Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(32)

I fucking hate feelings. They mess everything up.

The taxi draws up at the hotel, dragging me away from my turbulent thoughts. After paying the driver, I step out into ice-cold wind. The pavement is full of people carting bags and parcels. The hotel windows glow gold in the gloomy morning light, and the concierge waits patiently, holding the door open for me.

“Shit, sorry.” I leap forwards into the lobby, grateful for its warmth. I remove my gloves and unbutton my coat, checking my appearance in a nearby mirror. My neat reflection displays no sign of my earlier turmoil.

“Can I help you, sir?” the concierge asks.

I smile at him. “No need. I’m meeting someone in the Palm Court.” I crane my head and spot my bride sitting at a table with… “Shit,” I say morosely.

His eyes twinkle. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

I sigh. “My bride has brought her mother.”

“And is that not a good thing, sir? Will that be your future mother-in-law?”

“God forbid. I’d rather have Lizzie Borden in the family.” He bites his lip and I shake my head. “I’m a wedding planner. I’m not marrying the bride.”

“Thank you for clearing that up, sir.”

I grin at him. “Thanks for your words of encouragement.” I slip him a tenner and his smile widens.

“Any time, sir.”

He melts away to deal with a lady struggling with her case, and I take a deep breath and gird my loins. Whatever that means. I wouldn’t want Erica’s mother anywhere near my loins, thank you very much.

Running a hand over my hair, I stride into the beautiful, airy room. “Good morning,” I say cheerfully. “How are you?”

“Joe,” Erica squeals and jumps to her feet, enveloping me in a big hug. I inhale the scent of Miss Dior and get a mouthful of her fur collar.

“Alright?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes discreetly. “Just about,” she mutters.

She sits down and I smile at her mother. “Lovely to see you, Frances. I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

Sorry, her daughter mouths, but she stays quiet out of a sense of preservation. She, like everyone else, is frightened to death of her mother.

“You’re late,” Frances snaps. She’s a beautiful woman with ash-blonde hair cut into a sharp bob and a slender figure currently swathed in a very expensive tweed suit, but the effect is marred by the lines of spite that surround her thin mouth. I’ve yet to find anything that pleases her, but I live in hope.

I look at my watch. “By a minute. I do apologise.”

“A minute of my time, Mr Bagshaw, and that is valuable.”

I’d love to enquire why. Is she burning witches today, pillaging a village, or maybe knitting by the guillotine for the afternoon? Instead, I offer her a vague smile and sit down at the table.

I look around with appreciation. The Langham is one of the grand old London hotels, and being in the Palm Court feels like sitting inside a delicate boudoir. It’s warm and smells of cinnamon and expensive happiness.

I smile at Erica as I remove my laptop from my bag and open it up. “How’s Ryan, lovely?”

Frances huffs, and Erica shoots her a nervous smile before looking back at me. She’s an extremely beautiful young woman with gilt fair hair that falls in a cascade down her back. Her complexion is peaches and cream and her eyes are very blue. She’s the only daughter in her family, and as far as I can tell, has had every advantage that life could offer. The best schools, clothes, and ponies. It’s a testament to her sweet nature that none of it has affected her for the worse. She’s modest and kind, and her mother walks all over her with her size-five Louboutin’s.

As if on cue, Frances the Tyrant tuts. “I suppose he’s at work. It would have been nice to have had some support with all these wedding decisions we’re making.”

We? Mommie Dearest and her poor beleaguered husband are footing the wedding’s bill, and if she’s allowed anyone else to have any input on the arrangements, then I’m Billie Eilish.

“He’s very busy, Mummy,” Erica says. She offers me a nervous smile. “I suppose grooms don’t have much input anyway, do they, Joe?”

Not when they’re marrying into a family headed by Attila the Hun. “No,” I lie quickly. “It’s usually the brides. And I’m not complaining in this case, because I have the company of two lovely ladies all to myself.”

I throw up in my mouth a little, but Frances looks slightly appeased, and Erica shoots me a grateful look.

The waiter arrives, and we order drinks. My stomach rumbles, but I’ve got more chance of dating Jonathan Bailey than Frances paying for food for me. I’m very clearly in the help column, and so, completely below her attention. “Okay,” I say, tapping on my screen and bringing up Erica’s file. “Three days to go. Are you nervous?”

Erica smiles. “I am a bit, but I’m marrying Ryan, so I’m happy.”

They’re an adorable couple, and I’d be very happy for them if I didn’t suspect that Frances intends to rule their marriage the way she does her own. Her husband had seemed nice the one time I’d met him, not that I could judge well, seeing as he wasn’t allowed to get a word in edgeways.

“Well, I think we’re ready for everything. You pick the dress up tomorrow, yes?” Erica and her mum nod. “Great. Both bridesmaids have picked theirs up. I checked with the dress shop yesterday.”