Read Online The One Who Got Away by Caroline Overington - Free Book Online Page B

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    A little birdie tells us that Bienveneda’s most eligible bachelor, David Wynne-Estes, has popped the question and if what we’re hearing is correct, this is going to be the Wedding of the Century.
    Was it the chicken? Alright, probably not. More likely it was me being patient, and David being ready. The point is, he did pop the question – and he did do it right, meaning down on bended knee at the end of the Bienveneda pier, with a diamond the size of an iceblock – and I accepted.
    I accepted knowing that David wasn’t perfect. Who is?
    I accepted knowing that I didn’t quite fit into his world. David’s sister, Janet, seemed to understand this. ‘Who will you have?’ she said, shortly after we told her.
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜The wedding planner? Who will you have?’
    I didn’t know that I needed a wedding planner.
    â€˜I think I can do it myself,’ I said, ‘and Molly is going to help, and …’
    â€˜Don’t be silly,’ said Janet dismissively. ‘This is not the kind of thing you can do on your own. And you can’t just let anyone do it. Let me think about it.’
    A day or so later, she came to the door at David’s and pressed a card – a completely square business card, with gold trim – into my hand. ‘Here.’
    â€˜J.J. Kim? You know him?’
    â€˜I know him, and I’ve told him about the wedding,’ Janet said evenly, ‘and my advice to you is to use him and nobody else.’
    I waited a day or so before putting the call in. J.J. Kim was California-famous for his over-the-top appearances on the breakfast shows. He had purple hair, held vertical with product, and a super-smooth forehead, like Janet’s. The gold on his business card was a nod to the chunky gold rings he wore on all ten fingers.
    â€˜So you’re the lucky lady marrying David Wynne-Estes?’ he cried when I called. ‘Now, don’t you worry, I know just what you need.’
    He knew what I needed? How about what I wanted ?
    We had our first meeting at J.J.’s offices in Hollywood. His chair was a giant plastic hand. Molly had insisted on coming along, she said for moral support, although I suspect to ogle J.J.’s plastic surgery. (‘It’s too much,’ she told me afterwards, ‘just too, too much. He’s got, like, tennis balls in his cheeks. Too much!’ and it was all I could do not to say, ‘Molly? You have tennis balls in your cheeks, too!’)
    I opened by saying: ‘You know, my mom’s no longer with us, so when we’re thinking about the bridal table, it’ll be David’s parents, and then my dad with Molly’s mom, who is Val …’
    â€˜Wait, wait, wait,’ cried J.J., throwing himself back against the giant fingers behind his head. ‘What do you mean, bridal table! Bridal table? You want a bridal table? There will be no bridal table!’
    â€˜No bridal table?’
    â€˜No, no, no, no,’ J.J. said, wagging a finger from side to side in an exaggerated motion, ‘we will NOT be having a bridal table. Oh no. I have in mind something very special for you.’
    Molly said: ‘Something special like what?’
    J.J. looked triumphant. ‘Thrones! I have in mind the exact same thrones that Posh and Becks had at their wedding. The exact same! Because that is how I see this wedding. You are – okay, David is – Bienveneda royalty. So you need thrones.’
    J.J. was by now squealing.
    Molly was doing her best to keep a straight face. It was a struggle.
    â€˜But how will that work?’ I said. ‘Where will everybody else sit?’
    â€˜In the garden,’ said J.J., clicking his fingers theatrically around his own head. ‘You’ll have your golden thrones under a canopy in a lavish garden, with fairy lights and waiters dressed like motor mechanics, and we’ll have driftwood benches