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Rolling In The Deep

Chapter One

We could have had it all

Rolling in the deep

You had my heart and soul

And you played it

To the beat

Adele

"A bottle of Perrier-Jouet, two glasses. And make it quick, I don't have all day."

I look up curiously, recognising the snappish tone of the women I've only spoken to briefly over the telephone. She's tall, brunette and dressed in a black cap-sleeve pencil dress and sky-high black Louboutin pumps. Everything about her just oozes power, confidence and wealth. Her fingers are manicured, eyebrows unnaturally arched high and her hair is pulled back into a delicate twist over one shoulder; but it does nothing to soften her sharp features.

I watch as she scans the busy Il Mulino's Italian restaurant, impatiently sweeping past a long line of waiting customers and the maitre d', who watches her retreating back with pursed lips.

Though she doesn't know where I'm seated, let alone can probably even identify who I am; her eyes are narrowed, barely containing her annoyance at not being able to find me.

And the small, but ever growing part of me that already wants to duck and hide from this women, is a little bit entertained by the idea of watching her have to return back to the maitre d' and admit she needs help. And fingers crossed - if luck is on my side - watch her be sent to the back of the ever growing queue of customers.

Though watching that unfold could be the highlight of my day so far, I'm already realizing that I want this to end as soon as possible and cooperating with the brooding brunette is the only way forward.

I raise my fingers in the air and wave them grudgingly from my table, which is secluded in the corner of the exclusive restaurant. The lights are dimmed low, creating a relaxed and intimate atmosphere, so it's hard not to notice the glaring eyes which follow her path as she weaves in and out of the tight tables.

She spots me finally and gives me a curt smile but her eyes flash threateningly - as though somehow I planned to be hidden partially from her view. She bee-lines in my direction, forcing a waiter to wedge himself in between the packed tables. Though she doesn't even acknowledged him once, he smiles tightly at her and its the kind of grin which makes you realize that ordering any food from the menu is probably not a safe idea anymore. Not that she notices because she is far too focused on the Iphone in her palm, to realize the world is still turning around her.

Though I would normally insist on meeting at my office for our initial appointment, today we are meeting at a restaurant for convenience; since her fiancé is working close by. And since most of my clients have busy schedules, I like to be flexible and work around them as much as possible. After all, this is often a necessity for an average client. And though its never normally an issue; today I'm really regretting that decision because I'm consciously aware that I'm about to be associated with this woman, who in the space of a minute has managed to offend everyone in sight. And it doesn't bode well for the future at all, because my forceable future will be spent with this person. During early mornings and long nights; I will be in the firing line for all the tears and tantrums because this woman is my new client.

My new bride-to-be.

Fucking marvelous.

When I look back on my life, I want to say that I enjoyed a challenge; that every experience was a learning curve. But right now in this moment, every inch of my body is screaming at me to get up and escape. It's not like there isn't a million other wedding planners in New York City, right? Can't I just say that my personal assistant made a mistake with my appointments and now I'm overbooked?

If only it was that simple.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that looks can be deceiving and that somewhere under all of that hostility and layers of makeup, could be a puppy loving, patchwork making, polite woman who deserves to have the wedding she has always imagined. And if that is the case, then she has definitely hired the correct person.

She finally arrives at my table, dubiously eying the pitcher of iced water I ordered earlier. It's a business meeting after all, but I don't feel the need to explain my choice of beverage because that would set the wrong tone to all our future appointments. And I'm not about to inadvertently consent to be walked over by a snobby little rich girl, who thinks she knows best.

I smile back in challenge, knowing this is some lame attempt at establishing the pecking order. And though generally the clients call the shots; I'm New York's most sought after Wedding Planner for a reason and I'm not about to waste my time, working my ass off for a bratty bride-to-be who acts like they don't even need me. Because they do. They always do.

"Isabella Swan?" She questions, dropping her Chloe Paddington onto the table with a loud bang. She slides into the booth across from me, barely glancing up from the Iphone which is still glued to her palm. I wait patiently, thinking that she will look up and acknowledge me - maybe even smile apologetically for being interrupted during our scheduled meeting. But she doesn't even blink.

"Hello Miss Weber, it's a pleasure to meet you," I concede, extending my hand politely towards the one still tapping away at the phone. It's a subtle attempt to try and encourage her to put it down and as expected, she ignores it. I sit back, arms crossed as she waves me off arrogantly, flaunting the square-cut Tiffany's engagement ring on her dainty little finger in the process. I'm betting she practiced that move down to a tee when she got that beast on her finger and it makes me even more angry.

"My fiancé is behind schedule at the office," she explains, finally looking up and dropping the Iphone onto the table with an eye roll.

I nod back gently, trying to hide me annoyance, but her hostility has left me feeling awkward and uncomfortable. And pissed. I curl my fingers into my palm and take a few calming breaths, before speaking. "Well that's not a problem. We can begin by just having a quick chat about what you're planning and then I'm sure your fiancé can catch up when he arrives?"

She rolls her eyes, muttering unintelligibly before pulling a fuchsia pink ring binder out of her handbag. I try to hide my grimace, but she spies me from the corner of her eye, nodding back almost sympathetically. As though she agrees with my dislike of wedding books. Don't get me wrong, its natural for brides to have a general idea of how, or what they want their wedding to look like. And it'd be a lie if I didn't admit that having a client be able to literally show me how they envisage their wedding is invaluable. But there is always the odd bride who won't sway from the ideas ripped from twenty-five year old, discolored wedding brochures and collaged together through six-year-old eyes and it's a fucking nightmare.

It lands with a loud smack on the table and I grasp my glass of water, fearing it's going to spill over and ruin the sparkly decorative cover. But the small glimmer of hope I see come to surface in her eye, as the glass wobbles precariously, makes me think that it might not be such a terrible thing after all.

"Knock yourself out," she says, pushing the folder towards me - almost in distaste. I stare in horror at the sickeningly bulging thing, while she sits back in silence; focusing her gaze somewhere behind me.

I use the awkward moment to gently flip through the pages, but her words are echoing around my head and I barely concentrate on any of the ideas, or swatches of materials I can feel under my fingertips. And I know I should be asking questions about the contents; about the reason's behind certain color choices and themes, if only to get a better idea of who she is and what she wants. But if I'm honest, I'm kind of getting the impression that she'd rather be anywhere but here right now and it makes me wonder why I've been hired at all.

Her phone vibrates against the pine wood and she grabs it instantly. Though I try not to stare, I'm intrigued when her face morphs into a small smile.

"Finally," she breathes and I slide my finger through the page as a marker, before closing the folder.

"I think I'll stop here then, if he's on his way?" I ask. Mainly because there are so many ideas, color schemes and themes running through the folder, that I want to speak to the couple together and work out what they both envision.

She stares at me in confusion, her eyes narrowing in irritation.

"What?" She snaps.

"Your fiancé?" I gesture to the phone.

"Yes he's on his way." She spits, throwing another eye roll in my direction and I try to ignore her antagonizing tone. I pick up my glass of water, realizing I need to preoccupy myself before I say something in the heat of the moment. She stares at the pitcher of water still on the table, before angrily turning towards me again - completely oblivious to the warring going on within me. "Where is the waiter? I want to order a real drink. God is everyone here incompetent?"

Though I know that comment is partially aimed at me, I bite my tongue because I'm not going to rise to her level. Especially not in a restaurant I frequent so often, surrounded by New York's most elite; idle gossip does nothing for a career in this city that never sleeps. But I'm no superhuman, and I realize that if I look at her for any longer - I probably will snap. So I open the folder again, paying more attention to the pages this time; if only to avoid talking to her.

It feels like forever before a waiter appears at the table and though she has had a long time to peruse the wine list - she almost seems to panic - spouting off the name of what is obviously a random Champagne from the list, in a poor imitation of French; as though she is a well versed Sommelier. I try to hide my smile, but when the waiter turns to me; it seems we both agree she opted for that particular wine, for its price over anything else. The almost obnoxious shimmering stone on her finger proves that.

The waiter disappears briefly and returns with the bottle and two champagne flutes. He places one directly in front of me and her eyes narrow again. Before I understand what is happening, she reaches forward to snatch the glass away from me and places it in front of the empty chair to her right. "Just me and my fiance," she gestures to the empty chair. "But he's running a bit late" She adds. The waiter nods gently, and continues to fill up the flutes - managing not to flinch when she greedily snatches up the glass closest to herself before its fully filled. She tilts it in my direction and smirks before adding "Isabella here is strictly on water tonight."

I bite my tongue, but I struggle to contain my eye roll. Who does she think she is? If I wanted to have a glass of champagne, money would definitely not be the issue. Hell, I could order a whole box of the overpriced beverage and not even flutter an eyelid. But mocking my choice of drink is both unnecessary and immature. It makes me wonder how much she really knows about me after all...

I turn to the book again, flicking through the pages with more force than necessary - but I can't help it. I don't think I've ever met such a fricking obnoxious women and I'm so close to calling this whole thing off.

Time seems to pass, and neither of us talk. She sips her champagne, topping the glass up so many times I loose count and I flip the pages - not even bothering to hide my aversion to its contents.

Two can play this game bitch.

I'm staring at a horrendously glittered page when she calls breathlessly; breaking the tense atmosphere. "Honey!" She calls again, before standing up and pushing away from the table. Though her sudden outburst has caused the restaurant to become almost silent. She begins to wave her hands in the air in a movement so uncharacteristic and carefree; I'm left speechless. And I'm aware that I'm now staring at her - and I'm not even ashamed enough to try and hide it because I'm hooked. Her eyes are sparkling, her skin almost glowing. And she's fucking smiling. Who is this person and what has she done with the conceited women from a few moments ago?

In a hurry, she steps away from the table gracefully; the excitement just rolling off her and I sink into the chair in relief. Maybe I have found the antidote to calm the storm? I make a mental note to make sure that her fiance is present at every single future meeting. No excuses - I can't do this alone.

Though I don't turn around to look, I hear murmurs of disgust and low tuts echo from the surrounding tables and I realize she's probably treating the whole restaurant to a very public display of affection and not one part of me is shocked..

I use her brief absence to search through my bag for a pen and while I wait for the newly engaged couple to finish their snog-fest, I tap it gently against the notepad on the table; mentally preparing the introductory questions I want to ask.

But then I hear it. That familiar low, honey-laced laugh and it breaks my rhythm. Just the thought of him makes my skin start to prickle and I hate it. I close my eyes, willing all thoughts of that low musical chuckle away, so I can concentrate on the couple making their way over towards me. Because this is what I do. This is what I'm good at.

When I hear movement close to the table, I slowly open my eyes and I see Angela first; smiling warmly at me and tugging along the suited arm of her fiancé. I smile back at her - if only to keep the peace and stand up awkwardly. I'm consciously aware that my ass is going to graze the person sat behind me, since the tables are pushed so close together, but there's nothing I can do. I can feel myself flush in embarrassment at the prospect of knocking something over; so I keep my eyes focused down until I'm a safe distance from the table and it's expensive crystal. Finally I extend my hand across the table, looking up into the vivid, forest-green eyes, I know will be the downfall of me again.

"Isabella Swan, I'd like you to meet my fiancé. Edward Cullen."

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Leave me some wedding favors?

A

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