Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (11 page)

‘Welcome to Tharnham Hall! Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’

‘That would be lovely.’ I take one from the proffered tray.

‘Brilliant, thank you,’ Piers chips in, taking the other flute.

This is a much better start to the tour than the hideous one we’ve just had at Pelsley Castle. Tharnham Hall might be more of a grand house than a castle, but it’s better than Pelsley already.

Once we’d finally got Piers to stop coughing – he seems much better now, though he is still adamant it was an annoying tickle from the dust – we continued on our soulless tour of Pelsley Castle which only seemed to demonstrate to me that you must be extremely mad if you are willing to pay that much for a clinical and impersonal wedding there. You aren’t allowed to do anything to jazz up the Great Hall and inject a little happiness into the place, not unless you’re willing to pay the surcharge for an “off menu” wedding as they term it.

At a cost of twenty grand minimum for a wedding in the King’s Pantry, we’d be looking at a staggering fifty grand, minimum, to snag the Great Hall. You think we’d be allowed to have whatever colour scheme we want without having to pay a three grand fine to pick a colour that’s not from their five-colour approved list. Yes,
seriously
.

I’m actually relieved that their next available weekend date is three years down the line because Piers was, madly, quite keen on the place. I really do question his taste sometimes.

I’m hoping that Tharnham Hall is going to be the polar opposite to what we experienced at Pelsley Castle or, sod it, Piers and I are going to elope. Going on first impressions, I get the feeling that it is.

It’s a slightly newer building than Pelsley, built in 1442 as opposed to 1414, but Tharnham Hall is stunning and feels homely, despite its stone walls. Originally a keep and gatehouse, it was converted into a manor house to become the childhood home of Edynfed Brackenbury, the Tudor explorer who, despite his lack of fame now, actually inspired Francis Drake. History let poor Edynfed down as barely anyone knows his name now – sorry Edynfed.

A tiny moat surrounds the main building and Violet, the events planner here, takes us across the drawbridge over the empty moat so that we can take in Tharnham from the outside. She looks a lot nicer than the awful Veronica, and not just because I quite like the simple black tunic dress she is wearing with a black and white striped cropped jacket and matching stripy pointy flats. Got to love a woman who can coordinate.

‘Although Tharnham is called Tharnham Hall, you would be forgiven for thinking it’s a mini castle because of the moat, drawbridge and turrets,’ Violet chuckles. ‘It’s actually a moated manor house if you want to get technical but, whatever you call it, you have to admit it’s a pretty impressive way to enter a building.’

I can picture myself arriving in a sleek vintage car, making my way over the drawbridge and into the manor to become Mrs Piers Bramley. I have to refrain from squealing out loud, but the grin on my face expresses my joy.

‘Why isn’t it a castle?’ Piers asks.

Uh-oh, I don’t like his tone. Why does it matter if it’s not
technically
a castle?

‘Basically, experts argue about what
exactly
constitutes a castle, but most agree that it has to be a fortified building, and it has to have been lived in by a lord or noble person. Tharnham was lived in by the Brackenbury family for six generations. They were pretty well-off, but weren’t actually titled or nobles,’ Violet explains. ‘This is why the original Tharnham Hall is considered to be quite a small manor house as most of what you can see was built by the Gilke family in the 18th century.’

‘It’s not authentic?’

Something about this building is putting Piers off, and I need to quash this issue he has with technical terms before it sours his view further.

‘It looks pretty authentic to me!’ I chip in before Violet can answer Piers. ‘Now, do you want to carry me across the drawbridge, or shall I walk?’

He doesn’t carry me, but it gets a smile out of him as we cross over the drawbridge, admiring the ivy-clad stone walls as we enter the courtyard.

‘We won’t linger outside,’ Violet says, and I’m grateful because there is a nip in the air and I stupidly left my coat in the car. ‘Let me take you to the kitchen where most of our civil ceremonies take place.’

‘She expects us to get married in a
kitchen
?’ Piers sneers at me, in a not-so-quiet voice. ‘Seriously?’

‘Don’t be such a snob,’ I hiss, whacking him on the arm as we follow Violet inside and take a right turn down a low-lit corridor. What
is
his problem?

‘Well, now you know how it was for me with your little remarks about Pelsley every two minutes. See how you like a taste of your own medicine.’

Ouch. What is with Piers? I suspect this has more to do with my suggestion that he sees a doctor about his cough than his dislike of Tharnham. I agree that Pelsley is more of a proper castle with a magnificent Great Hall and is steeped in history in a way that Tharnham never could be, but Tharnham feels warm and inviting and is a place I can see myself getting married in... unlike Pelsley.

I know he doesn’t mean this though, that his short-temper is down to him feeling ill, but it’s still hurtful. We’re here to scope out potential venues for our
wedding
, of all things. It can’t be a good sign when you’re viewing wedding venues with your fiancé and you’re wondering why you ever agreed to marry him in the first place... OK, OK, I don’t mean that, but he is killing my enthusiasm for this place, which is not acceptable as it’s
gorgeous
.

‘Go and sit in the car if you don’t want to be here!’ I snap, then hurry to catch up with Violet. If Piers wants to follow me, he can, but sod him if not! I’ll look around Tharnham myself and he can do what he likes.

‘And here we go!’ She swings open the heavy oak door to reveal a heavenly room, decked out in wood.

Piers comes up behind me and squeezes my arm as I walk into the room, which I know is his silent way of saying sorry for his outburst.

Walnut panelling and intricately designed columns give the room a classical feel, whilst several silver chandeliers containing real candles light up the space. I had been worried with the dark corridor – who wants a flash constantly going off when the wedding photos are being taken – but the high windows brighten the room and help to offset the dark wood.

‘I said it was the kitchens, which is what it would have been in Tudor times, but the Gilke family converted this into the Inner Hall.’

‘It’s stunning,’ I say. OK, it’s kind of small, but it’s intimate and I could totally see Piers and I getting married in this room.

We could fit around fifty seats in here, which is more than enough people for the ceremony. I get that he wants to invite his clients, but can’t they just come to the evening do? I don’t really want strangers watching me get married, whereas the evening bit is more of a party, a more acceptable part for them to attend.

I look at Piers hopefully, and he squeezes my hand in response. That felt like a positive squeeze!

‘Of course,’ Violet continues with a twinkle in her eye. ‘If you’ve got an Inner Hall, then you’ve got a Great Hall.’

She walks across the room and opens the door at the opposite end to us, a great big grin on her face. She genuinely looks like she loves her job.

Hand-in-hand, Piers and I walk towards her.

‘I love this moment,’ Violet says. ‘I’ll give you two lovebirds some time alone to have a look around yourself.’

We walk through the solid oak door into the Great Hall, and I’m speechless at what I see. By the expression on Piers’ face, he is too. I think we’ve found our wedding venue.

‘I’ve been to a ball at Tharnham! It’s beautiful there, Arielle. Such a good choice.’

I beam at Tabitha. I am on a wedding high. Once we saw Tharnham’s Great Hall, we were smitten.

There was a real warmth to the Great Hall there, unlike Pelsley’s Great Hall. The rest of Tharnham Hall was also amazing. Better still, they can fit us in on our preferred date, and the cost is much lower than we expected.

Even though my parents told us not to rush into things and check out other venues, it doesn’t matter, it’s done. It’s
booked
. We will be getting married at Tharnham Hall in May 2010, and we can decorate the rooms with whatever colours we like. Take that, Pelsley Castle, and the hideous Veronica. Ha!

‘You’ll come, of course? I know that we won’t be getting married for another two years so you won’t know if you have plans, but I’d love it if you could make it,’ I rush out. ‘You were such a help with my dress, and I can’t thank you enough for all of your help with the pop-up. I really appreciate it, Tabitha, and I’d love for you to be there celebrating with us.’

OK, shush now, Arielle. Stop being such a weird fan girl.

Tabitha though, doesn’t think anything of it. ‘I’d love to! Thank you so much for asking me – it’d be an honour.’

Although I do think she is genuinely thrilled to be asked, she seems a little sad.

‘Are you OK?’

‘It’s nothing.’ She shrugs at me. ‘Ever the wedding guest, never the bride...’ she tries to quip, but it falls a little flat. 

What do I say to that? I know that she’s had her fair share of heartache in her life, and more than her fair share of kiss-and-tell stories in the tabloids, but she’s never told me any of this. How can I be sympathetic without revealing that I’ve read all about her in the tabloids and gossip magazines? Heck, I’m ashamed to admit that before I got to know Tabitha, I might have even believed some of the more outlandish stories...

‘It’s none of my business, but if you ever want to talk about this,’ I say carefully, ‘I’m a really good listener.’

She waves her hand dismissively, slipping back into her cool and confident demeanour as she shuffles through my notes that are in front of her.

Tabitha today is wearing a pair of black velvet skinny trousers, teamed with a delicate hot pink cashmere jumper and an over-sized scarf. She’s shoeless, but has on the most snug-looking pair of socks that she confessed she knitted herself. I wouldn’t have had her down as a knitter, but it’s becoming quite the trendy hobby. Who knew?

I’m wearing my current favourite jeans, a pair of mid-wash Étoile Isabel Marant jeans – I wish she’d open a store in London, though it gives me an excuse to go to Paris – and I’m also wearing a cashmere sweater. Mine is “thunder blue” in colour, which is essentially a dark navy colour. I don’t know how they come up with some colour names because they can be faintly ridiculous. The other colour choice this sweater came in was “372” which you’d think would be Pantone 372, a green colour, but the sweater was a burnt orange colour. Fashion, huh? There’ll be some wanky story behind it.

‘Oh, ignore me,’ Tabitha says. ‘I’m just being silly. Now,’ she says brightly, which I know is a false brightness. ‘Let’s have a look at your marketing plan.’

We aired out the details of the pop-up this morning, before lunch, and it’s all set to launch in April. Although that’s the month after next, it’s only five weeks away as it’s March this weekend. I have a lot to do, and very little time to do it in.

I’m hosting it upstairs, in the studio, but I will have a small display downstairs where customers of the café can find out about it and hopefully feel inspired enough to head upstairs and spend some cash.

Most of our footfall will be through the marketing, which is what I’m most nervous about discussing. Sure, I loosely understand public relations and how I read about things in
Vogue
because a company has chatted with journalists or sent them press releases and samples, but I don’t really get how
I
can make that happen. If I managed to get through to an actual journalist, I fear they’d laugh and hang up on me.

Luckily Tabitha is a dab hand at this sort of thing, although she is worried it’s too close to our launch date to make a big splash. She reckons the novelty factor might get us a last minute inclusion in the magazines, plus she will call in a few favours and get the pop-up in the showbiz pages of the key newspapers.

‘Honestly, Tabitha,’ I say. ‘You’ve done more than enough letting me host the pop-up here without helping me with everything else. I know you’re really busy, so if you do need to be doing other things, feel free to turf me out!’

I hope she doesn’t, of course, but I can’t take advantage of her. She’s getting nothing out of this – she pulled me the sternest look when I tried to talk to her about her overheads and me contributing some money towards them – but I know without her help that this wouldn’t be happening.

Tabitha suggested that each day the pop-up is on, the stock should be different to the previous day. I’m nervous because I have no real idea how much stock is left in the shop in Bournemouth, or whether we even have enough left to do that. It’s going to be sent to London the weekend after next. The store officially closes that Saturday afternoon and we’ll be having a small goodbye party afterwards. Tabitha reckons that there will be enough stock to make the pop-up a tidy profit – I envy her optimism, but Felicity thought so, too.

Keen to remove the Etta-factor, we got Felicity involved in discussions on Skype. Thank goodness she knows how to use it, even if she peered into her webcam with great suspicion like we were forcing her to do something seriously uncouth. She’s happy with the plan, Tabitha’s happy, and I’m happy. Tick, tick, tick!

OK, I’m terrified, but I know that the pop-up is the right thing to do to get rid of the stock, and then I need to take a business course or something if I honestly want to make Arielle’s happen in London. I can’t afford to make a mistake like Camden again, and I know from my experiences over the past few months that I’m simply not ready to dive into a business, especially in London where the rent for shops is so high. It’s going to be a very expensive mistake if I mess up again. The pop-up can be a trial run, help me to get to know the London market, and then I can take it from there.

‘It’s my pleasure, Arielle. Honestly, I love working on this with you. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. I’ve really missed doing it.’

‘I didn’t know you did fashion stuff?’

‘Not officially, but I used to help Ramone out when he first graduated from Central Saint Martins. I helped him to position his graduation collection, and then I worked with him when he got his deal.’

‘Why did you stop?’ I ask, which causes Tabitha to wince. I wish I’d never asked.

‘He hit the big time,’ she says almost apologetically, ‘and I became something of a tabloid interest, for absolutely no reason other than who my parents are and who their siblings are. We decided it would be safer for Ramone’s career if we weren’t associated with one another, and that’s when I opened Tabi’s. I was floating around London, not doing very much, and luckily for me my godmother was very generous,’ she explains.

‘She set me up here, pushed me to turn it into a pampering retreat, but I ignored her and kept it in the food industry.’ She laughs, patting her flat tummy. ‘I much prefer food to beauty treatments, still do, but I didn’t have a clue what I was doing! I guess I’m lucky that I had the financial freedom to learn on the job.’

‘Which is something I don’t have,’ I say darkly, before realising that I’m inferring something bad about Tabitha. ‘I mean–’

‘No, it’s a valid point. Don’t apologise!’ Tabitha interrupts me.
She’s too nice.
‘I’m glad I can get involved with this. Ramone is such a superstar nowadays that he doesn’t need my help, or the exposure I can give him from wearing his creations, and it’s nice to be doing something different. It keeps my mind off things.’  

I wonder what she means by that? I did see in... No, no, Arielle. It is not nice to read gossip magazines about your friends. If Tabitha wanted to tell me what’s on her mind, then she would tell me. I should not read about them or try and guess what they are. What sort of a person would that make me, what sort of a
friend
?

‘Anyway,’ Tabitha says, reaching over and taking her laptop off standby. ‘Shall I show you what I mean about bloggers? I think they could be very useful for generating some positive word-of-mouth.’

I smile at Tabitha. ‘That would be brilliant,’ I say, even though I’ve not quite fathomed out what a blogger is, or what exactly she means by word-of-mouth.