That Special Something: A heartwarming, small town romance to fall in love with

Three

‘Eversley Events. Hope speaking. How may I help you?’

Hope adopted her business voice and smiled while she spoke. Smiling while speaking on the phone was the first thing Hope learnt when she joined the family business. As unbelievable as it might seem, it genuinely did make the speaker’s voice sound friendly and cheerful whether they felt that way or not.

Right now, Hope felt neither. The sun had suddenly disappeared behind a fast-moving mass of black clouds, the colour of a Raven, and now the mass hovered like some gigantic, alien spaceship above East Wood and quickly encompassed the entire village. She needed to get both herself and Lady E home before it rained cats and dogs. She loved watching rainclouds, but getting drenched – not so much. She hoped the phone call would be brief.

The family took it in turns to answer the business line on Sunday. The one they used to promote their company and for new enquiries. Once they took a client on, they gave that client their personal numbers, but they could still be contacted via the main line too. This Sunday was Hope’s turn. She couldn’t let it go to voicemail. Eversley Events was available eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, come rain or shine; the other six hours were for emergencies only. Hope had discovered that there seemed to be a great many ‘emergencies’ involved in the events planning business. Who knew? If she had, she might’ve chosen a different career. Getting a phone call at four a.m. from a client who couldn’t sleep because they were worrying about some little detail, or had suddenly had an idea about something, was no fun.

But who in their right mind would call an event planner on Sunday at one p.m. when every sane person in the UK was either eating Sunday lunch, preparing Sunday lunch, or enjoying pre-lunch drinks?

‘Oh! I expected a machine.’ The male speaker on the other end of this call definitely wasn’t smiling.

‘Eversley Events personnel are available eighteen hours each day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.’

The caller snorted a laugh. ‘Now that did sound like a machine. Isn’t that slave labour though? And why eighteen hours?’

For a moment, Hope was taken aback. ‘We have several personnel, not just one person, so no slave labour involved, I assure you. But even we need to sleep, and eighteen hours seems more than reasonable to ensure we meet, or go above and beyond, what our clients need. And I’m no machine, believe me. May I ask who’s calling?’

‘And yet, perhaps if you worked nineteen hours you’d be able to fit in more clients. Or even eighteen and a half.’

‘That presumes we might want – or need, more clients. Which at the present time, we do not. Our diaries are full.’ That sounded a little rude, but then so did this man. He definitely wasn’t a client.

‘Seriously? Then why not hire more staff? Surely the main purpose of an events company is to handle as many events as possible?’

‘Quantity not does equate to quality.’ Hope’s smile was slipping and her tone was changing. She wanted to get home and she wasn’t in the mood for this – whatever this was. ‘We prefer to ensure the events we organise are managed to perfection. We’ve been established for fifteen years and not once have we received a complaint or a bad review.’

‘Then this may not be a good day for you. I’m about to burst that bubble. You recently refused to take on a new client, despite an earlier assurance that you’d be happy to do so.’

‘I … I don’t think that can be correct. We never agree to take on new clients until we have discussed it fully at one of our regular meetings. We have been so busy since Christmas that I know for a fact we have not agreed to do so.’

That wasn’t entirely true. Naomi was, strictly speaking, a new client, and Eversley Events had taken on the Grand Opening of Betancourt Bay Café. And Greg and Fiona’s family meal was a new event which the Eversleys hadn’t been involved in planning until recently. But Fi was already a client so that didn’t really count as new. And Naomi, Fi and their family were friends of the Eversleys so they were an exception to the rule.

‘It was at Christmas that you agreed. At some annual bash on Christmas Eve known as the Mistletoe Dance at some stately home called Betancourt in a village by the name of Betancourt Bay. Someone named Hope Eversley said she could personally guarantee it. She told my sister to give her a call and mention the dance and they would fit her in, no problem. Wait. Didn’t you say your name was Hope when you answered my call? Are you Hope Eversley?’

Hope swallowed to clear a lump forming in her throat, and was about to say she did no such thing when a faint and distant memory pervaded her thoughts.

Damn it. Why had she had so much to drink at the Mistletoe Dance? Okay, she was dealing with the bombshell of Russell declaring his love for her, and also toasting the news that Grace and Griff were now an item, not to mention the fact that the entire family was celebrating the success of the night itself for their business. Plus, Christmas was the season to be jolly, after all. Besides all that, she was, technically, off the clock that night. But even so.

‘I … I.’ She had to face the music. She raised her head and stuck out her chin – not that the caller could see that. ‘Yes. This is Hope Eversley.’ Then the heavens opened and rain bucketed down on her and Lady E. ‘Arghh!’ She hadn’t meant to let out that startled shriek.

‘Are you all right? I’m cross, but I didn’t intend to upset you that much.’ He sounded sincere and there was genuine concern in his rather delectable voice.

‘You haven’t,’ said Hope. ‘I’m outside and it’s pouring hard.’ That wasn’t terribly professional. She forced the smile back in place despite ice cold raindrops streaming down her cheeks. ‘Erm. I’m afraid I must end this call as something has come up. If you text me your name, and the number I can reach you on, in say … ten minutes, I will call you back so that we can clear up this misunderstanding. Thank you for calling Eversley Events.’ Without waiting for his reply, Hope rang off, scooped Lady E up into her arms and ran for home.

‘Hope! Hope, wait!’

Hope recognised the voice above the drumming rain as she raced past The Royal Oak, but she wasn’t going to stop and chat in this weather. Although being bumped off by Laurence, who had obviously been leaving the pub as she rushed by, might not be such a bad idea right now. It was probably a better prospect than appeasing a disgruntled, formerly potential new client.

‘Can’t stop now,’ she yelled without looking back and heaved a sigh of relief as she shoved open the pink front door of The White House a few moments later.

‘Now who’s late?’ Grace yelled from the kitchen and popped her head out into the hall. ‘Where have you been? We’ve been trying to call you for the last five minutes. We’re waiting to dish up lunch.’

Hope put Lady E down, removed the lead and hung it on the hook. Then she tossed her keys in the bow tie bowl, placed her phone on the hall table, pulled off her sodden coat and scarf, and glared at Grace as Lady E shook herself and skittered along the hall.

‘I lost track of time. I’m soaked, as you can no doubt see. And I need to make a call. Put mine on a plate and leave it in the oven, please. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Oh, and can you dry off the dog?’

‘You okay?’ Grace asked, sounding concerned as Lady E dashed to her water bowl in the kitchen.

‘Yeah. Just a little misunderstanding I need to sort out. Give me ten minutes.’

Hope kicked off her wet shoes, peeled off the saturated socks, and ran upstairs to her room, stopping halfway to come back down and retrieve her phone from the hall table.

‘Anything I can help with?’ Grace asked, still lingering in the hall.

‘Not unless you have a magic wand and can turn back time.’

‘That’s a no then. I’ll tell Mum you won’t be long.’

Hope ran into her en suite bathroom, tossed her wet socks into the linen basket in the corner, and stripped off her damp clothes. She would have loved a hot shower but she didn’t have time. Her phone had beeped with a text as she was running home and she needed to be true to her word and make that call.

She dried herself with the towel that was hanging on the heated rail and quickly threw on a pair of track suit bottoms and a baggy, wool jumper. Thank God this wasn’t going to be a video call. She looked positively bedraggled. She pulled her wet hair into a loose bun, sat on her bed, took several deep breaths and then with a smile plastered on her face, read the text.

He could not be serious. Hope almost burst out laughing when she saw the name of her mystery caller.

But, Holy Hell. What if it was him?

Did Tom Hardy even have a sister?

Of course it wasn’t that Tom Hardy. There must be lots of Toms with the same name.

Wait. That didn’t sound quite right. Thank goodness she hadn’t said that to him!

Only one way to find out. She called the number he’d given and recognised the voice immediately.

‘Is that Hope?’ She had called him from her own number, not the business line.

‘It is.’

‘Wow. I wasn’t sure you’d call back. I thought you might’ve just said that to get rid of me. And before you ask, no, I’m not that Tom Hardy, the famous actor. And I’m not that good-looking, either. Plus I’m fair haired, not dark. I’m Tom Hardy, the not so famous owner of Hardy Tools.’

‘Oh!’ said Hope, surprised, not just by what he’d said by also because she had heard of Hardy Tools. Her dad, for one, was a fan. He said the tools were virtually indestructible, even for a DIY disaster like himself. She wasn’t going to tell Tom Hardy that though.

‘Mum named me after her favourite author and poet, Thomas Hardy,’ he continued. ‘And no. I don’t resemble him either. And I can’t stand his novels. I prefer a happy ending. That guy – not so much.’ He gave a quick cough, as if he’d realised he was saying far too much. ‘Speaking of happy endings, I hope you’re going to tell me that you recall the lengthy conversation you had with my sister, Della Hardy on Christmas Eve, and that, of course you’re going to take her on as a new client.’

Hope’s smile was genuine as she listened to the deep almost sultry voice – until that last sentence. She had never been a fan of Thomas Hardy’s work and as ridiculous as it was, it pleased her that this man wasn’t either. She also liked the way he had explained how he’d been given his name. He sounded as if he had a sense of humour. Sadly, his final sentence brought her back to reality.

‘Erm.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I do recall having a conversation with your sister, but I must explain that it was Christmas Eve, I wasn’t in work mode, and I’m fairly certain I didn’t actually promise that we would take her on as a client. I would never do that no matter how drunk … I mean … no matter what the situation. Having said that, I apologise if there was a misunderstanding. I want to do everything I can to help. Eversley Events is not in the business of letting people down, however innocently that possibility may have arisen. We’re here to help people achieve their dream event. So perhaps, if you could give me some details of the event your sister wanted us to organise, I may have some ideas as to how we can resolve this matter.’

He didn’t reply right away, and when he did, he sort of sniggered. ‘You were drunk?’

‘No! Well. Possibly tipsy. It was Christmas Eve, remember.’

‘I know. Della didn’t tell me that you might’ve been six sheets to the wind.’

‘I wasn’t!’ Damn. She should’ve said she was. Being drunk might’ve been an excuse – although not a good one. ‘I never get that drunk.’

‘Then you’re confirming you were sober enough to discuss business? Della is adamant that you had a lengthy conversation and that you said you’d be happy to take her on and could fulfil her dream, no problem. So much so that she hasn’t bothered to look at any other company. She said she liked you right away and she knew you would be the perfect person to make her dream come true. I know you said you’re busy, but surely you could squeeze one more event into your hectic schedule and let my sister have her dream, couldn’t you? It would mean a lot to me if you did. And yes, that is my way of saying you can name your price. Within reason. I’m in business too and I know when I’m being ripped off. But Della’s happiness is important to me. So will you do it?’

Hope was so enthralled by the timbre of his voice and captivated by the sincerity and love in his words that she needed a moment to regain her composure. That did sound like something she might say after a few drinks, and she made a mental note never to drink and discuss business at the same time, again.

‘You still haven’t told me what the event is. I can’t agree to anything until I know that.’

‘Unless you’re drunk. Sorry. Tipsy.’ He laughed.

‘And just as we were starting to get along so well.’ Hope matched his now teasing tone as she leant back against the pillows on her bed.

His laugh made her skin tingle with excitement and she wondered what he looked like. He’d said he was fair, not dark, so blond, perhaps?

Oh God. Not another blond-haired man in her life. She had quite enough of those already.

He sounded a similar age to Russell and Laurence, so in his thirties she presumed. But could you really tell a person’s age from their tone of voice?

‘You’re easy to talk to,’ he said. ‘I thought I might have a fight on my hands, but it sounds as if you really do want to try to help. Thank you, Hope.’

Was he wondering about her?

She pulled herself to an upright sitting position. This was work. She shouldn’t be flirting and she certainly shouldn’t be imagining if he was as handsome as he sounded.

‘I do. But the fact that you appear to be reluctant to tell me what this event is, makes me think it is not as simple as one that we could ‘just squeeze in’. Or am I wrong?’

He gave a small cough. ‘The thing is, Della is a bit of a dreamer. And although, as I said, she is adamant you agreed and that she told you all about it at the dance on Christmas Eve, I am willing to admit that she should’ve contacted you long before last week. Especially as she should’ve taken into account that you might have had a few drinks when you said that it wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘You’re not instilling confidence as to its simplicity. Just tell me what it is. I can’t help if I don’t know.’

‘Okay. It’s a leap year this year and–’

‘No!’ Hope interrupted. ‘Please don’t tell me that she wants to propose to her boyfriend. And definitely don’t tell me she wants to do so on Valentine’s Day.’

‘No,’ he said, and Hope sighed with relief. But it was short-lived. ‘She wants to propose to her girlfriend. And yes. On Valentine’s Day. Although as they’re both female I can’t see how this leap year thing is relevant. But once Della gets an idea in her head there’s no stopping her. She wants the room to look like a fairy grotto. Oh, and she wants to arrive on a white horse. Because–’

‘Because,’ Hope stopped him again, ‘unfortunately, unicorns don’t exist.’

Hope closed her eyes and fell back against the pillows again.

‘Did you just read my mind? Or do you now recall the conversation with Della?’

Hope let out the longest sigh. ‘Should I call you on this number? Or do you want to give me Della’s so that I can speak with her direct? I assume you’re not local from what you said in our first conversation. Is Della?’

‘That depends where “local” is. Your website doesn’t say where you’re based, merely that it’s in South East England, and Della didn’t tell me. I live in Bournemouth, so no. Della moved in with her girlfriend at the New Year and they live in Folkestone.’

‘Folkestone is local.’

‘Great. But since there’s been a bit of a mix up so far, I think I should take control initially, so please call me. Are you saying you’ll do it? Valentine’s Day is only ten days away.’ He sounded anxious now.

‘I’m well aware of that, Tom. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do and I’ll give you a call on Monday.’

‘Thank you, Hope. You’re aptly named.’