Don’t tell the Boss Read online

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Acknowledgements

  12 Facts about Anna Bell

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2014 Anna Bell

  Nadia Serif font copyright © 2011 by Nadia Knechtle

  Armata font copyright © 2011 by Sorkin Type Co

  Ruge Boogie font copyright © 2011 by TypeSETit, LLC

  The moral right of Anna Bell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  PB ISBN 978 1 84866 366 4

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 84866 367 1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:dpgroup

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Anna Bell is a full-time writer and writes the weekly column ‘The Secret Dreamworld of An Aspiring Author’ on the website Novelicious. She loves nothing more than going for walks with her husband and Labrador.

  For Mum and John

  Thank you for always encouraging

  me to follow my dreams

  chapter one

  princess-on-a-shoestring top tips:

  Keep Calm and Carry On

  Buttonholes breaking, visible panty-lines, the groom’s ever increasing underarm sweat patches – whatever drama happens on your big day put it in perspective and think of the bigger picture. I’ve never been to a wedding where I’ve thought ‘ooh that flower’s half-cocked’ and, even if I did at the time, it wasn’t a lasting memory. You’ve got to ask yourself whether the wonky buttonhole/VPL/sweat patches are going to stop you or the groom saying your vows. Unless the smell of the sweat makes you faint, then I’m guessing the answer is no. In short – don’t worry about the small stuff. As long as you get your names right and you say ‘I do’, then that’s all that’s important on your wedding day.

  Tags: wedding, sweat, top tips

  I can’t believe it’s almost twenty past eleven. Where the hell is she? I know that brides are supposed to be late, and I know I can’t really talk as my wedding didn’t exactly start on time, but still, I’m beginning to feel a tad claustrophobic. This table was not designed to have people hiding under it. To be honest, it’s so small I don’t think it was designed for much of anything.

  Now, I don’t usually go around hiding under tables, but I have a very vital role as music maestro at this wedding. I’ve got to put the music on for the bride to walk down the aisle to. Lara and Ben are tying the knot in a registry office, and one of the bride’s stipulations was that she didn’t want the ceremony to appear amateur or awkward. I was under strict instructions that the music should start seamlessly, without anyone obviously having pressed play. So my job is to fade it up when she walks in and fade it down once she reaches the front. I reckon even I can manage that.

  The only problem is that I didn’t pick my hiding place very well. This table is ridiculously tiny and my legs are starting to tremble. Perhaps I should have hidden behind the heavy silk draped curtains. At least then I wouldn’t have dead legs. And, also, I might have been able to catch a sneaky glimpse of the bride as she came in. From where I am now, I’m going to be lucky if I manage to see her shoes underneath the tablecloth.

  But don’t worry; at least I know what I’m looking for. I’ve already seen the bride’s shoes, and her dress. In fact, I’ve seen all the elements of this wedding before. You see; I planned it.

  ‘Where is she, Penny?’ hisses Ben.

  I’m clearly not the only one wondering where the bride is. From behind the tablecloth, I see the groom, who has crouched down to fiddle with his shoelace.

  ‘Don’t worry, brides are supposed to be late,’ I whisper in as calming a voice as I can muster.

  ‘I bloody hope she’s coming.’

  ‘She is. Of course she is.’

  A woman like Lara, who has talked of nothing but this day practically twenty-four/seven for the last few weeks, wouldn’t not turn up. In fact, she’s been ringing me all week worried that Ben wouldn’t show up. She thought he and his best man would get so drunk the night before that he wouldn’t make it up the aisle. That was why I was despatched from wedding HQ at Lara’s mum’s house at eight a.m. to go and wake him up, and make sure he arrived on time.

  Lara was right to be worried. When I got to Ben’s this morning, he looked like he was auditioning for the role of a Neanderthal. After a shower, shave and some industrial-strength mouthwash, he started to look like a hopeful cause though, and with each hour that has passed he’s looked less like a vampire and more like a fully functioning human being.

  I don’t know if that’s really in the job description of a wedding planner, although I’m sure you’ve already guessed from my rookie mistake of hiding under a table that I’m not an actual card-carrying one. I’m just a girl who works in HR who agreed to plan this as a one-off. I’m a tad obsessed with weddings; it started when I was planning my own to my now-husband Mark. To feed my need for wedding fixes now that I don’t have my own to think about, I write a budget-bride blog. One of my blog readers begged me to organise her wedding and I jumped at the chance.

  ‘Would everyone be upstanding for the arrival of the bride,’ says the registrar. That’s my cue! I can hear the guests rising from their seats, and Ben has finally stopped pacing like a caged tiger and he’s come to a standstill just in front of the table.

  If I can just unlock the iPod, and press play, the sound of ‘Halo’ by Beyoncé should be playing any second now. Any second NOW, I scream in my head. The iPod seems to be playing, but no sound is coming out. I tested this when we got in the room and it worked just fine. After all, Mark has taught me well about the seven ps; Prior Preparation and Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. How could it have gone wrong already?

  The registrar is clearing her throat noisily, presumably for my benefit, but it’s just adding to my nerves. My fingers are now so wet with sweat that they’re sliding over the touchscreen of the iPod. And then, to my relief, with just a hint of a crackle through the speakers the song suddenly bursts through. Now I’ll be able to relax as the bride glides up the aisle and soon everyone wil
l be gasping at how beautiful she looks. It’s a shame I can’t see their faces, but I can imagine them.

  Wait, is that laughter I can hear? Why are they laughing?

  Oh. My. God. That’s not ‘Halo’ playing, it’s ‘Single Ladies’. I jab violently at the iPod, but I still can’t get any grip on the touchscreen.

  Maybe Lara could style it out. You know, walk up the aisle doing the Beyoncé shimmy thing. I mean it’s probably more fitting than ‘Halo’ anyway; there are rings involved in today’s proceedings. It would be like we were in our very own musical where the pop songs have been shoe-horned into a story that doesn’t make a lot of sense. All we need to happen is for Ben to theatrically put the ring on Lara’s finger when she reaches him.

  Thoughts of Lara doing the trademark Beyoncé shaking with her voluptuous G-cup chest and rather plunging neckline suddenly pop into my head. That would not be good. On second thoughts, perhaps it isn’t such a good idea for Lara to style it out.

  ‘Um, Penny,’ says the registrar from very close to me. The side of the tablecloth is lifted and I see Deborah’s beady eyes looking at me.

  ‘I’m trying to fix it,’ I say through gritted teeth as I attempt to sit upright, banging my head. Ouch, I bite down hard on my lip so I don’t swear. I think people have probably sussed by now I’m under the table, I don’t think I need to draw any more attention to myself.

  Finally, I click on ‘Halo’ and the beats from ‘Single Ladies’ are replaced with some proper gliding music. I can hear everyone murmuring, and the hum of camera flashes tell me the bride is finally walking up the aisle. Whilst everyone is enjoying this beautiful moment, I’m freaking out that I’m never going to be able to turn the volume down in a swift fading action.

  The registrar clears her throat again, in what I can only describe as a phlegmy smoker way. I take a deep breath as this is the pre-agreed signal for me to turn down the music. Here it goes. Much to my relief, the music goes quiet. I’m usually not a fan of silence, but right now it sounds like the best thing I’ve ever heard.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, you may take your seats,’ says the registrar. ‘We are here to celebrate the love of Lara and Robert as they embark on their journey to join themselves in marriage.’

  Uh, hang on, Robert? Who the hell is Robert? I can hear a ripple of laughter echoing round the room.

  ‘Who’s Robert? Lara, anything you want to tell me?’ asks Ben.

  ‘Of course not.’

  I can’t see Lara, but I can hear her voice and, boy, she does not sound impressed. First the music issue and now the name issue. This is turning out to be both amateur and awkward, the two As forbidden by Lara. I wonder if she’ll still pay me.

  ‘Oh, dear, it’s not Robert, is it?’ says the registrar.

  ‘No, try Ben,’ says Lara, sarcastically.

  ‘Ben, got it. Sorry. Right, as I was saying, we are here to celebrate the love of Lara and BEN,’ says the registrar, practically shouting it out.

  Blimey, hopefully if I don’t mess up the rest of my musical duties, then people will remember this faux pas rather than mine.

  I soon tune out the voice of the registrar as she starts the marriage ceremony. All I have to do now is wait until it is all over and then play Jason Mraz as the happy couple walk back down the aisle. After that, I’ve got to oversee the photographs, deposit the bride, groom and the guests in the restaurant, and after that my duties as supreme-wedding-planning-goddess will be over. Then I have to get back to my actual day job.

  It’s sad to think that this is the last time I’ll plan a wedding. It’s been so much fun. More so than my own, because it wasn’t planned around a lie. I wanted to have a massive princess wedding and I lost £10,000 on internet bingo trying to win enough money to make my dream come true. And, stupidly, instead of confessing to Mark, I planned the wedding in the style of Don’t Tell the Bride. Poor old Mark was in the dark about everything; not the best way to start a marriage.

  Although hiding my gambling habit might have been the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, the upside was that I organised an amazing wedding for the princely sum of £5,500. It opened up a whole new world of what was possible on a budget and led to the inspiration for my blog, Princess-on-a-Shoestring.

  The great thing is that I’ve stopped gambling, and my blog fills the empty hole it left in my life. I know it’s a cliché to set up a blog and, if I’m honest, I never expected anyone to actually read it. But you know what, they have. In the first six months of it being fully operational, Princess-on-a-Shoestring has had over 40,000 hits.

  My husband thinks it’s about time I got over my wedding obsession. Who can blame him? It led me to gamble and almost ruined our marriage before it even began. But he’s pleased that I haven’t gone back to losing money. Instead, I’m actually earning it. Not a lot, but the advertising on the site has raked in almost a hundred pounds, and I’m hoping that eventually (after many, many years) it will cancel out what I lost when I was a dirty little gambler.

  When Lara first asked me to plan her wedding I laughed, thinking she was joking, but it seemed she was deadly serious. After a bit of research, I realised that there aren’t any budget wedding planners. It’s something to do with the fact that wedding planners have minimum fees which are pretty much equal to the entire wedding budget for cash-challenged brides. So I agreed to do Lara’s wedding for a flat fee of £500. Not the best business model in the world, but it’s only a oneoff. I promised Mark that it would be. He was worried that I’d become addicted to planning weddings and then it would take over what little free time I had at home and he’d never see me. I couldn’t argue with that; after all, we don’t want other people’s weddings ruining our marriage.

  So far, it’s been an easy £500. Not only have I managed to help Lara stick to her budget, but we worked out that I helped save her £1,500 by negotiating discounts and getting my friend Betty to let out and adapt Lara’s mum’s wedding dress for a lot less than a professional seamstress would have charged.

  The room has erupted into clapping. Is that it? I glance down at my watch and see that it’s 11.25 a.m. Fifteen minutes, that’s all it took? Wow. And to think my wedding lasted an hour and a half. We’ll just gloss over the fact that we had a bit of a delay waiting for Mark to turn up, and then there was me fainting …

  That reminds me, I’ve got to put the music on. I unlock the iPod, select Jason Mraz and press pause. This time I’m going to be ready. The hack comes from the registrar and I press play and, thankfully, it works a treat. It’s possible I’m imagining it, but I’m sure I hear a big sigh of relief coming from Lara.

  ‘Penny, you can come out now,’ says the registrar after a couple of minutes.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ I say as I attempt to crawl out from under the table. All my muscles feel numb and I’m walking like Bambi on ice as I try and stop my legs from going into spasm.

  ‘Well, how did it go?’ I ask.

  ‘Apart from your little music cock-up?’

  ‘Apart from that,’ I say hanging my head in shame.

  ‘And my little name problem. It was fine. Lara and Robert seem like they’ll be a very happy couple.’

  ‘Lara and Ben,’ I say correcting her.

  ‘Bugger, I did it again. I hope I actually got it right during the vows or it won’t quite be legal,’ she laughs as she tidies her papers. ‘Right, I’ve got to go and meet the next couple, will you excuse me?’

  ‘Of course, nice to meet you,’ I say. I pick up the iPod and speakers and make my way out of the room.

  There in the lobby are Lara and BEN, and they look so happy. They’re posing for photos and Lara looks like a million dollars. I may have already seen the hair and makeup trial and the dress, but it hadn’t prepared me for the look when it’s all combined: she looks radiant.

  For a minute I wish it was me standing there, being admired by all and sundry on the happiest day of my life. I wonder if Mark would go for us renewing our vows, or whether he’ll
think it’s too soon. I could wear a lovely little tailored suit, something classy, and we could have it in the grounds of the museum where we had our reception.

  ‘Excuse me, are you the wedding planner?’

  I instantly snap out of my daydream and turn to the tall auburn-haired woman now standing next to me.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say as I feel my cheeks start to turn a little crimson, remembering the music disaster. ‘Ah, I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she says as she links arms with me and walks me over to the corner of the lobby. I feel like I should be on hand for Lara to help with the photographs but whoever this woman is, she’s quite forceful with her leading.

  ‘I work with Lara and she has told me all about you,’ she says, releasing me from her grip.

  ‘She has?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘Oh, yes, she has. She told me all about how you planned the lovely wedding on a …’ she leans forward before whispering, ‘… on a budget.’

  She says the word like it’s a profanity. It sounds even funnier coming from her posh, dulcet public-school-girl tones and it makes me want to giggle.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. I’m wondering where this is going.

  ‘I want you to do the same for me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m flattered, but I’m not actually a wedding planner,’ I say.

  ‘But you should be.’

  Is she joking? The sound of ‘Single Ladies’ is ringing loudly in my ears.

  ‘Were you here for the whole ceremony? You know, when the bride came in?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been here since eleven,’ says the woman.

  ‘And you heard the music?’

  ‘You mean when you played “Single Ladies”? I thought that was brilliant. Such a great little joke to lighten the mood. It unwound the groom no end. That’s exactly what I want.’

  Oh great, she wants to hire me to plan her wedding because of the comedy value I can add. I’m like a magician or balloon modeller you can buy in. It has nothing to do with the fact that I planned an awesome wedding or anything.

  ‘I want a wedding planner who can help me have a special day even if I must have, you know, a wedding on a budget,’ she says.