the scowly-woman-with-no-name could be out to sabotage things. Well, in that case, I’ll just have to make sure I pull out all the stops because I’m determined to make this the best regatta Mulberry has ever seen. There’s no way I’m letting the scowly-woman-with-no-name ruin it, and I’m definitely, definitely not showing Tom up in front of his mother, or jeopardising his chances to open another store. It means the world to him to demonstrate his business acumen. He really wants to take Carrington’s to the next level, grow the business, and I don’t want anything to spoil that, especially if we really are to have a proper future together. Isabella would be my mother-in-law, which means as her daughter-in-law I would want to be the best one she ever did have. I love Tom, I adore him, so I’d want Isabella to adore me, for us to get on brilliantly, have shopping days and spa weekends together, that kind of thing – be the daughter she never had. I could even call her mum, if she liked. Not that she’d ever replace Mum, but you know what I mean. It could be lovely. Mmm, I mull it all over. I’d be a part of something magical, a proper family, an Italian dynasty – Tom has loads of aunts, uncles and cousins. And family friends, too, who he’s known for years. I’ve never really had that – when Dad went to prison, everyone faded away, apart from Sam and her dad Alfie.
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.
5
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
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.
5
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
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