bride.
Gabi, it was assumed, hadn’t a hope of that.
Oh, she wanted to resign, so very much.
Gabi was close to tears as she arrived back at her tiny flat and, of course, there was nothing in her wardrobe she could possibly wear.
Well, there was one thing.
The silver-grey dress made by Rosa’s magical hands, though Bernadetta would consider her grossly overdressed.
Yet it was a very simple design...
Gabi undressed and saw that, yes, she indeed had a bruise on her bottom and on the left of her thigh.
In fact, she ached and was cold to the bone.
A quick shower warmed her up and Gabi was, by the time she stepped out of it, actually a lot more relaxed for the brief reprieve.
Wedding days were always so full on and it was actually nice to take a short break.
When she had her own business, Gabi decided, she would organise a rota so that all of her staff were able to take some time between the formal service and the reception. Perhaps there could be a change of outfit for them too...
Gabi halted.
She was back to hoping and dreaming that one day she might be working for herself.
How, though, when Bernadetta had her securely locked in?
Still there wasn’t time to dwell on it now.
The dress had been a gift from Rosa but, feeling guilty simply accepting it, Gabi had splurged on the right bra to go with it and, of course, matching silver knickers, which she quickly put on before wriggling into the dress.
Rosa really was a magician with fabric—the dress was cut on the bias and fell beautifully over her curves.
And it deserved more effort than her usual lack.
Sitting at her small dressing table, Gabi twisted her hair and piled it up on her head, rather than leaving it down. She put on some lip-gloss and mascara and then worried that it might be too much because usually she didn’t bother with such things.
Yet she didn’t wipe them off.
Instead, she dressed to look her best.
Tonight she didn’t want to be the dowdy funeral director version of Gabi, or the clumsy, fall-down-the-stairs, eternally rushed wedding planner she appeared at times.
It was a split-second decision, a choice that she made.
Gabi looked in the mirror. This was the person she would be if she worked for herself and was orchestrating a high-class function tonight.
This was actually the closest she had ever looked to the woman she was inside.
Gabi arrived back at the hotel, her stunning dress hidden by a coat and wearing boots with her pretty shoes held in a bag. Security was tight and Ronaldo, the doorman, even though he knew her well, apologised but said that she had to show ID. ‘There are VIP’s staying at the hotel,’ he explained as he stamped his feet against the cold.
‘There often are,’ Gabi said.
‘Royalty,’ Ronaldo grumbled, because royalty in residence meant a whole lot of extra work!
‘Who?’
‘Gabi,’ Ronaldo warned, for he was under strict instruction, but then smiled as he chose to reveal—it was just to Gabi after all! ‘The Sultan of Sultans and his daughter.’
‘Wow!’
Oh, she hoped for a glimpse of them—it sounded amazing!
Gabi handed over her coat at Reception and pursed her lips when she saw the large crimson floral display in the foyer.
The Grande Lucia was a wonderful hotel but it was like turning the Titanic to effect change at times.
Nervous, a little shy, and doing her best not to show it, Gabi returned to the wedding and walked straight into Bernadetta’s spiteful reproach.
‘If the bride had wanted a Christmas tree arrangement in the corner, I would have charged her for one,’ Bernadetta hissed, and Gabi felt her tiny drop of confidence in her newfound self drain away.
‘We need to check that the gramophone has been properly set up,’ Bernadetta told her. ‘And we need to find the key to the gallery for the photographer.’
‘We’ being Gabi.
She hit the ballroom floor running, or rather working away to make the night go as smoothly as possible for the happy couple.
Indeed, they looked happy.
Mona’s dress was sublime and her groom was handsome and relaxed and...
Gabi frowned.
James reminded her of someone, but she could not place him.
Or was it just the fact that he was tall and blond, like his mother, that made him stand out a touch more amongst the many Italian guests?
There was no time to dwell on it, though, and no time to acknowledge the ache of disappointment that Alim was nowhere to be seen.
And she admitted it to herself then, as she let the photographer up to the gallery and walked back through the foyer.
The dress, the pretty heels, the hair and the make-up...
In part they had been on the off chance that Alim might see her.
* * *
Alim was, in fact, in the building, but for once his presence was low key.
‘I hate that we can’t be at the wedding,’ Yasmin moaned for the hundredth time, and pushed her dessert aside unfinished.
Alim said nothing in response.
He was very used to his sister’s histrionics.
‘We are shooed away like vermin,’ Yasmin snarled, and threw down her napkin.
‘Hardly vermin,’ Alim drawled, refusing to be drawn in—they were sitting in the private area of the sumptuous restaurant at the Grande Lucia after all.
Their father did not join them for it would only draw attention, and that was everything Alim was doing his best to avoid.
At least for tonight.
The staff at the Grande Lucia were very used to esteemed guests but, Alim knew, they were starting to comprehend that Oman, the Sultan of Sultans, was in fact Alim’s father.
Alim did not use his title in the workplace—Sultan Alim al-Lehan of Zethlehan.
Neither did he use it in his personal life, for it was a risqué personal life indeed. Diamonds paid for silence and there was the slick machine of the palace PR to wash indiscretions away.
Oman’s main indiscretion was the reason they were here in the dining room tonight.
Close to the wedding but not present.
Tonight, when the happy couple headed to the bridal suite, Fleur, the groom’s mother, would head to her own sumptuous suite of rooms.
Violetta, who dealt with palace PR and external arrangements, had taken over the arrangements of the guest rooms from Marianna.
Alim did not need to know, though of course he did, that Fleur’s suite adjoined his father’s.
Fleur was Oman’s mistress of long standing.
She had borne the Sultan of Sultans his first son.
James had had a seemingly privileged life. He had been schooled at Windsor, had attended university in Scotland, and had a trust fund that would make most people’s eyes water.
But his father’s name did not appear on his birth certificate and he bore no title. To the people of Zethlehan he simply did not exist.