Ice Creams at Carrington’s (7 page)
Georgie Carrington! Mrs Georgina Carrington. Oooh, it has a nice ring to it, or would I keep my own name? Lots of women do, so how about Georgina Hart-Carrington? Hmm, or perhaps Tom could change his name – some men do. Mr Tom Hart … anyway, whatever happens, I have to say the thought of actually being Tom’s wife is a pretty spectacular prospect, something wonderful to look forward to. I just need to show Isabella what a brilliant match I am for her son because, let’s face it, having a mother-in-law who has ‘issues’ with you is bound to ruin things in the long term. And it’s not like I could ever talk to Tom about it, I’m not even sure I’d want to put him in that position, stuck in the middle, and from what I’ve seen so far, they’re very close – they chat on the phone practically every day. I couldn’t expect him to choose between us, or anything silly like that. No, the sooner Isabella gets to know me properly and see what I’m capable of, the better. And where better to start than by organising a magnificent regatta, which in turn will show my support, not only to the Carrington business, but to the Carrington family too.
I
make it to the town hall with just five minutes to spare after getting caught up on a Skype call with the editor from the magazine – she wanted to chat a bit more about my new idea for a
What’s In Your Handbag
piece for next week. It’s Nicole Scherzinger and it’s going to be
shamazing
for sure. Her people were very generous in supplying a list detailing the contents of her designer bag.
‘If you’re here for the regatta meeting then you’d better get a move on.’ There’s an enormous desk just inside the door with two security men in black uniforms lounging behind it. The older one with the bushy grey hair and the lovely
Corrie
accent stands up. ‘You’re the last one, duck,’ he says with a smile. ‘Second on the right.’ I head in the direction of his pointing finger.
‘Thank you,’ I breathe, pulling my scarf off as I go – it’s like a sauna in here. I find the room and push through the double doors.
‘Ahh, here she is, the famous Georgie Hart from Carrington’s department store.’ Oh God, it’s the scowly-woman-with-no-name standing on a stage with a pen poised. She snaps up a clipboard and gives it a big firm tick before treating me to an extra-special scowl.
‘Hello,’ I mouth, giving her my best eyes-and-teeth grin, figuring it best to kill her with kindness – Mum swore by it, and that old adage that you ‘catch more flies with honey than vinegar’. She pretends not to have noticed, so I scan the room instead. There must be at least twenty people in here, sitting on plastic chairs in rows, and they’re all staring at me.
‘Um, hi. Hello.’ I do a feeble little wave but nobody reciprocates, so for some ridiculous reason, I quickly add, ‘Sorry I’m late.’ I glance over at the wall clock opposite and there are still five minutes to go before the meeting officially starts, so why on earth am I apologising? But they all look so serious.
I spot an empty seat, right in the front row and opposite the stage. I dive into it, grateful to be out of the spotlight, but conscious of the scowly woman’s beady eye boring down into me.
‘Right, so where were we?’ she huffs, rustling her papers excessively, as if to labour the point of my perceived lateness.
‘You were saying how important punctuality is, given that we don’t have an awful lot of time left to organise the event. Every second counts!’ someone behind me pipes up.
‘Yes, that’s right, and if you could all pay attention too. We really do have our work cut out if we’re to pull this off within just a few months. To be honest, it’s more or less going to be impossible, but then, what could we do?’ The scowly woman sighs and shakes her head, clearly exasperated. ‘We only got the go-ahead last week – one of the biggest sponsors did keep us waiting
rather
a long time …’ She harrumphs a bit more before shooting me another look.
‘Carrington’s,’ someone mutters. Oh, this just gets better. So I’m the reason the pressure is on. I make a mental note to talk to Tom later to find out exactly what’s been going on.
‘Right, let’s get on with it. We’ve done the introductions – Georgie, I’m Meredith, Mr Dunwoody’s personal secretary, as you already know. You’ll have to catch up with everyone else later.’ Cue another sniffy look, this time accompanied by a pointy finger.
Hmm, so who made her the boss of us?
‘So, quick recap, we know Mulberry Yacht Club is in charge of all the sailing events and races; they’ll be organising the entry forms, legalities and brochures too, detailing the programme of events. Now, as a quick aside – if any of you would like to place a business advert in the brochure, then please speak to Bob, the harbour master.’ Meredith points to a rosy-cheeked guy in a chunky-knit Aran sweater who leaps up and waves both hands above his head like he’s air traffic control marshalling a jumbo jet into landing.
Steady on!
‘But in your own time, please!’ She coughs. ‘This leaves us to sort out the stalls and fun events, which will take place around the marina’s perimeter and on either side of Wayfarer Way, the main road from the town centre, taking in the market square and leading on to the marina.’
‘But what about the new industrial estate?’ a guy behind me heckles.
‘What about it?’ Meredith says, officiously.
‘Seems all the action is in town, so none of the regatta visitors are going to bother with us and I’m only here to see about drumming up more business,’ the guy huffs, before muttering something about his new indoor amusement arcade that’s ‘right next door to Asda so you’d think it’d be heaving’, but is ridiculously quiet. He stands up, causing his chair to make a hideous scraping sound across the floor, before shoving his hands in his pockets and lumbering off.
‘So, any more ideas?’ Meredith dismisses, seemingly unfazed as the arcade guy lets the door slam behind him. A few people stick up their hands, but Meredith just keeps on talking. ‘The various youth groups – Brownies, Guides, Scouts, Sea Cadets, etc., are already busy organising floats for the carnival procession, which will parade through town ahead of the official opening of the regatta. And in addition to this marvellous event, we’ve come up with …’ She pauses to refer to her clipboard, ‘Yes, that’s right – beer tent, tombola, welly throwing, lucky dip, wet sponge throwing at the mayor, guess the name of the teddy bear …’
Oh, God help us.
‘Donkey rides?’ someone at the back shouts out.
OK, a bit better.
I make a mental note to cross that idea off my list.
‘Don’t forget the mini-music festival.’ This is much more like it. I glance along my row to see who is speaking – it’s a guy with a Bob Marley T-shirt and a big boffin beard.
‘Hmm, a bit ambitious …’ Meredith shakes her head and actually sucks in air, like a plumber denouncing the state of a broken washing machine – I half expect her to launch into a long, boring explanation of what actually constitutes ‘ambitious’ too! But luckily, Bob Marley jumps in instead.
‘Not at all. The radio station has all the equipment and we’ve already got confirmation from a few local bands. But what we really need is a big name to headline …’
Ah, I bet he’s from Mulberry FM. How exciting.
‘Well, let’s not get too hasty, I’m not sure everyone wants—’ Meredith starts, before she’s interrupted by the woman sitting next to me, wearing a leopard-print bomber jacket and denim skinnies, who has the biggest treacle-coloured beehive I’ve ever seen.
‘Oooh, I don’t know, I reckon people love a good knees-up, and we’re always rammed on band night,’ she says in a cracking cockney accent.
‘That may be the case in the …’ Meredith pauses again to check her notes.
‘The Hook, Line and Sinker,’ the beehive woman prompts. ‘It’s a new pub, and we’re right at the entrance to the marina. Oooh, I’ve got an idea!’ A short silence follows.
‘Do enlighten us, dear, we’re not exactly time rich,’ Meredith says in a monotone voice as she glances at the wall clock.
‘Weeeell,’ the woman starts, sounding really excited. ‘We’d be perfect to host the mini-music festival. Our beer garden backs out directly onto the beach, and we could rope off a section and install a stage.’
Fab, this is much more like it
. ‘Music and beer on tap, what’s not to love?’ She claps her hands together, seemingly pleased with the plan.
‘Yes, err, Beryl is it?’ Meredith purses her lips.
‘Cheryl, love. But you can call me Cher, everyone does. I’m the landlady.’
‘Hmm, well, OK, err … Cher. But it’s not as simple as just roping off a bit of the beach. You do need to have a proper public performance licence, not to mention that there are all kinds of health and safety laws to adhere to – it really could get quite tricky to manage,’ Meredith continues, tilting her head to one side, and talking as if she’s placating a toddler.
‘No problem, I have that all in place,’ Cher beams, twiddling a finger around the inside of her massive gold hoop earring.
‘And any rubber-stamping will be made a priority, of course.’ A guy in a suit sitting at the end of my row jumps in. ‘Plus I’d like to take this opportunity to assure you all that parking will be free across all of the town’s car parks for the duration of the regatta, and we’ll be liaising with the police, St John Ambulance, etc., and setting up the usual services – mobility scooter hire, children’s security wristbands, etc. And I’m personally in charge of sorting out the Red Arrows – they always go down a treat.’ He pauses. ‘Well, err, not literally of course, because that would be catastrophic. No, a crash landing really wouldn’t do … eek!’ He pulls a face and shrugs apologetically before sitting back down.
‘That’s Matt from the council – he’s all right though,’ Cher whispers, leaning into me. I smile – she seems really nice. Glancing along the row, I catch Matt’s eye and he gives me a welcoming nod. Perhaps this will still be fun, after all.
‘Just need a proper pop star now,’ the Mulberry FM guy says.
‘I might be able to help with that,’ I suggest, eager to do my bit.
‘Oh?’ Meredith quips.
‘He’s not really a mainstream pop star, though.’ Silence follows. I’m sensing they’re not impressed, but hold on, there’s more. ‘Yes, the person I have in mind is a Mulberry local too. He’s a country singer and mega-famous. I’m sure he’ll help out if he can,’ I add, sensing a bit of excitement in the room now – people behind me are whispering and fidgeting.
‘Is it Dan Kilby by any chance?’ the Mulberry FM guy asks hopefully, and the whispering gets louder.
‘Yes, that’s him, do you know him too?’ I ask, leaning forward.
‘No, not personally. I’m Jared, by the way,’ he smiles.
‘Nice to meet you, Jared,’ I grin back.
‘I’ve tried to get him into the station a few times for a live on-air interview, but never quite managed to bring it all together. He’s definitely a crowd-puller, though; everyone loves him. It would be awesome, and real kudos for Mulberry, and Carrington’s too, if you really could pull it off and get him to agree to a live set.’
‘I’d better make the call right away then – probably best to give him as much notice as possible.’ I pull a pad and pen from my bag – once I had finished with my clients in the VIP suite earlier today, I popped downstairs to Stationery and bought four A4 notepads, a box file, a gorgeous soft brown leather pencil case, a bumper pack of multicoloured Post-it notes and a selection of different-coloured pens. I love stationery – who doesn’t? Plus, I thought it best to be properly organised in any case. Taking a red pen from my pencil case, I add ‘Call Dan’ to my ‘Immediate things to do’ list, and then do a squiggle around it with a turquoise mini-highlighter – I’ve got a combination of colour codes for all my tasks, ranging from green to red, depending on urgency and level of importance to Carrington’s.
‘The budget is limited, though – we can only cover travel and refreshments, I’m afraid,’ Matt says, making a sorry face.
‘But the radio station would be happy to cover modest additional expenses for someone as high profile as Dan,’ Jared adds.
‘And I reckon I could get budget from the Carrington’s board – they really are keen for this to be a huge success,’ I say, knowing how important it is for Carrington’s to foster good relationships within the community. I’m sure I can get Tom to organise a bit of extra money if necessary. I make a mental note to call Dan first thing tomorrow morning. If I can get him involved, then that will get me off to a flying start, not only with the rest of the committee, but with Isabella too. She’s bound to be impressed by my A-list connection – I bet her fancy-pants party planner, Sebastian, doesn’t know Dan Kilby personally. Oh no!
‘Hold on. How do you even know Mr Kilby?’ Meredith says in an incredulous voice.
‘Well, he and I, err …’ I pause, wondering just how much I should divulge – things were shaky between Tom and me at the time. It was right at the start, we hadn’t been seeing each other properly for very long, and then Tom disappeared to Paris. I thought he had dumped me and was getting engaged to an old flame – and then with my two-and-two-makes-five thing thrown into the mix … well, luckily it all turned out to be a massive misunderstanding, but that’s a whole other story. Anyway, Kelly the retail guru set it up – a showmance, if you like. ‘Dan was involved in the TV show too,’ I finish lamely, not really wanting to talk about my convoluted love life in this very public forum. I had enough of being in the media spotlight when I was a reluctant reality TV star, with my ‘highlights’ plastered all over YouTube every week.
‘Oh, that’s right. I remember the episode – loved it! You were dressed up proper classy, and that Dan is a real dish,’ Cher says, swivelling in her seat so the people in the back rows can hear her too. I hold my breath, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut now; and I can already see Meredith pursing her lips disapprovingly. ‘He snogged you on the bandstand, a proper Hollywood film kiss it was too.
Sooo
romantic.’ I open my mouth, but before I can explain that the kiss was just for show (Dan had spotted a pap lurking nearby with a long-lens camera), Cher continues, ‘You must pop into the pub one night and have a drink on me.’