begin to enjoy the joy of the unexpected? After all, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. . . *Published in the UK as Wickham Hall * *** Readers are captivated by Cathy Bramley's heartwarming stories: 'Funny and sweet and as satisfying as a homemade apple pie' Milly Johnson 'As comforting as hot tea and toast made on the Aga!' Veronica Henry 'A delicious tale of friendship, family and baking... I loved its warmth and charm' Cathy Woodman 'Delightfully warm with plenty twists and turns' Trisha Ashley

Release date: March 21, 2019

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 387

Sample

I puffed out my cheeks as I turned the corner into Mill Lane. My throat was dry, my lungs felt squashed and achy and one of my laces was beginning to come loose, but I was determined not to slow down.

‘Come on, Holly,’ I muttered under my breath as the finish line came into view. ‘You can do this. Nearly there. One last push!’

I broke into a sprint for the last hundred metres. The early June sunshine was warm on my back and I felt hot and sweaty in my T-shirt and shorts, not to mention ready for a drink. There was no stopping me now, though; I was through the pain barrier, I was in the zone …

‘Good grief!’ cried Mrs Fisher, my elderly neighbour, stepping out of her gate, her shopping trolley trailing behind her. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack, charging along like that!’

‘Sorry, Mrs Fisher,’ I wheezed as I swerved round her. ‘Lovely morning!’

‘How’s your mum?’ Mrs Fisher shouted after me.

‘Fine thanks,’ I yelled over my shoulder. ‘Sorry, can’t stop!’

I ran on to our gate, arms raised triumphantly above my head as though I was breaking through some imaginary ribbon. I’d made it all the way back without stopping for the first time ever. Go me! I leapt over the boxes of rubbish that had been left out for recycling and came to a breathless halt at the front door of Weaver’s Cottage, the honey-coloured stone terrace I shared with my mum.

I checked my watch: five kilometres in twenty-seven minutes.

Result! A personal best and not bad at all for someone who, until recently, would rather grab a box of French Fancies (lemon ones, preferably) and the TV remote and settle down in front of The Hotel Inspector than exercise.

I pulled off my headphones and grinned to myself as the front garden filled with the tinny sound of Shakira singing ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ from my iPod.

You are so right, Shakira, I thought, wiping a line of perspiration from my forehead. These hips certainly don’t lie. A month spent eating cake whilst applying for jobs had done absolutely zero for my figure. Hopefully, thanks to my new fitness regime, the truth would soon hold no fear for my hips – I was definitely feeling fitter. And as for the job hunt … I thought I might have sorted out that little problem, too.

I stood for a moment, hands on hips, while I caught my breath. There were a few weeds poking up between the paving slabs and I bent to tweak them out. I would make an effort to do a few jobs today, I thought, make the most of my last few days of unemployment. Perhaps Mum might even be in the mood to help; we could start with the boxes I’d just jumped over? No harm in asking …

Five weeks ago, I’d been made redundant from the Esprit Spa Resort. Since then, despite keeping myself busy with job hunting, I’d found myself with quite a lot of time on my hands and Weaver’s Cottage, with its low ceilings and cluttered rooms, had become a bit claustrophobic. And because Mum only worked part time, we’d been spending far too much time in each other’s company and I was beginning to feel the strain.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Mum to bits. Adore her. I’d do anything for her. In fact, I have done anything for her: I’d put up with her ‘peculiarities’ for as long as I can remember but I’m only human and living with her in such a confined space had tested my patience to the max.

Which was why I found it such a joy to stretch my legs outside. Running was my safety valve; the country lanes around my home village of Wickham gave me the space to let off steam and the time to think.

And I had lots to think about. Because I’d been offered a job. Hallelujah!!

I leaned up against the wall of the cottage and began to stretch out my calf muscles one at a time, taking deep breaths and feeling pretty damn proud of this morning’s achievements. Five kilometres, a month of gainful employment and it was only eleven o’clock.

For as long as I could remember, I’d always wanted to work in the events industry, preferably at prestigious international events. No harm in aiming high, I’d thought. Sadly, it wasn’t to be. By the end of my first year at uni, it had become clear that Mum wasn’t coping well without me at home and I’d had to adjust my plans accordingly. After three years living in minimalist heaven in my halls of residence, I came home to Weaver’s Cottage. But while that might have hampered my globe-trotting plans, it certainly didn’t curtail my ambitions.

The picturesque village of Wickham is in the shadow of Stratford-upon-Avon, a jewel in England’s tourist crown and home to numerous jobs in the hospitality industry. After taking on a variety of roles – including a stint as a hotel receptionist and a ticket seller at Anne Hathaway’s cottage – I landed ‘a proper job’ with the Esprit Spa Resort. And I’d stayed there for three years, working my way up to assistant events organizer.

Sadly, the owners had got themselves into a financial mess and Esprit was no more, leaving me and the rest of the team unemployed. I’d been applying for jobs like a demon ever since. I was desperate to stay within the events industry and keen to move up the career ladder, too. But as a ‘Plan B’ I’d enrolled with a temp agency in Stratford yesterday and lo and behold I’d had a call first thing this morning with the offer of a temporary office job at the conference centre in town.

I’d responded enthusiastically, of course, saying how pleased I was and had promised to let the lady know by close of play today. She’d been a little put out that I didn’t snap her hand off there and then, I think, but I had my reasons. At that point the postman still hadn’t been and whilst deep down I knew it was unlikely at this late stage, I was still carrying a torch for one of the other jobs I’d applied for.

Cool-down stretch complete, I sat on the front step, picked up the bottle of water I’d left tucked behind the empty milk bottles and took a long drink.

Unbelievably, my absolute, one-in-a-million, what-are-the-chances dream job had arisen a mere stone’s throw from home: Wickham Hall was looking for a new assistant events manager. I felt my heart thump a bit harder at the thought of the Elizabethan manor house on the far side of Wickham. The stately home was still privately owned by the Fortescue family and was renowned for its calendar of successful events. This is destiny, written in the stars, I’d thought when I’d spotted the advertisement in the Stratford Gazette two weeks ago. The description read as though it had been written with me in mind: meticulous planner, attention to detail, excellent communications and organization skills and experience running events. The job couldn’t have been more ‘me’ if it had tried!

Plus I knew Wickham Hall inside out; I’d been going there ever since I was a little girl. In fact, when I was small I used to pretend I lived there and dreamed about waking up in a four-poster bed with my own maid, a wardrobe of Disney Princess outfits and acres of space all to myself …

I stifled a sigh and shivered a little as my skin began to cool. I rubbed the shin that had been aching and circled my ankles. As usual, my run had allowed my crowded thoughts some room to manoeuvre and I had reached a decision.

The fact was that despite putting heart and soul into my application for the Wickham Hall job, I hadn’t been invited for an interview. And I would have heard back by now: the interviews were being held this week and the postman had had nothing for me again today. It was – to put it mildly – a bit of a blow. On the other hand, if I accepted the temp job, I could be out of the house and back at work on Monday. Hall-e-flippin-lujah.

Put like that, what choice did I have?

I jumped to my feet, intent on making my acceptance call immediately. I put two hands on the front door, which usually needed some force to open it, and pushed.

‘Ooh, hold on; let me move out of the way!’ cried Mum. ‘OK, come on in, love.’

I stuck my head round the door and was greeted by the sight of my mum kneeling at the bottom of the stairs amongst stacks of newspapers and bags full of old clothes, wearing one of her favourite Boden summery dresses, a bargain from the charity shop where she worked. Her ample bottom pointed towards me and I caught an eyeful of dimply thigh.

‘Sorry about that,’ I said, squeezing through the gap. I closed the door and closed my eyes to the mess, focusing on her instead.

Mum and I were the same height, i.e. not high at all. We were both blonde and both prone to gaining weight in the tum and bum department. Her eyes were blue like my grandparents and mine were brown, which I guessed made them the same as ‘he who shall never be referred to’. But the greatest difference between us – and incidentally the greatest source of tension – was stuff. Mum had stuff everywhere. I did not.

Right now she was ferreting through said stuff.

‘Have you lost something, Mum?’ I was still hot and the hallway felt airless. I opened the door again and fanned myself with it.

‘Not me, no. But you have,’ she said, pushing her hair off her face and dislodging her reading glasses, which nested permanently in her blonde waves.

‘Me?’ I gave her a wan smile. That was one thing I was careful not to do in this house: put something down and you might never find it again. ‘I don’t think so, Mum. Anyway, I’ve come to a decision about that temp job. I’m going to take it.’

‘Hmm? It must be here somewhere,’ she muttered, ignoring me and sifting through a pile of envelopes.

‘What must?’

She shook her head anxiously so I closed the door and lowered myself onto the bottom stair, catching a whiff of my own post-run aroma. Shower-time next, methinks, just as soon as I’ve made that call.

‘Mum,’ I said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder, ‘let me take all that post. We don’t need any of it, it’s just junk mail. Please?’

She picked up another handful and flicked through them.

‘You should have had a letter from Wickham Hall. A lady called Pippa has just called to see if you’d received it. I was trying to find it before you got back.’

She abandoned her search and sat back on her heels, staring at me guiltily. ‘It’s my fault, Holly. It must have got lost in amongst my muddle. I’m sorry.’

Mum looked so dejected that it took a moment for her words to sink in. My eyes widened and I swallowed, hardly daring to think what I thought I was thinking.

‘Oh my life, Pippa is the events manager! What did she say?’ I grabbed Mum’s hands and forced her to look at me. ‘Exactly?’

Mum blinked her cornflower-blue eyes at me. ‘She said you hadn’t replied to her letter and she wanted to know if you could still make the interview this afternoon.’

My heart swelled with happiness and hope and pure unadulterated pleasure. The temp agency could wait. The stuff on the front path could wait. I had my dream job to go for.

‘Yes,’ I squealed, planting a kiss on Mum’s cheek. ‘Yes, I can!’

At three o’clock that afternoon, I was ushered into a seat at the end of a long oak table by Pippa Hargreaves, events manager at Wickham Hall. There were butterflies in my stomach and I knew my face was a bit flushed, but I was here, where I was supposed to be, and that was the main thing.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Holly.’ She smiled, taking a seat opposite me. ‘I can’t think what happened to your interview letter. I’m normally very organized.’

I watched Pippa as she poured us both some water from a heavy glass jug. She was about five years older than me – mid-thirties at a guess – with carelessly pinned-up hair, a floral summer dress and a welcoming smile. She had talked non-stop since meeting me in the reception area at the bottom of a flight of oak stairs and I already suspected that the two of us would get along brilliantly.

‘I’m sure it’s not your fault,’ I said, accepting a glass from her. ‘It probably got lost in the post. I’m just so overjoyed that you rang. I’ve been keeping everything crossed all week that I’d be successful in getting an interview.’

I felt a flash of guilt for blaming the poor postman. We had, in fact, found Pippa’s letter in the end; it had come in a thick cream envelope with the Fortescue family crest on it. It had somehow slipped inside an old Christmas card catalogue along with an unopened electricity bill and a leaflet for Mo’s Maids home cleaning service. But I could hardly admit that, could I?

‘Right, with any luck, there should be a copy of your details in here.’ Pippa gave me a bright smile and pulled a jumbled sheaf of papers towards her.

I itched to take the pile from her and tap its edges on the table to neaten them up. Instead, I crossed my fingers under the table and tried to focus on being the best interview candidate Wickham Hall had ever seen.

‘I’ve brought a spare copy?’ I offered, as she flicked though the pile.

‘No, it’s OK, here we are: Holly Swift,’ she declared, producing my application letter, which I’d toiled over so painstakingly. She whizzed through my résumé, speed-reading under her breath. ‘University … degree in hospitality and management … work alone or as part of a team … excellent organizational skills … assistant events organizer at Esprit Hotel and Spa.’

‘Esprit? Very posh.’ She stopped reading and looked up briefly. ‘I was planning on taking my husband there for our seventh anniversary this year. I was surprised when it closed down.’

‘So was I,’ I said, raising an eyebrow. ‘I loved the serenity of Esprit, but unfortunately it turned out to only be skin deep. The financial accounts were in a mess, according to the liquidators.’

Pippa’s brow furrowed as she shook her head and I was conscious that I needed to steer the conversation into more positive waters.

‘Esprit was very modern and luxurious,’ I went on, nodding. ‘But I adore the Elizabethan beauty of Wickham Hall. It seems to breathe with history; it’s like you can hear the stories from the past whispering in the background. That beats the glass and gloss of Esprit, as far as I’m concerned.’

Pippa smiled and dipped her head again and I glanced around me, committing every detail to memory so I could tell Mum about it later. This part of the hall wasn’t open to the public but it was just as charming as the rooms I’d seen on my previous visits. The events department, where the interviews were taking place, was housed on the first floor of the east wing. Somewhere below me was Lord Fortescue’s private office. My stomach churned at the thought. A real lord, I could be working with a real lord … That would give Mum something to talk about at the charity shop!

The long narrow room was entirely wood-panelled, with a high ornate ceiling and a beautiful wooden floor covered with a large oriental rug. It smelt of furniture polish and of the blowsy old-fashioned roses arranged in a priceless-looking porcelain vase on the table and, for me at least, it smelt of hope and the possibility of a new career.

My gaze drifted through the windows to the grounds of Wickham Hall beyond. I could see the formal gardens, ablaze with colourful flowers, bordered with wide stone paths and dotted with exquisitely trimmed topiary shapes. A ride-on tractor mower leaving wide green stripes in its wake chugged across the manicured lawns, and in the distance, a plume of spray from the fountains cascaded down towards the deer park. I felt a deep pull of longing in my stomach. It was too perfect for words.

‘So, Holly, tell me why I should give you the job as my assistant?’

Pippa sat back, laced her fingers together and smiled. Behind her, bands of sunshine streamed in through the mullioned windows and past the faded elegance of the brocade curtains, illuminating the otherwise dark room and creating a goddess-like halo around her head.

I blinked at her. ‘Well, I …’

For a moment my mind went totally blank. Usually I’d research and plan and practise all the likely interview questions. But I’d had no time for that today.

Come on, Holly, this is your big chance, the challenge you’ve been waiting for.

I took a deep breath and leaned forward. ‘Because this is my dream job and I guarantee no one wants this job as badly as I do.’

Pippa cocked her head to one side and smiled softly. ‘Really?’

I looked directly into her eyes and nodded.

‘I’ve been coming to Wickham Hall with my mum ever since I was a little girl, for the Summer Festival, the fireworks displays, the Christmas decorations … every event, actually.’ I uncrossed my ankles, which had somehow plaited themselves uncomfortably around the barley twist legs of my chair, and edged forward in my seat, forearms resting on the table.

‘I even come here by myself sometimes,’ I confided, tucking my blonde bob behind my ears. ‘Just to enjoy the peace, the symmetry of the hall and orderliness of the gardens and …’

To escape from the chaos of Weaver’s Cottage, I added mentally.

‘I can honestly say it’s my favourite place in the world. And the thought of being part of the team that makes all these wonderful events happen fills me with such joy that I can hardly contain myself …’

My chest heaved and a lump appeared in my throat. Pippa’s eyes widened and she pressed a hand to her throat. I decided to revert to a more formal answer before we both ended up in tears. I coughed and ticked off my attributes on my fingers: ‘I’m efficient, extremely organized, I love a challenge and I’m sure I will learn a lot from working with you.’

And I want this job. So. Much.

I leaned back and exhaled shakily. Maybe I’d overdone it, but it was the truth and telling the truth had to be a good thing, right?

Pippa smiled. ‘Thank you. That was very heartfelt, Holly, I must say. Your résumé is very impressive too and it’s a bonus that you’re already familiar with our events.’

We talked for another fifteen minutes: me telling her discreetly about my personal circumstances and her giving me an outline of the day-to-day role of the vacancy, plus a run-down of her own story (married, four gorgeous children under six including twins, daughter of a vicar, lives in an old stone rectory that reminds her of home). What a superwoman! I was in total awe and it was all I could do not to reach across the table, squeeze her tight and beg her to pick me.

‘It’s not glamorous you know, this job,’ said Pippa, twinkling her eyes. ‘It probably sounds it, but running events here at the hall can be physically exhausting. Not only will you have to walk miles getting from one end of the estate to the other and back again, but we often have to set out chairs and tables, carry heavy boxes full of leaflets, climb ladders to fix signage—’

‘I’m fit and strong,’ I said, possibly sounding a little over-eager.

‘Good. And we’re rarely acknowledged for our efforts; Lord and Lady Fortescue are the public faces of the hall. Nobody even notices us half the time,’ she finished.

‘That’s absolutely fine by me!’ I declared, holding up my hands. ‘Honestly. I’m much more of a behind-the-scenes person; give me a clipboard and a to-do list and I’m a happy bunny. I’m really not one to crave the limelight!’

‘That’s all right then,’ Pippa laughed, ‘because this job really wouldn’t suit a diva who isn’t prepared to get her hands dirty.’

‘I love dirt,’ I said hastily.

She grinned and I smiled and blushed and thought what fun we would have working together.

As Pippa made scratchy notes with her pen in the margin of my CV, I started looking around me again. These four walls would have been privy to hundreds of conversations over the past five centuries, I mused: shared secrets, rowdy debates, idle gossip, and now, Holly Swift’s interview for the position of assistant events manager would forever be part of the room’s illustrious past. I shivered; I had to get this job, I just had to.

‘Do you have any questions for me before you go?’ Pippa enquired, pen poised.

‘Oh, yes, I do,’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘Will I have an induction programme?’

This sort of thing is very important to me. I like to know what I need to know, upfront. No surprises. Be prepared, that’s my motto.

‘Induction. Right,’ said Pippa, tapping her cheek with her pen. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out.’

‘Good, because I’d like to familiarize myself with the organizational hierarchy, key personnel and working practices first before I leap into the fray.’

Pippa’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

‘Um. If I’m successful, of course,’ I added.

‘Of course.’ She pressed her lips together and I suspected she was swallowing a smile. ‘Any other questions?’

‘Ooh, yes, one more,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘What are the opportunities for progression in this role?’

Pippa pulled a face. ‘In this department? None, I’m afraid.’ She snapped the lid back on her pen and shoved my application to the bottom of the pile. ‘Unless I leave. And I’m not planning on going anywhere. We’re a small team. Of two, to be precise. Sorry about that. Is that all?’

I swallowed, giving the pile of application forms an anxious glance and worrying that my last question might have been too cheeky. But I was ambitious, I thought, no harm in being honest.

She pushed back her chair and stood up so I did too.

‘I’m very pleased to hear that,’ I said.

Pippa’s mouth lifted into a smile and she gestured towards the door. ‘I’ll show you out.’

‘About you not going anywhere, I mean,’ I explained over my shoulder as I walked along the uneven corridor. ‘I think we’d make a great team, don’t you?’

She was still smiling as she stopped at a door at the top of the stairs. ‘There are a number of strong contenders for the job, Holly. I need to have a think about who would be the best fit.’

‘OK.’ I nodded, sending her positive ‘pick me’ vibes.

‘Right, here’s the events office, I’ll let you make your own way out.’ Pippa shook my hand warmly. ‘Lovely to meet you, Holly. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Will that be soon?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow. I’d promised to call the temp agency back this evening and I very much wanted to be able to turn them down.

‘You were my last candidate, so yes, very soon.’

‘Thank you very much.’ I beamed, releasing her hand reluctantly. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Back home at Weaver’s Cottage, I called hello to Mum and ran straight up the stairs to my bedroom. My brain was whirring and my heart still pumping like the clappers from my hour at Wickham Hall. My dream job was within touching distance and yet I’d have to give the temp agency an answer before the office closed for the weekend at six o’clock. I needed a few minutes alone in my own sanctuary, my oasis of calm away from the stress of the rest of the cottage, to collect my thoughts.

My room was the same size as Mum’s but that was where the similarity ended. All my furniture was white, white walls, white bedlinen and curtains. All the surfaces were clear except for a little dish on my chest of drawers where I kept my keys. I didn’t go in for ornaments but photographs, mounted in collages on the wall, added some fun to the room, reminding me of my school and university days and holidays with my best friend Esme. I opened the top drawer, slotted my silver bracelet and earrings into place in my jewellery case and then changed from my interview clothes and into a pair of jeans.

‘How did you get on?’ shouted Mum.

‘Down in a minute,’ I yelled back.

I opened the wardrobe, hung my dress and jacket neatly, stacked my heels on the built-in shoe rack, tucked my phone in my pocket and ran back downstairs to find Mum. She was loading empty wine bottles into a plastic crate in the kitchen.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I breathed, ‘I really want that job and I really liked Pippa. And the room was lovely, all wood panelling and sweet little windows … even the flowers were stunning.’

‘Fingers crossed for you, love,’ she said, patting my arm.

The worktop was a jumble of pans and second-hand kitchen equipment – like the breadmaker and coffee grinder that she’d brought home from the charity shop and never used – but I spied the teapot in amongst the clutter. ‘Any tea left in that pot?’

‘Yes, but it’s gone cold,’ said Mum, reaching into the fridge for a new bottle of wine. ‘How about joining me for a glass of Pinot to celebrate your interview instead?’

‘No thanks, I don’t want to celebrate yet in case I jinx it,’ I said, taking the kettle over to the kitchen sink. ‘Let’s stick to tea and celebrate when and if I get the job. But …’ I hesitated, knowing I needed to get the tone right. ‘I was thinking, Mum, why don’t we have a go at clearing some of the stuff out of the hall before dinner? It would keep my mind off the interview and I might not have so much time soon …’

The change in her expression was instant; I’d seen it many times, but it never ceased to amaze me how quickly the shutters came down whenever I tried to make a sensible suggestion. Mum pressed her lips together, shook her head and searched the worktop for a wine glass.

‘There’s nothing to clear. I need all of that. Anyway, I’m busy tonight,’ she muttered. ‘I promised I’d knit another baby bonnet for the neo-natal unit. And I can’t let the charity down. I won’t have tea, thank you.’

My heart sank as she took the bottle and glass and pushed past me into the living room in search of her knitting bag. Classic Lucy Swift; it was always the same. As soon as I tried to make a suggestion to help pull her out of this rut, she would miraculously come up with something else more pressing and disappear.

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind her that charity begins at home but before I had a chance to formulate a suitably diplomatic reply, my mobile rang.

I stared at the screen, which read ‘unknown number’. My heart thudded against my ribcage as I answered it.

‘Holly Swift?’ Please let it be Pippa, please …

‘Holly, hi. Pippa Hargreaves here. Congratulations, you’ve got the job.’

‘Yes!’ I yelled, punching the air. ‘Thank you. You won’t regret it, I promise.’

My new boss laughed softly in my ear. ‘Glad to hear it. When can you start?’

‘Now?’ I offered.

She laughed again. ‘It’s Friday evening, Holly. Monday morning at nine o’clock will be fine. I’ll meet you in reception.’

‘Nine o’clock sharp,’ I said, beaming. ‘Have a lovely weekend, boss.’

It was a short drive to Wickham Hall – barely even a drive at all, in fact, but as the sky looked a bit threatening I took the car. I was waved into the staff car park by the security man, a dapper old chap in baggy shorts and a cagoule with a name tag revealing him to be Jim Badger.

It was five minutes to nine and my stomach was fluttering with first-day nerves as I stepped through the staff entrance at Wickham Hall. Me – staff – happy, happy days! I took a seat on one of the high-backed velvet armchairs in the reception area at the foot of the wide staircase and waited for Pippa to fetch me.

Almost immediately my phone dinged, alerting me to a text message. I fished it out of my bag and grinned when I saw it was from Esme.

Have a fab first day, Holster. I’m sure you’ll wow them with your clipboard skills!

I quickly tapped out a reply.

Thanks Es. And you were right about the dress. I feel unstoppable in it!

Ha, told you! I should be in Hollywood dressing the stars, I’m wasted here. See you later x

I turned my phone onto silent, tucked it away and smoothed the skirt of my pale blue and white tea dress. Esme had persuaded me to buy it on Saturday. She and her mum, Bryony, own a boutique called Joop in Hoxley, which is the next village along from Wickham. Their clothes are to die for, if a little above my price range, even with my generous mates’ rates discount. However, Bryony has a knack for spotting what looks good on people and once she’d persuaded me to try on this dress, and Esme had offered to turn up the hem, it was a done deal.

‘As Coco Chanel said, “Dress shabbily and they’ll remember the dress, dress impeccably and they’ll remember the woman”,’ Esme had said through a mouthful of pins as she altered the length to suit my vertically challenged physique.

And as today was all about first impressions on everyone at Wickham Hall, I definitely wanted them to remember the woman.

There was a tall narrow console table opposite me in the wood-panelled corridor and on top of it was a leaflet dispenser filled with literature about Wickham Hall. I took a selection and began reading one about the conversion of some outbuildings into an art gallery. I’d seen one or two of the leaflets before because Mum was on the mailing list and she never threw anything away but there was a new one about the Summer Festival. She would definitely want to see that.

Two women came through the door: one in chef’s whites, the other in waitress uniform. ‘Are you being looked after?’ one of them asked with a smile.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I answered. I think, I added under my breath, stealing a look at my watch. Ten past nine.

‘OK. Lovely dress, by the way,’ said the other.

Result.

‘Thank you.’ I beamed as they walked away.

Actually, maybe I wasn’t being looked after, perhaps Pippa had been waylaid. I shoved the leaflets i