Read Online A Groom With a View by Sophie Ranald - Free Book Online

spa, where I and the other ladies in the bridal party might like to indulge in some relaxing pampering before the big day. We saw the ballroom, a Regency addition to the house, where the newlyweds and their guests would dance the night away. We even had a peep into the downstairs cloakroom, where presumably those guests who had overindulged in the canapés, four-course wedding breakfast, cake designed by the in-house pâtissier, and late-night bacon butties or cheese toasties could retire to vom copiously in opulent yet comfortable surroundings. And finally we were escorted to the bridal suite.
    “Fortunately, the bride and groom who had their wedding here yesterday left early for their honeymoon. They’re off to St Lucia.” Imogen lowered her voice confidingly. “Jenny and Greg. Such lovely people, it’s been a delight working with them for the past two years. But then all our couples are special! Now, it’s up this little spiral staircase, in the medieval turret, which is just so romantic – I think it’s my favourite room in the house! Most of our brides stay here the night before the wedding too, so you can have your getting-ready photos here, because, as you see, it’s really quite enchanting.”
    Imogen held open the iron-studded wooden door, and waved us inside. The evening sun streamed in through the leaded windows, which overlooked the rose garden, sweeping green parkland, a graceful silver S of river and, in the distance, hazy blue hills. The four-poster bed was draped with chiffon curtains and covered with a white duvet as puffy as whipped cream. The free-standing bath had massage jets and mood lighting for that in-room spa experience. There was a lounge area where we could enjoy a final glass of champagne or a late-night snack before retiring for the night, because you’d be amazed how many happy couples are too excited to want more than a mouthful on the day.
    “I’ll leave you two here,” Imogen murmured. “If there’s anything at all you need, just press the bell and your personal butler will be with you shortly.” And she tiptoed out, closing the door as softly and discreetly as if we actually were about to consummate our marriage.
    I flopped bonelessly on the bed on my back and bounced briefly upwards before being enfolded in exquisite softness.
    “I’d fucking kill for a Diet Coke,” I said.
    Two hours later, I’d had my Diet Coke and a lovely long soak in the bath, making a big dent in the Molton Brown toiletries. I’d painted my nails a rather fabulous shade of mint green and straightened my hair and put on makeup and a sparkly top over my jeans, and Nick and I were sipping champagne in the drawing room while we perused the dinner menu. He kept looking up from the squashy leather folder and gazing around the room, and every time he did, he’d get this huge, excited grin on his face.
    “It’s fabulous, isn’t it, Pippa? Isn’t it fabulous?” he kept asking.
    “Totally fabulous,” I agreed. “I love the. . . er. . . art. Who do you think that painting’s by?”
    “Turner.” Nick identified it within about a nanosecond. Although he studied graphic design and his party trick is being able to identify more than two hundred fonts on the basis of an uppercase G and a question mark, he knows lots about painting too. “And that’s a Cunningham over there, that drawing of the hare. But anyway, Pip, what do you really think? Fabulous, isn’t it?”
    “Nick, it’s beautiful, it really is. I’m so excited about tasting the food. Our room’s gorgeous and you were so clever to find it.” But it doesn’t feel right, I wanted to say. It doesn’t feel like us – or not like me, anyway. I belong at the other end of places like this – behind the scenes, swearing and sweating and showing off my mad knife skills with the brigade in the kitchen. Not out here with the guests – the guests who we used to mercilessly mock for asking for their steak well done or ordering ketchup to