The Spring Bride ~ Behind The Scenes

Sylvie Duchamp Smith was nineteen years old when she lost everything. Her grandfather, her home, the man she was about to marry and finally, the last shattering blow, her mother. But like her mother, she was a fighter. She had to be.

Ten years later, an SDS wedding is at the top of every bride’s wish-list. It’s only to be expected that when Candy Harcourt had finally fulfilled her career plan to marry a millionaire she would come to her old school friend, Sylvie, to plan the wedding of the year.

Sylvie, aware that this was a match based more on convenience than love – an old fashioned arrangement in which the groom was exchanging his credit cards in return for a trophy wife – would under normal circumstances have been “fully booked”. But no one could resist Candy, not even rock hard self-made billionaire, Tom McFarlane.

Then, when Candy fell in love with a penniless wedding assistant and eloped three days before the wedding, leaving Sylvie to deal with the fall-out, Sylvie discovered that she couldn’t resist Tom McFarlane.

The hero…

Tom McFarlane was made from the same stuff that centuries ago had driven men across uncharted oceans in search of glory and fortune. He was their modern-day equivalent, a twenty-first century legend who’d worked in the markets as a boy, had been trading wholesale by the time he was in his teens, making six-figure deals by the time he left school. His first million by the time he was twenty. The expression “self-made man” could have been invented just for him.

He lacked only one thing. The perfect trophy wife. And now he’d found her. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Candy Harcourt had fallen in love with him, but that wasn’t a problem . Love, as he knew to his cost, caused nothing but heartache and misery. This marriage was exactly like one of those old-fashioned arrangements. She had everything – sex appeal, style, class – everything that was except money. And he had more than enough of that to indulge her wildest dreams. Those he was inclined to indulge.

Everything was exactly the way he liked it. And then he met Sylvie Smith, a woman who had sex appeal, style, class… And something else. Something indefinable, unforgettable that roused a raft of disturbing emotions that were desperately dangerous for a man who wanted, above all things, to be in control.

The theme...

I spent a lot of time looking at wedding magazines while I was researching this book and the one thing I learned is that a lot of weddings are “themed”, usually to reflect the bride and groom’s personality.

Sylvie struggling with this fantasy, found help from the most unexpected of quarters when Tom offered to help choose the food.

He looked up from the brochure and, with an expression of disgust, said, 'Is this really what people are expected to eat at weddings? Fiddly bits of fish. Girl food. We've got to be able to do better than that.'

We. The word conjured up a rare warmth, but she mustn’t read too much into it. Or this.

‘The idea is that it's supposed to look pretty on a plate,' she said.

‘For CELEBRITY, or for you?'

'Is there a difference?'

'Whose wedding is this?’ he demanded, disgusted. ‘What would you really choose? If you didn’t have to pander to the whims of a gossip magazine?'

Whoa… Where had that come from? It wasn’t just irritation, it was anger. As if it really mattered.

‘They are paying a lot of money to have their whims pandered to,’ she reminded him. ‘Besides, there are the Wedding Fayre exhibitors to think of. This is their big chance.’

'It's your wedding. You should have what you want.’

That did make her laugh. ‘If only, but I don’t think ten minutes with the Registrar in front of two witnesses, followed by a fish-and-chip supper would quite fill the “fantasy” bill, do you?’

‘That’s what you’d choose?’

‘Quick, simple. Sounds good to me.’ Then, because his expression was rather too thoughtful,

‘That's classified information, by the way.’

Like the violets, that “fish-and-chip supper” was like a snowball that grew as it rolled.

Fish and chips, sausage and mash, hot dogs… And suddenly, from nowhere, the “Fayre” became a “Fair”, a carnival with steam powered vintage rides, and bowling for the (pottery) pig, and all kinds of other fun sideshows that would help raise money for the Pink Ribbon Club. And instead of a vintage Rolls, it would be vintage traction engine that took the bride to church.

The dress…

It began with a simple posy of violets picked in the woods around Longbourne Court and a pair of embroidered and beaded purple silk shoes.

Creating a fantasy dress for a bride who is five-months pregnant is a challenge and despite all her years advising brides, arranging the most stunning society weddings, the task very nearly defeated Sylvie Smith.

It wasn’t just the fact that she was in love with the father of the baby she was carrying, or even the fact that he didn’t want to know; ten years earlier this hadn’t just been a fantasy, it had all been for real. At nineteen, an excited, innocent young bride-to-be she was to have worn her great -grandmother’s wedding dress, her long lace veil. It was still wrapped in tissue and safely stowed away in a sandalwood chest in the attic of Longbourne Court and for just a moment she saw herself wearing it.

But she wasn’t that girl any more. She needed something more dramatic, something grander…

The dress, a simple A-line shift in rich cream silk, had been appliquéd to the knees in swirling blocks of lavender, purple, and green. And instead of a veil, she’d created a stunningly beautiful loose thigh-length jacket on which the appliqué was repeated around the edge and on wide fold-back cuffs. Embroidery trailed over the silk and tiny beads caught the light as she moved, beads that matched the small, Russian style tiara commissioned to go with the gown.

I can’t show you a picture of Sylvie’s dress because it only lives in my head. But this is the dress that inspired me. The colours. The embroidery. The beads.

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