Best Laid Plans
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Chapter One
"Mr. Bailey, the florist has brought pink roses instead of white lilies, what would you like us to tell the bride?"
Considering that she was hammering another nail into his coffin, Eliott thought the hotel maid was far too cheerful. Cake-toting waiters argued in hushed tones with porters carrying enormous globular vases filled with the wrong flowers, as they all vied for space in the dining hall. The melee made Eliott set a hand on the wall until the dizziness passed.
Tell her I suck at my job, and that because of me her dream wedding is going to hell in a pink rose decorated handbasket.
Elliot figured he might have been better equipped to deal with it if he wasn't already operating on twenty minutes sleep. Spending the night in the hotel kitchen, making canapés because the check to the caterers had mysteriously gone awry, wasn't conducive to being well rested.
Even so, by the time he managed to pass out, some time around five, he'd psyched himself up sufficiently that he'd believed whatever challenges lay ahead were entirely surmountable.
Not breaking his stride, he ran a hand through his hair.
"Where is the bride now?"
A tiny waitress carrying a floral display at least as tall as she was smacked him in the face with a waxy leaf as she passed, barely pausing to apologize. Eliott licked his lips, tasting florist store and despair.
"She's still in her suite, Mr. Bailey. The hair stylist was late,” said an entirely different yet damnably perky server. Before Eliott could turn around, she'd already melted off into the current of bodies jostling through the halls.
Great. Eliott took a deep breath, the scent of flowers catching in his throat. The bride's mother would be sneezing all through the damn ceremony.
"Mr. Bailey." One of the porters stopped him at the bottom of the stairs, and just as the wide staircase promised to lift him out of the mire, he was dragged back down again. "We have a problem."
Famous last words, along with `it's not you, it's me`, and only slightly better than `d'you want fries with that`, which was what waited for him if he screwed up again.
"What's the problem?"
A crash reverberated from the dining hall. Deathly silence was followed by a fervent "Oh my God I'm so sorry!"
Eliott looked at the porter. He didn't look psychic… "Not that, right?"
"Ah, no." The porter wouldn't meet his eyes. "Someone left the swan ice sculpture too close to the heating vent, and--"
Eliott held up a hand. "Does it still look like a swan?"
"Well, it's a little melted--"
"Then get the kitchen staff to put it in the freezer for an hour." He turned for the stairs, taking two at a time. "Who put it out this early anyway?"
"The kitchen staff say they don't have space for it, Mr. Bailey."
"They can make space," Eliott said, not waiting around for an argument. His clients wanted an ice swan, and damn it they were going to get one. Or at least something that mostly resembled a swan, and would last till everyone was too drunk on champagne to realize it was puddling over the cakes.
It wasn't the first time everything had skirted disaster; even if he seemed to be skimming closer and closer each time, things had a knack of working out. This however, was one of the few times where he felt disaster wasn't just imminent; it had front pew seats and was bringing extra guests who were sure to complain about the lack of specialized meals at the reception.
He'd gotten into this business because he liked seeing people happy, if only for one day. One day for which he was responsible. And since he was pretty unlikely to ever get the opportunity to arrange his own wedding, he could live vicariously.