Louise Bentley is a feisty, wild, 'let's-go-to-Capri-for-the-weekend-yeah?' kind of girl. She spends her days working at a party-planning company. Oh, and she never wants kids. Ever.
Ben Langford is a studious, quiet, 'I'm-busy-reading' sort of man...
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"I hate those chandeliers," Arabella said. "They have to go."
They were strolling through a ballroom, their shoes making slapping noises. Rain pattered against the stained-glass windows. Arabella was dressed in a black dress and a sparkly blazer today, and her bangles clattered as she pointed upwards.
"That one," she said, "should be illegal."
Louise jotted this down in her notebook. "Replace chandeliers. Noted."
Arabella frowned. Or, at least, Louise thought she frowned; the other woman's skin never seemed to wrinkle. "And can we switch out that tapestry?"
Louise followed her gaze to what was, admittedly, a rather ugly tapestry of a foul-faced devil eating a screaming human. She scribbled in the notebook again.
"Of course," Louise said. "Consider it gone."
Behind them, the venue coordinator cleared his throat. He'd been doing that on occasion whenever Arabella commented on the cobwebs, or pointed out that the garden would need to be fenced to keep in the albino flamingos. Louise and Arabella had come to a swift, silent understanding to ignore him.
Arabella slowed by the exit. Glanced at the floor. "I hate to be picky, but is there any way we can replace this flooring? It's just so outdated." She tilted her head. "I'd much prefer a lighter wood. Think herringbone Oak."
"I'm sure we can do something," Louise murmured, wondering where the hell she was meant to source this much herringbone Oak, and how she could convince the venue to install it within eight weeks.
Arabella continued out to the garden, chattering about place settings and her Aunt Belinda as the venue coordinator hurried forward with a navy green umbrella. Louise's phone chimed. One text from Ben.
Need to work late — can you grab the kids today?
Louise frowned, pausing at the top of the stone steps. Irritation flicked through her. Not because Ben had asked her to get the kids — she understood that he had to work late sometimes, particularly on Wednesdays — but because it was the third time this week. She wedged her notebook under her arm, tapping out a reply.
I have that fashion show, remember?
The launch of a gym wear brand that made leggings out of seaweed fibre, to be specific; it had been on their shared calendar for weeks.
Her phone dinged immediately. I really can't make it out of the office before 7 tonight. Please, Bentley?
Louise nibbled her lip. Weighed up her options. Could she call Ophelia to watch the kids? No; she was visiting Andrew's mother in Cornwall. She could hire a babysitter via a service, Louise supposed, but that felt risky without some prior research and an interview. Could she take the kids to the fashion show?
She pictured Vienna gleefully streaking down the runway, knocking over models like bowling pins, and grimaced.
