Nicola Marsh - Bombshell For The Boss - The Bride's Baby

The ‘gut response’ wasn’t working. It was fully occupied coping with her unexpected confrontation with Tom McFarlane. He looked thinner. Tanned, but thinner. Harder, if that was possible. His features chiselled back to the bone …

She shut her eyes in an attempt to block out the image. Concentrate on the dress. Style … She should stick with style because the wedding dress, as she always reminded her brides, should be an extension of your natural look.

Your wedding day was not a moment to experiment with a fashion statement.

Especially if the result was going to be splashed, in full colour, across the pages of Celebrity.

Geena Wagner, the designer showing at the Fayre, was incredibly talented and her gowns were all, without exception, beautiful.

Something like the flowing, beaded and embroidered silk chiffon kaftan-style dress might well have been her choice if she’d been thinking of a beach wedding.

She paused to make a note on her PDA for Josie. She had a bride who was considering that option.

Unfortunately, while the idea of a runaway wedding for two on some deserted beach might be deeply appealing, her task—and she’d had little choice but to accept it—was to include as many exhibitors as possible, which meant it would have to be a traditional wedding.

The whole village church, bells and choir job, with bridesmaids, ushers, fancy transport, a marquee fit for a maharajah and more flowers than Kew Gardens.

It should have been a piece of cake. She’d done it before. Sitting in this room, making lists, her mother offering suggestions. She wasn’t that girl any more …

At least she’d made a start with the flowers, she thought, reaching out for the tiny posy of violets that Lucy—taking her task very seriously—had gone out into the park to pick for her. Sweet-scented purple velvet flowers, heart-shaped leaves, tied with narrow purple ribbon. She lifted it to breathe in the scent and for a moment smiled.

Her bridal flowers would be a simple posy of violets. Maybe she could set a new trend for simplicity, she thought, returning to the photographs. A minimalist wedding. Very classy.

The strapless cleavage-enhancing dresses were almost too minimalist, but while perfect for a civil ceremony in some glamorous setting, wouldn’t work in the village church. Or maybe it just wouldn’t work for her.

And yet the look would have to be show-stopping.

She needed a theme, something that would tie everything together, or the feature risked being no more than a series of photographs of things …

She sighed, poked amongst the collection of goodies Lucy had found for her. Held a long amethyst earring against her neck. A scrap of smoky mauve chiffon. Ribbons, dried flower petals, invitation cards with envelopes lined with lilac tissue.

All utterly gorgeous, but she’d done all that love’s young dream, happy ever after, fairy tale thing ten years ago. Had seen it crumble to dust the minute there was trouble.

Maybe that was why she’d been hit so hard by the Candida Harcourt/Tom McFarlane debacle. It had been too close to home. Had brought back too many painful memories. Despite Tom McFarlane’s move on her, it was obvious that he hadn’t been over it, he’d just been hurting.

Her response had been to shift the hands-on wedding stuff to Josie, using her pregnancy as an excuse. Not that the clients were getting second-best. Josie was brilliant at making things run on oiled wheels behind the scenes. In fact, if she wasn’t very careful, her rivals would be headhunting her, offering her all kinds of incentives to come and work for them.

She made a note on her PDA to do something about that. Which was just another way of putting off the task in hand.

‘Come on, Sylvie,’ she muttered, taking a couple of long, slow, calming breaths. ‘You can do this.’

And then, avoiding the dresses, she picked up one of a pair of embroidered and beaded purple silk shoes.

‘Anything catch your eye?’ Geena said from the doorway.

‘These shoes?’ she offered.

‘You’re finding it difficult?’

She indicated her shape. ‘Just a bit. But I’ve definitely ruled out the vestal virgin look,’ she said, indicating the photograph in front of her. ‘Not that it isn’t lovely,’ she added quickly. ‘They’re all lovely but, to be honest, I’m finding it hard and it’s not the bump. It’s just not real, you know?’ She tried to think of someway to explain. ‘I find most of my brides are thinking about their groom when they choose their dress.’ Most of them. ‘When they find the dress of their dreams they always say something like, “He’ll just melt when he sees me in this …’“

Candy, on the other hand, had said, ‘Everyone I know will die of envy when they see me in this …’ But then that had been the standard by which she’d judged everything about her wedding. Not what Tom would think but how envious everyone else would be.

Maybe that was the difference between marrying for money and marrying for love. Candy hadn’t needed any of the trappings when she’d married Quentin. Just the two of them had been enough.

She’d read all about it in their ‘true love’ story in Celebrity.

‘You know it’s going to be perfect when they say that, don’t you?’ Geena agreed, breaking into her thoughts. But then, dressing brides was her business so clearly she understood better than most.

‘It does help,’ Sylvie said. Then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ve planned too many “perfect” weddings that didn’t last.’

‘Think about the ones that have,’ she said, taking the shoe, looking at it. ‘This is totally gorgeous.’ She tried it on but it was too small and she handed it to Sylvie. ‘Go on, your feet are smaller than mine. Try it.’

Anything was better than looking at wedding dresses and the shoe was fabulous. She slipped it on and extended her foot. The colour glowed. A few small beads set amongst the rich embroidery caught the light and sparkled.

They both sighed.

‘I think we have a bit of a Cinderella moment here,’ Geena said with a grin. ‘Try the other one. Walk about …’ Then, after a moment, ‘Are you getting anything?’

‘A total reluctance to take them off, give them back,’ she admitted, laughing, ‘but honestly, purple shoes!’

‘Colour is making a big impact in wedding gowns these days,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It might work. Embroidery? Appliqué? I have a woman who is brilliant at that.’ Then, getting no encouragement, ‘What we really need to get you in the mood is a man.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there,’ she said, concentrating on the shoes.

‘No? Really? But what about—’

‘Believe it,’ Sylvie swiftly cut in. ‘The infant is the result of a … a … sperm donation.’

‘At a clinic?’ She did not sound convinced.

‘Not quite, but the man wasn’t included in the deal.’

‘Oh, well, not to worry. He doesn’t have to be “the one”,’ she said, making little quotation marks. ‘Just someone hot enough to get you in that dreamy, this-will-make-him-melt mood.’ Then, when she shook her head, ‘A this-will-make-him-want-to-tear-it-off-and-take-you-to-bed mood would do,’ she assured her.

Which fired up all those visions of Tom McFarlane that she’d been doing her best to smother.

‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’

‘No? Shame. But there are some seriously hunky blokes putting up a marquee out there. I’ll go and drag one of them in, shall I?’

She turned as someone cleared his throat behind her.

‘Oh, hi, Mark. What are you doing here?’ Then, before he could answer, she glanced at Sylvie, a wicked little gleam in her eye. ‘Sylvie, have you met Mark Hilliard, very hot architect of this parish? Mark, Sylvie Smith.’