Wedding Bells at Villa Limoncello Read online

  Wedding Bells at Villa Limoncello

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Recipe

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For my family, with much love.

  For my friends Carol, Hilary, Jane and Margaret, for the invaluable brainstorming sessions.

  Chapter One

  One Friday in Fulham.

  Colour: Magnolia.

  Izzie took a step back to cast a critical eye over the room she’d just finished styling. With the stark white walls of the newly-renovated property, and an employer who thought taupe was the ultimate in sophistication, she had done her best, but minimalism was an understatement! Her gaze fell on the beige linen curtains that matched the oatmeal cushions resting on the brown leather Chesterfield sofa and she cringed. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to conceal her reaction from Jonti, her eagle-eyed colleague, who she could see was about to launch into another one of his eloquently crafted lectures.

  ‘Darling, isn’t it about time you chose your soft furnishings from a more vibrant part of the colour spectrum? I mean, ivory, chiffon and champagne maybe the go-to colours for a blissful wedding ceremony in St Paul’s Cathedral, but this is Fulham! Now, I might not be a graduate of the Royal College of Art like you and Meghan, but don’t you think a splash of Cambridge blue, or Venetian red, or my personal favourite, razzle dazzle rose, would spice up the ambience for potential buyers? Not to mention encourage them to fork out the exorbitant asking price our lord-and-master is demanding for this little piece of heavenly real estate.’

  ‘I agree with Jonti,’ declared Meghan, bursting through the front door with a tray of takeaway coffees and broadening the colour palette ten-fold. Izzie hadn’t been expecting her best friend to arrive for at least another hour – Meghan always struggled to extract herself from the demands of her job as a window dresser at Harrods – and it was the first time in living memory she had been early for anything. She suspected foul play on Jonti’s part. ‘This place is snoring boring!’

  ‘Snoring boring?’

  ‘Yes! Dull, drab, characterless, bland…’

  ‘Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,’ laughed Izzie, reaching out to tweak a vase whose Chinese manufacturer had labelled ‘frothy cappuccino’ in the mistaken belief that an optimistic description would transform its basic shape into an upmarket work of art. ‘However, I have to point out that this is Hambleton Homes’ signature design.’

  Of course, Jonti and Meghan were right to be disappointed with what she had created – the room was lacklustre by anyone’s standards. Her professional eye told her that the beautifully apportioned property, with high ceilings, sculpted cornices, and chiselled ceiling roses that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Versailles, was crying out for a magnificent crystal chandelier, and maybe even a bronze bust or marble statue or two.

  ‘And Jonti and I have followed the brief to… the… letter!’

  ‘That’s because Darren Hambleton is a corporate dullard who wouldn’t know taste if it rushed up and bit him on his Armani-clad buttocks. For God’s sake, Izzie, have you forgotten that you used to own one of the most sought-after Interior Design studios in London with a client list the envy of Liberty’s?’

  ‘And what about that double-page spread in LuxeLife Magazine?’ added Jonti, taking an experimental sip from his skinny latte before picking up the career-critique baton from Meghan. ‘What did that feature writer with the movie-star good looks call you? You know, the one who fancied himself as the next Poldark? All tousled curls and rock-hard abs? It took all my self-control not to ask him where he’d left his scythe!’

  ‘You mean Miles Carrington?’ smirked Izzie.

  ‘Ah, yes, Magnificent Miles. Now don’t take this the wrong way, Izzie darling, but if he saw this dreary excuse for a living room he’d be forced to amend the effusive accolade he bestowed upon you from ‘Isabella Jenkins, Queen of Colour’ to ‘Isabella Jenkins, Duchess of Dullness’ otherwise he’d risk being sued for misrepresentation.’

  Izzie shook her head. She’d heard Jonti and Meghan’s complaints before – lots of times. But she had also learned that pleading the case for the defence would only prolong the discomfort currently swirling through her veins. There was no way she was about to admit that, uninspiring though it was, she actually preferred the predictability of Hambleton’s design template because it cut down on the effort it took to be creative, something she was immensely grateful for. It was best to simply move the conversation on to the part where her friends shrugged their shoulders in resignation at another ‘by-the-numbers’ house staging so that they could launch into a blow-by-blow account of their forthcoming weekend shenanigans in the restaurants and nightclubs of Covent Garden.

  Ignoring their raised eyebrows and exchanged glances, she began slotting the assorted accessories that made up the busy home-stager’s armoury into her battered wheelie suitcase – industrial-sized scissors, Stanley knife, fishing wire, glue gun. Seeing everything returned to its allocated space helped to dissolve the anxiety that had been gnawing at her chest all afternoon. She snapped the lock shut, grabbed the handle, and made for the door, comforted by the fact that another job had been completed on time, and that she had side-stepped another lecture on the merits of her personal development strategy.

  Sadly, her relief was short-lived. Jonti took her hand, guided her towards the sofa and sat down, lacing his manicured fingers through hers whilst Meghan took a seat on the footstool in front of her, flicking her pink-tipped blonde hair over her shoulder and avoiding Izzie’s eyes. Izzie’s stomach dropped to her Sketchers like a penny down a well. Oh God!

  ‘Guys, I know you mean well, but can we not do this right now? Come on, it’s Friday night, let’s wrap things up here and I’ll buy you both a drink.’

  ‘Sorry sweetie, Meghan and I have decided that enough is enough. Now, you know I love you, don’t you? You guys are the best friends a man could ask for in this crazy metropolis we call home. But it’s not just the décor that needs an injection of colour, Izzie. I’m no Marc Jacobs, but where did you get that sweater? Your grandmother? What colour is it supposed to be? Ecru? Khaki? Dishcloth? If you loiter for too long next to those curtains over there you’ll disappear! I suppose that’s the point, though, isn’t it? Although, how you think you can possibly blend into the background with that delightful mane of Titian curls, I don’t know!’

  ‘Hey, I happen to like this jeans-and-jumper combo. It’s warm, comfortable, practical…’

  ‘What sort of words are they? Comfortable and practical? You sound like my great-aunt Marge – except even she has been known to flirt with the cosmetic geniuses of Yardley and Revlon every once in a while! I know you favour the pale and interesting look, and I totally get why you don’t want to cover up that cute smattering of freckles with a mask of heavy foundation, but a littl
e tinted moisturiser wouldn’t go amiss occasionally!’

  Izzie shook her head, her lips twitching at the corners. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl called into the headteacher’s office to give an account of her sartorial sins. She adored Jonti – he was far more than a fellow purveyor of all-things fabric and sequin-related. With his quirky sense of fashion, from the orange winkle-pickers to the rainbow-framed glasses that enhanced his bright blue eyes and his signature bleached blonde quiff, he exuded a sense of style she’d long since discarded to the realms of a past life.

  ‘Okay, okay, I promise to break out the scarlet lipstick and gold-flecked mascara when we partake in our usual pint of Guinness at the Hope & Anchor tomorrow night. Happy?’

  ‘I’m not unhappy.’

  She made to get up from the sofa but was unceremoniously pulled back down. Clearly the lecture was not over yet. Now, it was Meghan’s turn to assume the role of life coach.

  ‘Unlike Jonti, I’m prepared to accept your new-found obsession with magnolia, your ever-lengthening ‘to-do’ lists, and your preference for hand-knitted garments that make you look like the Michelin Man, but when was the last time you ate a decent meal? Don’t get me wrong, I love a round of buttered toast just as much as the next person, but not for every meal!’

  ‘Meghan’s right, darling. All that gluten is enough to make anyone’s sparkle wither and die! My body is a temple and I just could not treat it with such disdain. How on earth do you manage to keep mind, body and soul together? I know you’re not going to like me saying this, but I happen to think you’ve been looking a tiny bit peaky recently – like Eeyore’s little sister at Winne-the-Pooh’s going away party! I bet you’re not sleeping properly either, are you?’

  ‘I’m sleeping and eating just fine, thank you very much,’ she lied, irritation beginning to poke its head above the parapet.

  What did her diet have to do with anything? And so what if her sleep was frequently trampled on by the demons of the past? However, before she could express her indignation or make a humour-filled attempt to change the direction of their conversation to something less personal, Meghan was gearing up to launch her coup de grâce.

  ‘And whilst we’re on the subject of your love life…’

  ‘My love life?’ spluttered Izzie, feeling as though she’d just had a bucket of icy water tossed in her face.

  ‘Yes, ever heard of it? When was the last time you had a date?’

  ‘And don’t try to fob us off with that old chestnut about still getting over Alex. It’s been eighteen months since you guys split – you even like his new girlfriend, Perfect Penelope, whom I have to say is not a patch on you, darling. Did you see the cerise leopard-print heels she was wearing when we bumped into them at the Old Vic last month? So tacky! Although the same cannot be said for her delightfully fragrant brother Marcus – don’t think I’ve seen biceps like that since I accidentally stumbled into the Fire Brigade’s Boxing Club!’

  ‘Jonti, off topic! Look, Izzie, all we’re saying is why not take a leaf out of Alex’s book and dip your toe into the shark-infested dating pool again? A little bit of romance is exactly what you need to unwrap that mantle of melancholy you insist on modelling whenever we go out!’

  ‘Yes, sweetie, you need to break free of the past and get some music in your soul! Okay, lecture over, let’s beat the post-work stampede and take a detour to that delightful little French bistro down the road and indulge in a bottle of fizz. My treat! I won’t tell our slave driver of a boss if you don’t?’

  Jonti jumped up from the settee with a glint of schoolboy mischief lighting up his eyes.

  ‘Best thing I’ve heard all day,’ grinned Meghan, linking his arm as they made their way to the door. ‘Come on, Izzie.’

  Izzie heaved a sigh of relief that the sermon was over and was about to follow in their footsteps when her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She glanced at the screen and groaned. Was Darren psychic?

  ‘Hang on – it’s a text from Darren.’

  ‘I thought he was showcasing his sporting prowess on the golf course this afternoon?’

  Jonti’s upper lip curled in disgust at another one of Darren’s attempts to apply so-called ‘progressive business practices’ to Hambleton Homes’ marketing strategy. Ever since Harry Hambleton, who had founded the business in the 1980s through sheer grit and determination, had given his son free reign to run the company, he’d been desperate to make his own mark. Unfortunately, dashing around town in his canary yellow Porsche, massaging egos and spouting corporate soundbites wasn’t going down very well with many of their clients. Izzie knew that if Harry had any idea how Darren was conducting himself he would have ditched his extended sojourn in the Spanish sunshine and jumped on the next available flight back to London to remind his son that, in business, there was no substitution for hard work and integrity.

  ‘He wants me to call him.’

  ‘What now? It’s five o’clock on a Friday!’

  Jonti shook his head in irritation. He made no secret of his dislike of their new, fresh-from-business-school boss, although Izzie suspected it had more to do with Darren’s enviable designer wardrobe and the fact that he smelled like a Parisian lady’s boudoir than the new-style management techniques he had introduced to convince his father that the thousands of pounds he’d spent on his private education was money well spent.

  ‘Why don’t you and Meghan zip down to Pierre’s and order the drinks. I’ll catch you up in a few minutes.’

  Unlike Jonti, Izzie did have some sympathy for Darren. It couldn’t be easy stepping into Harry’s shoes, not to mention coming to terms with his father’s recent marriage to a woman the same age as Darren himself, especially after the death of his mother less than two years ago. She had personal experience of that kind of devastation and understood the impact it could have on anyone, no matter how privileged or comfortable their life was.

  However, she also had a great deal of affection for Harry and was grateful to him for stepping into the breach with the offer of a position as a part-time house-stager when everything she knew and loved had crumbled around her ears. In another life, she had been commissioned by Darren’s mother, Esme Hambleton, to completely refurbish their Knightsbridge townhouse after she’d read the feature in LuxeLife magazine. It was still one of the most enjoyable interior design projects she’d worked on and they had remained in touch until Esme had died suddenly, only six months later, which meant Izzie’d had two funerals to attend in the space of a few months.

  ‘You go and grab a table, Jonti,’ urged Meghan, pulling on the white denim jacket she’d hand-embroidered with crimson peacocks in preparation for the fifty-metre dash to the end of the street. ‘Izzie and I will be right behind you. Shoo!’

  Jonti rolled his eyes, planted noisy kisses on the two women’s cheeks, and wriggled his fingertips. ‘Later, peeps!’ he said, as he set off down the street, a jaunty gait in his step. Izzie smiled, gratitude for his unwavering friendship encircling her heart as she turned back to Meghan.

  ‘Okay, might as well get it over with.’

  Izzie grimaced, eyeing her mobile as though it were a lethal weapon.

  ‘Do not, under any circumstances, agree to work this weekend! I’ve got a hot date on Saturday night and I need you to help me with my buff-and-polish regime so that I sparkle like the diamond I am.’

  ‘Who’s the lucky man this time?’ asked Izzie, knowing that Meghan fell in and out of love quicker than a Tigger does the Hokey-Kokey.

  ‘He’s a cameraman, worked on one of my brother’s film shoots in the Caribbean last October. I met him again a couple of weeks ago at Suzie and Carlton’s wedding – I’d forgotten he’d asked for my number. Oh, and don’t get me started on the subject of my stupid, selfish brother! If Brad thinks I’ve got nothing else better to do than respond to his beck and call, then he’s delusional as well as presumptuous!’

  ‘What’s he done this…’

  ‘Anyway, whilst I’ve got you alone
– you know what a huge gossip Jonti is – I’ve got another bit of amazing news. I only got the call this morning, and the whole thing is shrouded in absolute secrecy, but guess what? Giselle has broken her ankle and Martha, my department manager at work, has asked me to compère the Fenella Fratenelli fashion show next Monday night! It’s a dream come true. Oh, not the ankle thing, obviously – I’ve started a collection to send Giselle a huge bouquet crammed with her favourite sunflowers – but I’m hoping to show Martha that there’s more to my repertoire than dressing windows. God, Izzie, I’m just so excited. I adore Fenella’s paisley jumpsuits, not to mention her pink shearling biker jackets!’

  Izzie smiled, her heart ballooning with pride as she watched Meghan pogo on the spot like a toddler in need of the bathroom. It had been Meghan’s dream for as long as she’d known her to make the move from creating stunning, if slightly avant-garde shop windows to staging cat-walk shows. This could be her big break.

  ‘Oh, Meghan, I’m so thrilled for you. This calls for an extra-special celebration. Look, why don’t you go and join Jonti. I’ll finish up here, give Darren a quick call, and join you at Pierre’s in ten minutes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Meghan flung her arms around Izzie, then skipped out of the front door, her colourful hair flowing in her wake like a Medusa on steroids. Izzie shook her head as she selected Darren’s number.

  ‘Hi Darren.’

  ‘Yo, Isabella!’

  She grimaced at the familiar greeting and the mid-Atlantic drawl he affected, another trait at odds with his father. Harry Hambleton was proud of his Yorkshire roots and held no truck with people who put on airs and graces.

  ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Well… actually…’ For the first time ever, Izzie heard Darren pause to inhale a deep breath before launching into his usual diatribe of corporate clichés. Looking back, she realised that his out-of-character hesitation should have set alarm bells ringing. ‘I thought… well, there’s no time like the present to bite the bullet. Your time is precious, my time is precious, so I’ll just launch right in, shall I?’