A Wedding in Provence

Chapter 1

‘Perfect…’

The word was a whispered sigh.

The calm before the storm.

A blink of time to appreciate that this was the dream.

A moment for Sophie Spencer to savour the satisfaction that she was the one who could wave her magic wand and make the dream come true for yet another ecstatic bride.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite the same as experiencing the joy for herself but it was as close as she was ever going to get – and what was even better, she got to do it again and again and it never got old.

It never failed to bring tears to her eyes when the groom turned to watch his bride walking towards him.

She could always feel the love in the air like a dawn mist and almost catch the promise of their future together.

There was always that heartbeat of knowing that it could have been her.

She had been that loved.

She had been that close to walking towards the man she loved.

Once upon a time.

Right now, Sophie was looking at a venue that was the epitome of a fairy-tale wedding.

A picture-postcard medieval castle – the Chateau d’Orval – nestled amongst vineyards, lavender fields and olive groves in the South of France.

Isolated enough to provide privacy for an intimate event and traditional enough to supply all the historic charm this part of the world was so famous for.

Sophie kept driving, the walls of golden stone getting closer as the wheels of her immaculately restored and beloved 1970s 2CV van crunched over the white gravel of the castle’s entranceway that was lined by an honour guard of Italian cypress trees.

This was definitely her favourite castle.

She loved the way the symmetry of the architecture was broken by seemingly random square towers and that the roofline was punctured by ornate metal finials on the spires of round turrets.

She also loved that she could rely on this stunning backdrop to be the one thing that couldn’t go wrong in a day that simply had to be perfect.

Sophie took a deliberate inward breath, gathering the strength and focus needed to face the hectic pace of the long hours ahead of her.

As the managing director of Marry Me in Provence, the ultimate responsibility for this day lay with her, and this particular wedding could very well make or break the company’s hard-won reputation as the best in the business for every aspect of destination wedding planning in this idyllic patch of the planet.

The eight million or so followers of Zara Beaumont, an American beauty and lifestyle influencer, would be hanging out for every update on their favourite social media platforms.

The car parking area for staff was already a hive of activity.

Caterers were unloading coolers, baskets of fresh produce and crates of champagne and heading in the direction of the chateau kitchens.

Closer to Sophie, buckets of white flowers and lavender were being carried from the florist’s van towards an arched gap in the neatly trimmed cypress hedging that Sophie knew led to the shady courtyard in front of an ancient chapel.

A wiry, middle-aged woman who was directing the flower carriers turned her head as Sophie stepped out of her pale lilac van.

‘Bonjour, Sophie…’ She held her hand palm up, as if she were presenting the sky. ‘Il fait beau, oui?’

‘Bonjour, Flo.’ Sophie smiled as she glanced up, pushing back a wayward curl of her hair that had already managed to escape her messy bun.

Mother Nature was clearly on board today without a single cloud marring the deepening blue of a Mediterranean summer sky.

She turned back to the florist as she caught a waft of fragrance.

Delphinium, perhaps? Or gardenias? ‘Tout va bien?’ she asked.

Florence puffed out her lips in that very French way of implying that a catastrophe could very well be imminent but she was, so far, coping. ‘Ah… tu sais.’

Sophie nodded again. She did know. Even here, in the open air, she was aware of the hum of tension that came from the culmination of endless months of planning that had to seamlessly blend so many different elements.

She could actually feel that hum inside her body. Running through her veins, in fact.

And she loved it. This was where all the hard work paid off, and the more rumples in the fabric of the day that needed ironing out the higher the level of satisfaction would be in… ooh… Sophie checked her watch, about sixteen hours’ time, when the wedding of the season wound down around midnight.

The vehicles parked in the spaces reserved for the make-up artists, hairdressers and wardrobe team were empty.

Sophie could imagine that Zara, along with her bridesmaids, was already being artfully dressed and made up to look as if she’d just tumbled out of bed, ready to mingle around the grazing board of a light, very Provencal breakfast and sip her first flute of champagne as soon as the visual content team arrived to record every moment.

With that reminder, Sophie opened a back door of her van to take the bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon from its ice bed in a cooler.

She also took a moment to adjust the sprig of fresh lavender held in place on the bottle’s neck by the perfect bow of ruffled white ribbon.

Her first task this morning was to visit the bridal suite, check that Zara had absolutely everything she needed and make her even happier with the gift of a gorgeous champagne to go with the warm, flaky croissants, figs drizzled with lavender-infused honey and scrambled eggs with shaved truffle that were amongst the local treats being offered for breakfast.

‘Miss Spencer?’

‘That’s me.’ Sophie straightened and turned to find a stranger standing beside her van.

She noticed the black painted nails first, on a hand holding an expensive-looking digital camera.

When she lifted her gaze, it was momentarily caught by a silver eyelet framing a rather large hole in an earlobe.

There was another piercing in an eyebrow.

She found a polite smile. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m Raven,’ he said, his accent – and possibly that sense of cultivated boredom – suggesting an English public-school education. ‘Raven Vale?’

‘Oh…’ Sophie nodded. The name, which was distinctive for probably not having been bestowed at birth, had been memorable. ‘You’re covering the wedding for Vogue, yes?’

‘That’s certainly one of the publications expressing interest.’ A faint smile tilted his lips.

‘I’m an independent feature editor specialising in A-list events and I was lucky enough to have contacts that got me this gig.

’ The smile faded. ‘I’m supposed to be shadowing your lead photographer – Gregory Glasson? ’

‘He’ll be parked in the visual content section.’ Sophie shaded her eyes from the sun. ‘That’s our videographer, André, beside the silver SUV, unloading his camera gear. He’ll introduce you.’

‘I’ve met him. That’s where the usher told us to park as well. André said he hasn’t heard from Greg and suggested that we came to find you.’

A tiny chill ran down Sophie’s spine. This was completely out of character for the man who had been not only her lead photographer right from the start-up of Marry Me in Provence but a mentor, with his extensive experience and that dependable, father-figure vibe.

If anything, she would have expected Greg to have been here since before dawn, capturing the silhouette of the turrets and spires against the first notes of gold and pink heralding the sunrise.

On the other hand, he must have dozens of those shots in his library given how many times they’d used this venue over the years. Why reinvent the wheel?

‘He won’t be far away,’ she assured Raven.

She already had her phone in her hand and it took only two swipes to make a call to Greg that, disturbingly, went straight to voicemail, which meant that he was either on the phone himself or his device was dead.

With a frown, she slid the phone into her pocket and picked up the bottle of champagne.

‘Come with me. I’m on my way to check in with Zara.

I’m sure Greg will be here any minute but there’s no need to panic.

André will be getting footage of the prep and it’s not a problem to lift stills from the video if we need to. ’

‘I like to take a few shots of my own, anyway.’ Raven fell into step beside her. ‘I’ll just need to get Zara’s okay if I want to use them.’

Sophie led him up a wide stone staircase on to a terrace that was being set up for the reception to one side of the chateau’s impressive main entrance.

Miles of fairy lights were being strung and dozens of chic pale oak, cross-back chairs positioned around small tables on the flagstones.

The space on the other side of the entrance was being swept and Sophie knew that the small stage under construction at the far end was for the live band that would be rocking the after-party.

Florence was on a ladder beside the enormous wooden doors, making final touches to a floral archway that framed the top of the entranceway – a delicate mix of ferns as a backdrop to white roses, peonies and gypsophila.

A woman with a long dark braid that reached her waist was reaching up to hand Florence a chain of tiny blue flowers.

‘The something blue?’ Sophie asked. ‘Hi, Tilly. I was about to call and find out where you were.’

Mathilde Pascoe was her personal assistant, expert in everything romantic and passionate about weddings but, more importantly, her closest friend.

‘These are forget-me-nots,’ Tilly said, in her perfect English, softened by the music of her French accent.

She picked up another chain to show Sophie.

‘Zara wants them woven into every floral arrangement, including her bouquet. Isn’t that adorable?

’ Her smile was so happy it was impossible not to smile back.

Until Sophie heard the whirr of a camera’s shutter beside her.

‘Don’t put me in any of your photos, please,’ Sophie’s tone was crisp as she swerved to face Raven. ‘And make sure you get written permission from anyone else. Tilly, this is Raven. He’s doing a feature, possibly for Vogue Weddings.’

‘Waouh!’ Tilly’s eyes widened.

‘It’s a lovely photo of you both.’ Raven turned the camera towards them. ‘Can I persuade you to let me put in a tiny cameo? People love the behind-the-scenes snippets and the secrets – like hidden flowers with a message.’

It was a lovely photo. The forget-me-nots were in clear focus. Sophie and Tilly were a little blurred but not enough to dim the bond evident in the smile they were sharing.

They shared another glance with the kind of silent communication they had been enhancing for years. Tilly gave a tiny shrug. It was for Sophie to choose.

‘Maybe,’ Sophie conceded. ‘But there are more important things to get on with right now. Like taking this champagne to Zara’s suite before it starts getting warm.’

It was cooler and darker as they stepped inside the ancient entrance hall to the chateau. Both Sophie and Raven blinked as their eyes adjusted to the change in light.

Raven lifted his camera to take a photograph of a stone fireplace that was filled with dozens of white candles, tall and short, fat and thin, enclosed by a lake of tealights on the hearth.

‘They’ll look even better when they’re lit up for the cocktails in here later,’ Sophie said.

‘You’ve been doing this for a long time,’ Raven said. ‘Nearly ten years?’

‘Yes.’ That anniversary would be a milestone. The ten-year anniversary that would precede it was not one that Sophie wanted to think about, however.

‘I’ve been googling you,’ Raven said as he followed her towards the foot of the grand staircase.

‘You’ve got quite a name in the wedding-planning business already.

That clever little purple van of yours with the sunflowers and lavender decals pops up first every time you add Provence and weddings into a search bar.

Covering an event that’ll be seen by the millions of Zara Beaumont’s followers is going to make you even more famous. ’

Something in his tone made the hairs on the back of Sophie’s neck prickle. Or was it what he’d said? He’d been researching her?

Why?

Sophie didn’t do interviews, didn’t engage with social media presence on a personal platform and the information on her website was strictly business-based.

Her preference to stay in the background might be deemed old-fashioned but her brand was growing organically, with the weddings themselves enough of an advertisement.

And Raven’s article was supposed to be about this wedding.

About someone who was already on the way to being as much of a household name as Martha Stewart and poised to become even more influential thanks to her marriage to the sole heir of one of America’s rich-list families.

How much sleuthing had this stranger done?

Enough to sift through the thousands of people who shared her very common name and uncover something that had only made local news, long enough ago that it should be at least partially shrouded by the mists of time?

Something that was probably guaranteed to spike anyone’s interest?

No…

She didn’t want to be dragged into the past. She didn’t want to think about Tom. Or Hannah. Or Luc.

Especially not Luc.

No…

She could feel rather than hear that repeated word of denial that held an edge of desperation this time.

It was tight around her chest, making it impossible to take her next breath.

As she always did in moments that threatened to be overwhelming, Sophie touched the small heart-shaped diamond that hung around her neck on a fine gold chain – the only reminder of a lost dream that she could still touch.

She had the feeling that he did, indeed, know too much and Raven’s next words confirmed that fear.

‘Is it true?’ he asked quietly, his tone now even more intense. ‘That you lost your fiancé in a tragic accident on the actual eve of your own wedding?’