The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [186]
“You seem to have thought of everything, Henry darling,” she said as they entered Belgrave Mews.
“I hope you will think so, Victoria; for when you arrive in Paris, which–I have not had the opportunity to visit for so many years, there will be a Rolls-Royce standing by the side of the carriage, door open, and we will step out of the Flèche d’Or into the car, and Maurice will drive us to the George V, arguably the finest hotel in Europe. Louis, the manager, will be on the steps of the hotel to greet us, and he will conduct us to the bridal suite with its stunning view of the city. A maid will unpack for you while you retire to bathe and rest from the tiresome journey. When you are fully recovered we shall dine at Maxim’s, where you will be guided to the corner table farthest from the orchestra by Marcel, the finest head waiter in the world. As you are seated, the musicians will strike up. ‘A Room with a View,’ my favorite tune, and we will then be served with the most magnificent langouste you have ever tasted, of that I can assure you.”
Henry and Victoria arrived at the front door of the general’s small house in Belgrave Mews. He took her hand before continuing.
“After we have dined, my dear, we shall stroll into the Madeleine, where I shall buy a dozen red roses from Paulette, the most beautiful flower girl in Paris. She is almost as lovely as you.” Henry sighed and concluded: “Then we shall return to the George V and spend our first night together.”
Victoria’s hazel eyes showed delighted anticipation. “I only wish it could be tomorrow,” she said.
Henry kissed her gallantly on the cheek and said: “It will be worth waiting for, my dear, I can assure you it will be a day neither of us will ever forget.”
“I’m sure of that,” Victoria replied as he released her hand.
On the morning of his wedding Henry leaped out of bed and drew back the curtains with a flourish, only to be greeted by a steady drizzle.
“The rain will clear by eleven o’clock,” he said out loud with immense confidence, and hummed as he shaved slowly and with care.
The weather had not improved by midmorning. On the contrary, heavy rain was falling by the time Victoria entered the church. Henry’s disappointment evaporated the instant he saw his beautiful bride; all he could think of was taking her to Paris. The ceremony over, the grand pasha and his wife stood outside the church, a golden couple, smiling for the press photographers as the loyal guests scattered damp rice over them. As soon as they decently could, they set off for the reception at the Ritz. Between them they managed to chat to every guest, and they would have been away in better time had Victoria been a little quicker changing and the general’s toast to the happy couple been considerably shorter. The guests crowded onto the steps of the Ritz, overflowing on to the sidewalk in Piccadilly to wave goodbye to the departing honeymooners, and were sheltered from the downpour by a capacious red awning.
The general’s Rolls took the grand pasha and his wife to the station, where the chauffeur unloaded the bags. Henry instructed him to return to the Ritz, since he had everything under control. The chauffeur touched his cap and said: “I hope you and madam have a wonderful trip, sir,” and left them. Henry stood on the station, looking for Fred. There was no sign of him, so he hailed a passing porter.
“Where is Fred?” inquired Henry.
“Fred who?” came the reply.
“How in heaven’s name should I know?” said Henry.
“Then how in hell’s name should I know?” retorted the porter.
Victoria shivered. English railway stations are not designed for the latest fashion in silk coats.
“Kindly take my bags to the end carriage of the train,” said Henry.
The porter looked down at the fourteen bags. “All right,” he said reluctantly.
Henry and Victoria stood patiently in the cold as the porter loaded the bags onto his trolley and trundled them off along the platform.