Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(33)

“I do think it’s a mistake to have had Paula as your bridesmaid, dear.”

“Mother, she’s been my best friend since primary school.”

“She has rather sluttish tendencies.”

“Mother,” Erica says in a shocked voice.

I keep my attention firmly on my laptop. I’d heard all about Paula and her round-heeled ways when I was stuck in the office last week with Frances. It’s not an experience I ever want to repeat. Rafferty had lasted a whole five minutes before giving me a panicked look and exiting stage left, muttering about an appointment with his therapist.

“The cake will be delivered on the morning of the wedding,” I interject. “I’ll touch base with the baker when I get into the office.”

“Will it be okay?” Erica asks.

I smile at her. “It’ll be beautiful. They make the most stunning wedding cakes.”

I check my laptop. “I have a wedding tomorrow, and then I’m flying to Scotland immediately afterwards. I’ll check on all the arrangements personally but my colleague who’s in that area for a wedding says everything looks good.”

Frances stirs, directing her basilisk glare at me, and I resist the impulse to cover my groin protectively. “I do hope no one else is being married there as well as us.”

“Hmm,” I say rather than point out that she’s rented the hotel, not bought it lock stock and two hopefully smoking barrels.

She narrows her eyes. “And I trust you will not be stopping in the hotel, Mr Bagshaw. I’m afraid we didn’t agree to pay for that.”

“Mother,” Erica says, looking mortified.

I offer her mother my patented smile. It doesn’t meet my eyes, but I don’t think she’s aware of it. “Of course not. I will be staying in a bed and breakfast in the village.”

“Oh, Joe, no. I don’t want you to put yourself out,” Erica says softly.

Frances rolls her eyes. “Mr Bagshaw and the agency are being paid a great deal of money to arrange this wedding, Erica. I’m sure he’ll be fine wherever he stays. You should be more concerned about Daddy and me. After all, we’re the ones paying for the whole thing.”

I do wish she’d stop referring to her husband as Daddy. It’s completely spoiling the erotic undertones of the word. Erica’s father is a thin, haunted-looking man who, as far as I can judge, spends most of his life in his study. If I were him, I’d have a stout lock on the door. Either that, or I’d have sited my office in Gibraltar.

Something uncharacteristically cool flickers in Erica’s eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.

“And we’re very grateful, Mummy,” she says softly. “But still, I’d like Joe to be okay.”

I’m touched by her concern. So close to the big day, most brides can think only of themselves and all the myriad disasters potentially lying in wait.

“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “I’ve stayed in the place before, and it’s lovely.”

Frances’s gaze drops to my left hand, and I immediately want to cover my wedding ring’s blingy glory. “You’re married yourself, Mr Bagshaw?”

“Yes,” I say, sipping my coffee and hoping she leaves it at that.

Her eyes sharpen. She’s obviously sensed my reticence, and knowing her, she’ll peck at it.

“How lovely. How many years?”

“One,” I say defiantly and completely untruthfully.

“Oh, so you’re still newlyweds. Do you and your wife live in London?”

“Husband, and yes.”

Her eyes narrow. “Lovely,” she says in a tone that suggests something completely different.

“Is your husband Lachlan Moore, Joe?” Erica speaks quickly, probably to stifle any homophobic comments from her mother.

I stare at her. “He is. How do you know?”

“Oh, I think you must have told me, or someone in your office did.”

I hesitate. I hate being deceitful, but it’s a solid-gold office rule not to discuss relationship woes with our clients. Nothing brings a party down quicker. “Yes,” I say. “His name is Lachlan.”

“And is he lovely, Joe?”

“Oh yes,” I say cheerfully. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“And how did you meet?”

Shit. How long will this last? But it’s Erica, and she’s very sweet, so I grit my teeth.

“At a wedding. He was a guest.” I shrug. “Our eyes met over a crowded bar and the rest is history.”

Literally history, but I can’t say that.

She looks delighted. “Well, that’s lovely,” she says. “I hope Ryan and I have such a good marriage.”

“I’m sure you will.” It wouldn’t take much to beat our record. Britney Spears had a lengthier first go at matrimony. I immediately change the subject back to the wedding, and the next hour is taken up with finalising details.

Finally, I leave with a hug from Erica and promises to see me in a couple of days and a limp handshake from Frances. She doesn’t scrub her hand afterwards, but it’s obvious she wants to.

Think of the money, I say to myself and offer her a big smile that probably irritates her more than cross words.

When I get outside, the cold air almost feels warm after Frances’s company. I stop to fasten my coat and my phone rings. I look down at the display. Great. My mum.