Free The Real Katie Lavender by Erica James Page B

– that when the real replacement from the agency arrived – she would say there must have been a mix-up.
    Luckily she had worked as a waitress in her student days, and so a heavily laden tray of glasses or canapés posed no problem for her. There was only one other waitress, and as the heavy-set woman – whose name was Sue – explained, they had fifty-six guests to serve. Sue had a sidekick called Merrill, and as Merrill handed Katie a tray of filled champagne flutes, she definitely seemed the calmer of the two women.
    The other waitress – Dee, who looked about seventeen – was already on duty in the hall, handing guests a glass of champagne or a non-alcoholic drink as they arrived and pointing them in the direction of the garden. Katie’s first job was to replace Dee so that she could return to the kitchen for another tray of drinks. Left on her own in the hallway, she was so absorbed in her task, she had almost forgotten why she was here. It was only when Dee returned and there was a lull in arrivals and the girl discreetly pointed out Mrs Nightingale as she crossed the hall towards the kitchen that Katie reminded herself of the reason she was putting herself through this charade. ‘What about Mr Nightingale?’ she asked. ‘Where’s he?’
    ‘Probably with his mother, it’s her birthday party. She’s ninety today. Not that you’d think so. I mean, she’s clearly old, but she just looks old as opposed to ancient. I mean, ninety, it’s just too awesome. I can’t imagine ever living that long.’
    ‘Have you worked for the family before?’
    ‘Loads of times. Uh-oh, Mrs Nightingale’s on her way over. Smiley face on. Sue and Merrill insist on that.’
    ‘Dee, there are only a few guests yet to arrive,’ Mrs Nightingale said, ‘so you can start serving the canapés in the garden now.’ The woman abruptly switched her gaze from Dee to Katie, and the length of her skirt, or rather the lack of it. ‘You must be the replacement from the agency. Thank you for coming.’
    Mrs Nightingale’s voice was so crisply authoritative and regal, Katie felt compelled to curtsy. She restrained herself, and unable to think of a suitable reply, widened her smile then watched the woman – her biological father’s wife – walk away, straight-backed and supremely composed. A cool customer and no mistake. It was hard to pin an exact age on her, but Katie decided she had to be in her mid-fifties. Tall and slim with silvery blonde hair (probably not entirely natural), cut into a sleek bob that flattered her face perfectly, she was wearing an elegant off-the-shoulder dress the colour of coral. She could not have been more different to Katie’s mother. Had that been Mum, she would have had a jumbled, windswept look about her, and more than likely would have bumped into someone or knocked something over as she walked away. Mum’s mind had always been elsewhere, working on at least half a dozen things at the same time. It was doubtless what had caused her to step out into the road that day into the path of the oncoming car.
    Slim, cool and composed were not words one would ever have used to describe Mum. For as long as Katie could remember, her mother had battled with her weight. But then, as she had constantly joked, it wasn’t much of a battle, since she had no willpower when it came to fresh bread and French cheese and a glass or two of red wine. And as for chocolate and cream cakes, she had been a total pushover. She hadn’t ever been really overweight; she just had what Dad had called a cuddlesome body. Before her father’s death had impacted on their lives and become a grim reality, Mum had joked about dying with a chocolate eclair in her hands, saying it would be the ideal way to go.
    Mrs Stirling Nightingale didn’t look like the sort of woman who ate too many eclairs. Unlike Mum, who had had an Oscar Wilde approach to life – she could resist everything but temptation – she appeared to be a very disciplined