Summer at the Little Wedding Shop: The hottest new release of summer 2017 - perfect for the beach!
Jane Linfoot
‘A sparkling, laugh-out-loud, romantic read’ Phillipa Ashley, bestselling author of Summer at the Cornish Cafe‘The perfect holiday read to warm your heart’ #1 Bestselling author Tracy BloomThe third book in the bestselling series, ‘The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea’.When the owner of Brides by the Sea, Cornwall’s cutest little wedding shop, offers Lily a job as their new wedding stylist, her first thought is – can she possibly pull it off?Before she’s even sourced a fairy light or tasted a cupcake, Kip Penryn hires her services – but he’s opened an exclusive wedding venue in direct competition to her friend Poppy!Lily feels like a traitor working for Kip, only everyone knows Penryn men are gorgeous but unreliable. All she has to do is sit back and watch him mess it up…doesn’t she?Love is in the Cornish sea breeze this summer as the girls tackle their busiest wedding season yet. There’s plenty of bunting, bubbly and baking – but who is going to catch the bouquet?‘Funny and big-hearted, I was enchanted by Lily and her friends’ Sunday Times bestselling author Michele Gorman‘A pure delight…fabulous, fun and unforgettable’ – Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of ‘Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe’
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017
Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2017
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Ebook Edition © May 2017
ISBN: 9780008190514
Version 2017-04-12
PRAISE FOR JANE LINFOOT (#u4a74aa64-dacf-52cc-ac8e-85144ffdf9bc)
‘The perfect holiday read to warm your heart’
Tracy Bloom, #1 bestselling author No One Ever Has Sex on a Tuesday
‘Jane Linfoot has got out the mixing bowl and whipped up a truly gorgeous story…A deliciously scrumptious treat’
Rebecca Pugh, bestselling author of Return to Bluebell Hill
‘Just like the perfect wedding cake, Cupcakes and Confetti is beautifully crafted and wrapped in romance’
Heidi Swain, bestselling author of The Cherry Tree Cafe
‘A pure delight…fabulous, fun and unforgettable’
Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of The Birthday That Changed Everything
‘Simply stunning’
A Spoonful of Happy Endings
‘Gorgeous book with characters full of heart, and an impassioned story to make you smile’
Reviewed the Book
‘This author packs a punch’
My Little Book Blog
‘Loved this book. The main characters are vividly drawn…the writing is fast and feisty’
Contemporary Romance Reviews
‘With every book I read I fall more in love’
Booky Ramblings
For Anna and Jamie, Indi and Richard, Max and Caroline, M, and Phil xx
Table of Contents
Cover (#uce5b0936-3dd5-565b-9292-b52a3be1c063)
Title Page (#ud0b66406-2191-5466-9cae-362d4255df01)
Copyright (#u4b558d6c-2495-5e49-b96a-cd7d88a1cd32)
Praise for Jane Linfoot (#u658ec1cd-a87c-58aa-a288-e6743feea04c)
Dedication (#uac74f38e-2045-56c9-8d21-19b121e2035e)
Author Note (#u2e6a3b22-b189-58c3-b02e-cedf90f4e9a7)
Epigraph (#udd555765-9649-568c-ac0b-10d45fd6d9f0)
Chapter 1 (#u93ea20af-4370-53f7-948c-67068207faa9)
Chapter 2 (#u8b59f842-a875-56f3-84b1-9b11c0384c60)
Chapter 3 (#ua059445f-7a40-533b-b5bc-4f386258d7ce)
Chapter 4 (#ub87086b6-8b99-5366-b5f7-8d682215ca35)
Chapter 5 (#u6b69de0f-77f1-5e16-979f-33fe66bac8d7)
Chapter 6 (#u3b41248b-f67c-5a9a-a4ec-afec2f50c0d7)
Chapter 7 (#u76f1c7fa-7637-5766-8cfe-779c7e4d7241)
Chapter 8 (#ud4985dd1-4431-5895-8683-69984b1d8fb5)
Chapter 9 (#ue2cf715c-68fe-563f-b453-d49170eb967b)
Chapter 10 (#u4cd1703f-a4db-56aa-960d-54a70c1b0b62)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Favourite Summer Cocktails from Brides by the Sea (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Jane Linfoot (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#u4a74aa64-dacf-52cc-ac8e-85144ffdf9bc)
Each of the stories about Poppy, Sera, Lily, Jess, and their friends at Brides by the Sea can be read on its own. If you like to read consecutively, this is the order:
The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea
Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop
Summer at the Little Wedding Shop
I hope you have as much fun reading the books as I’ve had writing them, love Jane xx
To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow. Audrey Hepburn
Chapter 1 (#u4a74aa64-dacf-52cc-ac8e-85144ffdf9bc)
Tuesday, 14th February
At Brides by the Sea: Roving reporters and the older mindset
‘In love with love,
on February 14th … ’
It’s past six as I pause on the step of Brides by the Sea. As the warm light shines out into the darkness, the Valentine’s Day motto on the glass of the door catches my eye. Well yes, I know, that’s what it’s meant to do. It’s only a few white painted letters and three heart-shaped dots, but there’s still a horrible twist in my chest as I see it.
I know it’s stupid. I’m fine with wedding shops because I come here so often. And wedding dresses still give me a thrill. It’s St blinking Valentine I hate. Every other day of the year I’ve learned to be happily single. But February 14th is so damned coupley. For people like me who once had it all and blew it, it’s hell.
What went wrong? If the wind wasn’t howling so hard I’d tell you more. As it is, a breeze off the bay like today’s can turn the silkiest hair into a haystack in two seconds flat. I didn’t put in an entire hour of straightening earlier to end up with frizz.
Usually I’d spend the day hiding out at home. But today I’ve come to – excuse the groans – a Valentine’s day wedding party. The worst of all worlds then. But before I have the chance to tell myself off for faltering so early, the shop door flies open so fast I almost topple off my new Kurt Geiger platforms.
‘Lily, perfect timing. What’s the news from Bath? How was your journey? Come on in, Poppy and I are in the White Room, everyone else has gone home to get ready …’
It’s Jess, talking at a hundred miles an hour, and scattering so many air kisses I have time to clamp my wind-blown hair back down, swoon at the snowy suede Jimmy Choo heels on the shoe display and get my inner wimp back into line. As I recover my balance, and we finally move off along the hallway, I notice she’s humming to herself.
‘What a lot of hearts,’ I say as I stretch out my hand to touch one of the strings in the window, and set them twirling. It’s an understatement. Even if they’re sending me to my secret unhappy place, I have to admit the clouds of printed paper shapes suspended in the displays are perfect against the exquisite white drifts of the lace dresses.
‘I’ll have you know those hearts are up-cycled from abandoned romance novels,’ Jess grins. ‘On trend, yet subliminally ironic.’ She fixes me with her fiercest gaze. ‘Flying the flag for all of us not in relationships.’
Meaning sad old me and her. The tragic ones. And moving on swiftly, because we’re really not that bad, now we’re safely inside I’ll bring you up to speed. Brides by the Sea is the biggest, most wonderful wedding emporium in Cornwall. Jess, the owner, built the business up using her post-divorce adrenalin burst, hence the heart-shaped irony. In ten years, the shop has grown from a one room shop where I first truly fell in love with flowers, to four storeys of bridal fabulousness, perched above St Aidan Bay. I used to work here as a florist, back when my engagement solitaire sparkled with promise, and my life stretched ahead of me with solid gold certainty. Our wedding, a move to be with Thom in Bath, two years saving up for a house, then we’d head to the country so I could grow the flowers I loved arranging. Just like I used to do with my dad as a child. Needless to say, we didn’t get far with those carefully laid plans.
As Jess waves a basket towards me, the scent of cocoa drifts up my nose. ‘Truffle?’
‘Maybe just one.’ We both know I’m joking here. The upside of Valentine’s Day at Brides by the Sea is the chocolate-fest. Ignoring my life-long diet, I close my eyes, and take a lucky dip. A second later my mouth explodes with a bitter-sweet mixture of white chocolate, coffee and alcohol. ‘Delish … is that Tia Maria?’ I do my best to keep my pleasure moans to a minimum. ‘Truly, I’ve been fantasising about Poppy’s truffles since I hit the M5.’
Drooling on the steering wheel is not a good look, but at least it stopped the lairy white-van men in their tracks. They usually have a field day passing my design-your-own Fiat 500, Gucci, which came off the production line so pink my poor boss spent the next two years apologising for it.
‘Have a Baileys one, they’ll blow your mind.’ Jess nods appreciatively as she looks me up and down. As she thrusts the basket at me, she’s humming again. ‘Fabulous suit by the way. Grey is such a versatile colour.’
Of all my friends, Jess is the only one who will know at a glance how many arms and legs my short jacket and tailored pants cost me. They’re my first ever dry-clean only items, bought as a present to myself, to celebrate a pay rise a few months back. Given I’m hopeless with clothes, but still trying to work my massive splurge to the max, I’ve added a silk shirt and some scarily high heels to party it up for tonight.
‘Work still okay?’ Jess’s question comes with an extra searching stare.
‘Brilliant.’ I say. Possibly too quickly. My breaking news is that the hotel chain where I was in charge of flowers has been taken over, and my job has dematerialised. But I’ve promised myself I’ll get to grips with that horror once I go back to Bath. Luckily as Jess and I move on through to the White Room the quiet perfection of the white painted floorboards and grey striped chaise longue whisk me straight back to my happy place. My fingers hover over the rail of hanging dresses as I pass, lingering over the most delicate diamanté detail on a lace bodice. It’s like a ritual. Every time I come back here I have to go round soaking up all the prettiness, almost touching, and checking out what’s come in since my last visit.
‘Ready for a pick you up?’ Jess grins.
Her familiar war cry goes back to the time when my dad died, and I used to call in here Friday evenings on my way to see my mum in Rose Hill village a few miles away. For months, it was only Jess’s straight talking and chocolate that got me through those awful weekends. Although I must admit this is the first time I’ve heard the not-so-dulcet tones of local radio on in the background in the White Room.
‘Lily, you’re just in time for the pre-wedding party drinks. Fancy some prosecco?’ Poppy, the shop cake maker, smiles as she emerges from the kitchen and drops a glass into my hand and a kiss on my cheek. ‘Don’t worry about driving, it’s taxis all the way from here.’ She’s the one who made the delectable truffles. Talking of which, I snaffle my next one as Jess comes past me.
‘Thanks Poppy,’ I laugh, ‘I half expected that to be a cupcake, not fizz.’ Poppy has a tiny kitchen on the top floor here, and she rushes around the shop with plates of goodies, looking for volunteers to sample her baking. Although she’s spent a lot more time this last year working at the local wedding venue at Daisy Hill Farm in Rose Hill, especially since she’s been going out with the boss there.
‘How’s Rafe?’ I ask. He’s the farmer in question, and every bit as lovely as Poppy deserves.
She grins. ‘Hungry as ever, and very busy.’
Given the flurry of romances at Brides by the Sea lately, you’d think someone had been scattering the cupid dust around. First there was Sam who does the dress fittings and alterations, whose wedding party we’re heading for this evening. The guy she’s marrying is called Sam too, so they’re known as Sam squared. Then Poppy and Rafe finally got together just before Christmas. And Sera, the dress designer, who has her studio above the shop, and a room dedicated to her creations, bumped into the love of her life at her sister’s Christmas wedding, and got her happy ever after moment too.
As I sink onto my favourite Mother of the Bride Louis Quatorze arm chair, Jess drops the chocolate basket on my knee. Which might be something she regrets later when I’ve eaten them all. Then, as she bends down to fiddle with the radio, I suddenly get it.
‘Brides by the Sea … You’re singing along to your very own jingle Jess!’ How could I have forgotten? ‘It’s the Pirate Radio Valentine’s promotion!’
Reading between the lines, Jess was sweet-talked by a cocoa-voiced guy in ad sales. She may have gone all ironic with her shop displays, but when it comes to business opportunities and husky voices she’s right on the ball. When the ad sales guy pointed out that every Valentine’s romance in Cornwall could end with a bride shopping at Brides by the Sea, Jess agreed to run ads all week. She also had the inspired idea of giving away wedding bouquets and a money-off-the-dress voucher for every bride who is proposed to live on Pirate Radio today.
‘We’re waiting for a little surprise before we head off to the party.’ Jess wiggles her eyebrows at Poppy and me as she turns up the volume on the radio.
‘So have there been many on-air proposals yet?’ I ask. Personally, I can’t think of anything worse. When Thom went down on one knee we were on the empty beach in St Aidan in winter. A rogue wave crashed onto him, and he almost dropped the ring. We both laughed a lot at the time, but looking back that cold water soaking was pretty much a metaphor for where we were heading.
‘We’ve had live proposals from all across the county. They’ve got roving reporters, and we’re trending on Twitter.’ Jess’s smile is close to ecstatic. ‘Someone popped the question on a yacht in Falmouth, the next was on a tandem on the Camel Trail, and someone else took the plunge in a fishing boat off Land’s End.’ No wonder she’s sounding happy, with so many potential wedding dress sales here. ‘And I’m pretty sure the next place the Pirate Radio reporters will be going is the fire station …’ Jess reins in her smile, and gives me one of her significant nods.
‘Really?’ Another friend of ours from Rose Hill is going out with a fireman. ‘Is it Immie?’ If I’m sounding surprised, it’s only because until last summer you’d have said gruff, straight-talking Immie was the last person who’d ever get married.
Poppy’s voice is a squeak as she nods. ‘It’s top secret, but Chas is proposing. Immie’s going to pick him up for Sam’s wedding party, but he’s waiting with his ring. It should be any minute now.’
What was I saying about cupid dust? Immie works with Poppy, and looks after the holiday cottages at Daisy Hill Farm. I’ve known them forever because we all grew up in Rose Hill village. And Chas is Immie’s friendly fireman, who she got to know when his Daisy Hill Farm wedding went all kinds of wrong last summer. Except now things have worked out fine, because he’s about to try again. With Immie this time.
‘Okay, so are we ready for our next Pirate Radio Valentine’s proposal?’ As the DJ’s voice cuts in, we all lean towards the radio. ‘And we’re going across to Barbara and David in the biome at the Eden Project …’
Poppy lets out a wail. ‘What happened to Chas and Immie?’
Jess shushes her. ‘Don’t worry, they must be on next.’
‘Barbara and David are our super sixties, a couple of silver surfers who met on-line …’ The DJ sounds like he’s loving the novelty. ‘Hello Barbara …’
As Jess’s frown spreads across her forehead, she drops onto the edge of the chaise longue. ‘Not being ageist, but I’m not sure we’ll pick up a dress order from this one.’
Of all of us, Jess should be most in tune with the older mindset, given she’s closer to fifty than twenty. As for me, I’m sizing up the truffles on my knee, deciding which one to go for next. In the end, I go for one that’s been rolled in desiccated coconut. It’s half way into my mouth, when a peel of laughter comes out of the radio, and stops me dead.
First I go icy cold, then a split second later I break out in a sweat.
The only Barbara I ever met with a laugh like that is my mum. Although obviously it can’t be her, because my mum definitely doesn’t date. Talking of my mum, growing up, the only thing that saved me was my sensible, down to earth dad. And I miss him like mad. Although from her side it’s not all roses either. I was apparently ‘this’ close to becoming the ‘yummy mummy’ she wanted me to be when I married Thom. Me messing up on that one was a sackable offence.
Then Barbara chimes in on the radio. ‘The Eden Centre’s where we had our first date …’ and I almost drop the chocolate basket because from those cut-glass vowels, this could be my mum’s twin. It isn’t as if this Barbara’s even getting the name of the place right. Which is another thing that ties in horribly, because Mum does that all the time.
‘Omigod, are you thinking what I am?’ My eyes lock onto Poppy and Jess’s. It suddenly occurs to me that I did once meet a David on the stairs at my mum’s house, changing a light bulb. ‘It can’t be my mother …?’ Can it?
Poppy’s face is scrunched in confusion. ‘I didn’t know your mum had a boyfriend?’
‘Me neither.’ I’m shaking my head and my stomach’s turned to stone. ‘But, shit, if she’s on Pirate Radio getting proposed to, she must have.’
Barbara – or rather my mum – sounds even more up-beat than usual.
‘I can’t possibly imagine why David’s brought me to the beautiful Mediterranean dome … on Valentine’s Day …’ Her voice is loud, yet breathy. Even on the radio, I can tell she’s ready to burst. Although you can excuse her for being excited. It’s completely obvious she knows what’s about to happen.
Poppy’s hand flies over her open mouth. ‘Oh shit, it really is her, Lily.’ As she listens her puzzled expression softens. ‘It’s like something off Married at First Sight. I can’t believe she’s about to get proposed to.’
‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.’ I jam my hands over my ears, because this is so many kinds of wrong. I don’t want to hear someone asking my mum to marry them. My mum doesn’t want to get married, she isn’t even over my dad dying yet. Somewhere along the line my thoughts start rushing out of my mouth. ‘And why the hell are they at the Eden Project? My mum’s the least green person on the planet. She hates gardening, she never recycles. As far as she’s concerned ecology’s a virus that gives you the runs. Please tell me this isn’t real …’
Poppy tugs at my sleeve. ‘It’s over now, you can unblock your ears.’
I shut my eyes tightly and tell myself to breathe. ‘How did he sound?’ My voice is a croak.
Poppy’s treading carefully here. ‘Nervous …’
I open my eyes a crack. ‘She said “yes” didn’t she?’ As if she’d have said anything else.
Poppy nods, although given the background clapping is deafening, I hardly need ask. There’s a few more whoops from the radio, then my mum’s coming through again, loud and clear.
‘A huge thank you to Pirate Radio and everyone here at Eden Valley. David and I are completely delighted, we’ll be having a summer wedding, and I promise we’ll be doing all our shopping at Brides by the Sea …’
I’m biting back my pangs at how word perfect she is.
‘A summer wedding?’ This is typical Jess, latching on to the practicalities. ‘They’ll need to get a move on to pull that one off.’
‘Unbelievable. Completely unbelievable.’ It comes out sounding a lot meaner than I intend, but if your mum springs something like this on you, it’s hard not to feel left out.
Poppy raises her eyebrows, and sighs. ‘Give yourself time, Lily, it might not seem so bad when you’re used to it.’
I know Poppy’s only being helpful. But getting used to it is something else.
‘I’m very happy for her.’ I force out the words, even though I’m not sure I am. Actually, I don’t know what to think.
Jess is tugging at her scarf. ‘This is definitely a wake-up call. We need to consider older brides. I can’t think how we’ve overlooked them before.’ Then she leaps up, grabs the prosecco bottle, fills my glass to overflowing, and hands it back to me. ‘Drink that, it’ll help with the shock. I’ll go and get the gin.’
As I inhale a huge slug of fizz, the DJ’s working the moment for all he’s worth. ‘So Barbara and David, what’s next for you?’
And my mum’s off again. Gushing doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘All the beautiful flowers in the dome here remind me that I was offered a free bouquet, but my daughter will be growing the flowers for mine, so any one else wanting lovely wedding flowers should get in touch too, she’ll have plenty for everyone …’
What? I can’t believe what I’m hearing. If she carries on like this they’ll have to fade her out. Which luckily for me, they do. I’ve never been more relieved to reach an ad break. As for which daughter is going to grow her wedding flowers, it isn’t like she’s got another. I’m her only one.
And almost as if the last three minutes never happened, we’re back with the maddeningly up-beat DJ, who obviously has no idea his bloody radio station just turned my whole world upside down.
‘And we’re moving on with T-rex and Hot Love. Because our next Pirate Radio proposal will be coming from … the fire station in St Aidan.’
‘Yay! Go Immie.’ Poppy whoops, and punches the air. But by the time she meets my eye, her worried look’s back. ‘At least Chas let us in on this. One unexpected proposal in a day is quite enough for anyone.’
She’s right about that. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to face a coconut truffle again. But what do they say about every cloud? The engagement excitement might eclipse the fact that my own life is in free fall. And after hearing my mother agree to marry a boyfriend I didn’t know existed, Sam’s Valentine’s wedding party is going to be a piece of cake.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_6f87025a-4038-5b15-b85d-bbb44125bdcb)
Tuesday, 14th February
The Goose and Duck: Pond life and matching cushions
‘I can’t believe the party’s going so fast, it’s eleven already,’ I say, as Jess, Poppy and I grab an empty table, and put down our tray of colourful drinks. ‘What’s more, apart from my killing feet, I’m having a fab time.’ Given my heels are at least four inches too ambitious, it’s bliss to sink into a chair and kick off my shoes.
Poppy laughs. ‘Hey Lily, you match the cushions.’
I glance down at the checked upholstery. ‘If I’d remembered the Goose and Duck’s wall-to-wall taupe make-over, I might have worn something else.’ Although, unlike my mum, who revels in day-glow chrysanthemum prints, I’m happiest blending into the background.
Jess is slurping her electric blue drink with gusto. ‘It’s been non-stop fun. Supper, speeches, cake cutting, first dance. And now romantic drinks. You have to love a cocktail called Scarlett O’Hara.’ Although she’s possibly losing track. She’s rattling through the drinks list so fast she’s currently throwing down Sex on the Driveway.
Behind us the room is buzzing, full of Sam and Sam’s friends and family, who we mostly know because they’re from the village.
‘Look at that.’ Jess nods indulgently through a gap in the crowd towards the snug, where Immie is being twirled around on her high heeled Doc Martens by new fiancé, Chas, watched proudly by Immie’s son, Morgan. ‘They’re doing so well not to upstage the bride and groom.’ She’s right. Immie’s I’m going to marry a fireman T-shirt is perfect. Understated, yet says it all. If Chas is choosing engagement gifts like that, she’s found herself a gem there. Although we probably knew that already.
Poppy twirls the umbrella from her drink. ‘And the engagement ring is a great touch. Very Immie.’
Chunky purple plastic. For now. For a down-to-earth girl. That’s Chas playing safe this time around. According to village legend, his ex-fiancée, who dumped him just before their wedding was so super-fussy she swapped the ring he bought her four times.
‘It’s a shame their proposal was mostly beeped out,’ I say. Apparently when Chas dropped down the fireman’s pole, ring box in hand, Immie was so stunned, all she came out with was a stream of expletives. ‘I wasn’t taking much in after the shock of my mum, but I’d still have liked to hear it.’
‘Have you spoken to your mum yet, Lily?’ Five cocktails in, yet Jess is straight on my case.
I search for my happy voice, but don’t find it. ‘Only for a few seconds. They were out celebrating at The Harbourside Hotel.’
Jess is straight back at me. ‘Gooseberry time. You’d better stay at mine tonight.’
It’s an order not an invitation, although knowing how Jess likes to party, it’ll most likely be morning by the time we get in.
‘When I finish this Kiss On The Lips, I’d better go and talk to Rafe.’ Poppy raises her fruit filled glass, and sends him a wave as she catches his eye. He’s the tallest guy in the group of hunky farmers chatting together at the bar, and he rocks the ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ cliché with every inch. Although it’s Poppy who made him that way. Before he met her, he was grumpy and plain. Which just goes to show what love can do to you.
‘These Chocolate Cherry Cha Chas are giving me a warm fuzzy feeling.’ I say, as I sink my teeth into my umpteenth wedding cupcake of the night. Poppy’s finest, with swirls of pink buttercream, and a smattering of sugar hearts. I’m trying not to think of my mum as I take out the decorative ‘I do’ cards on sticks. It’s not as if it even matters if I grow out of my suit trousers, given I won’t actually have a job for much longer.
I sigh as I brush the cake crumbs off my boob shelf, then remember to smile. ‘It’s a change to come to a wedding party in a pub, rather than somewhere bigger.’ The Sams just bought their first house, so she made her own dress, the ceremony was just for the family, and the evening guest list was for meaningful friends only. But given Brides by the Sea couldn’t work without her, Jess has pulled in favours from all sides too.
Poppy’s eyes widen in alarm at what I meant to be a throwaway comment. ‘Don’t say simple weddings are a new trend. Expanding the business at Daisy Hill Farm is literally scaring the G-string off me.’
Ooops. Talk about sticking my foot in it. Last summer the weddings at Daisy Hill Farm were mostly in marquees and tipis in the fields, but Rafe and Poppy are busy upgrading the buildings, so they can have weddings there all year round.
Jess jumps straight in to smooth things over. ‘Don’t worry, everyone loves a country wedding.’
I nod at Poppy. ‘Most couples want a big day to remember.’ Although what I remember about Thom and me getting married is mainly the arguing.
Poppy gives a shudder. ‘I just hope we can pull in enough bookings to make it pay.’
It’s obvious the next bit’s going to be weighty, because Jess puts down her drink. ‘You have to be brave to move forward, Poppy.’ Her voice is grave as she sits back in her seat, and rests her hands on the carved oak arms. ‘Courage is being scared to death, and saddling up anyway.’
‘Sorry?’ That’s a bit profound for this time of night. Poppy and I squint at each other. We might live in the country, but neither of us rides.
A low voice comes from behind me. ‘John Wayne said it. He was talking about metaphorical horses.’ It’s Rafe.
Poppy and I nod furiously. ‘We got the pony part.’ I can sense the teasing in Rafe’s eyes without even looking over my shoulder. Not that I’m comparing, but Thom never twinkled like that.
Rafe carries on. ‘Being scared is okay, especially if it means you’re pushing yourself. Wouldn’t you say, Poppy?’
Poppy’s face crumples as she deliberates.
‘My point exactly.’ Jess nods.
‘And we’ll all be here to help you make the business a success.’ I rush in, remembering too late that I actually won’t be.
Poppy’s grin is sheepish. ‘Okay, my wobble’s over. I’ll man up.’
‘Good to hear.’ Rafe reaches across to give her a fake punch on the arm. ‘And by the way Lily, Fred by the bar says “Hi”. He’s the Ryan Gosling look-alikey, waving like his arm’s about to drop off. And he thinks it might be love at first sight.’
As we all screw our heads around, we take in a guy with broad shoulders and a beam the width of St Aidan Bay, doing the kind of wave he’d do if he’d been shipwrecked without a distress flare.
‘Cool.’ Poppy sounds delighted. ‘Fred’s lovely, he’s helping with Rafe’s barn conversion. He split up with his long-term girlfriend last year, so I’d say he’s over the heartbreak, and ready to go. Funny, kind, exceptionally solvent, likes country pursuits and nice restaurants.’ She sends me a playful wink. ‘For anyone interested, that is. Not necessarily meaning you, Lily.’
I’m gawping at how much background detail she’s crammed in there. ‘Thanks, but I’m all good here, Poppy.’ I grin vaguely in the direction of the bar without actually making eye contact. ‘But please say “Hi” back.’
‘Will do,’ Rafe nods at me. ‘I don’t mean to interrupt, but Poppy did promise to teach me to dance tonight.’ He holds out a hand to her.
Poppy sighs, then begins to wiggle out from behind the table. ‘Rafe dancing? Now that is a scary thought.’ A second later his arm slides around her waist.
They’re about to wander off when the best man jumps up on a chair, rattling a spoon against a pint glass. As Poppy and Rafe stop, Jess and I sit up expectantly, to listen.
‘Okay, ladies. It’s bouquet throwing time.’
Jess and I slump back again, and she points at my glass. ‘That’s us off the hook. Time for another cocktail?’
The best man goes on. ‘Sam wants every lady out in the garden, regardless of status. Single, married, divorced, you’ve all got to come.’ There’s an undertow of surprised mumbling as the women head for the door.
‘That’s a new one on me.’ I tug on my jacket, and wince as I stuff my appalled toes back into my shoes. ‘Looking at all the stilettos, it’s probably just the landlord trying a fast fix to get his grass aerated.’
Jess looks at me as she slips on her coat. ‘Remember the first ever bridesmaid’s bouquet you made for me at the shop?’ Jess isn’t big on nostalgia, but she often goes back to this one.
As if I could forget. I was so nervous, I was shaking too hard to cut the stems. And I wanted it to be perfect. I grin at her, the same way I do every time she hauls out this story. ‘A white and yellow posy. With freesias and daisies, and trailing ribbons. Took me four hours to make.’ I was bursting with excitement when I finished it.
She’s shaking her head, laughing. ‘The look on your face, when I told you we needed five more the same.’
I pull a face. ‘Rookie mistake. Lucky for me you went easy on beginners.’
Her smile is indulgent. ‘Not at all, I could see your potential, even that first day.’ Which is nice of her to say, and reminds me what an appreciative boss she was. As she helps Sam’s Granny Kernighan towards the garden, she strikes up a loud running commentary. ‘Whoever catches this bouquet is supposed to have romantic good fortune very soon. It goes back to the days when touching a bride brought good luck, and fragments of wedding dress fabric were like charms. Throwing the bouquet was a way of stopping the crowd tearing the bride’s dress off as she left.’
I shiver as the wind rushes in from outside. ‘That’s barbaric. I’m not sure I’m happy with the voyeurs either.’ I can’t help noticing a lot of the guys are coming out to watch. If they’re hoping for a girl fight, there are two here who won’t be joining in.
As I hold the door open, I catch Mrs K’s eye. ‘What are you going to do with Mr Kernighan if you catch the bouquet and find another man?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ she laughs back, pulling her collar up against the cold. ‘There are lovely white roses and blue anemones in that bunch, so I won’t mind if I do catch it.’ She gives my arm a prod. ‘From the smile that handsome young chap by the bar gave you as we passed, I’d say you’re in there, even without the flowers.’
As we move out across the floodlit herringbone brick paving, I send Jess an eye roll over the top of Mrs K’s head, but she’s too busy agreeing with Mrs K to notice. Eye rolls to that too.
Now we’re outside, I can see there’s been a makeover here too. We used to hang out here as teenagers on summer evenings, with our lemonade shandies and cream sodas, but the rough ground has given way to a neat lawn and timber edged borders.
I’m not wasting any time. ‘Okay, let’s talk avoidance tactics. How about we head for the trees?’ Newly planted, in the shadows at the far end.
‘Good thinking.’ Jess gently passes Mrs K onto one of the women already bouncing on the front line. Talk about pushy. Some of them have even tossed aside their heels. Whatever happened to spiking the grass?
I shudder as I see their toes gripping the mud. ‘What a nightmare. It’s like school PE class all over again.’ My least favourite lesson. Along with maths. And science. As for competitions, I’m the world’s most disinterested competitor. Although if there was a competition for that, obviously, I’d be completely true to myself, and wouldn’t bother to enter.
‘Jules, it’s great to see you, and just in time for the scrum.’ It’s Jess, greeting her tamest, most blue eyed, floppy haired photographer. It might be my imagination, but his trademark pricey aftershave cloud seems even stronger in the dark. Jess narrowly misses getting swiped round the face as he flicks back his multi-coloured scarf. Even though she must have seen him already today, she stretches up to give him a peck. This isn’t just an air kiss either, it’s a maximum effort, lips-to-cheek job. Given how hard she’ll have leaned on him to come up with a best moments wedding album for a tiny fee for the Sams, it’s the least she can do.
‘Happy catching. Watch out for the water.’ Jules gives me my own wave, and bounds off to where Sam is positioning herself, flowers in hand, back towards us, by the pub doorway.
‘Water?’ Jess laughs, and does a funny little purr. ‘That boy is such a tease.’
I’m rubbing my arms because they’re freezing. I mean whose idea was it to come out here in February, when we could easily have gone through the whole charade on the dance floor?
‘Okay, here we go. It’s happening.’ At last. Given we’re well to the right, and so far away we’re almost in the darkness, I reckon we’re entirely out of range. From what I remember from netball at school, Sam’s even weedier than me when it comes to throwing.
‘One two three … THROW!’ That’s Jules. Whatever the wedding situation, he can’t resist taking charge.
Sam swings her arms and there’s a grunt as she lets go of the flowers. Then the bouquet flies upwards towards the starry sky. In a split second it’s already soared way over Mrs K’s head. It’s a strange spectacle when you’re completely detached and disinterested. There’s a flurry of disappointed moans as out-stretched arms drop, and heads along the entire front row turn to watch. The bouquet rises, tracing an extraordinary arc through the air. If Sam had been a champion hammer thrower, it couldn’t be travelling any faster. It’s hurtling safely to our left, then at the last moment it veers off like some kind of guided missile. The next thing I know, there’s a thump in my solar plexus, and I’m looking down at a bloody bouquet in my stomach.
‘Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhh.’ Horrified doesn’t begin to cover it. I fend off the flowers, flapping my hands, as if I’m shooing away a dog. Bouncing them as if I’m playing beach volleyball. There’s the feeling that if I don’t actually grasp the bouquet, it doesn’t count. I stagger backwards, make a feeble two handed re-launch, and spin it to land on Jess’s chest.
‘For chrissakes, Lily …’ Jess snaps.
But it’s too late. She’s put two hands on it. So now it’s nothing to do with me – it’s hers.
Phew. For a moment, there I thought I might have to go through the whole damned wedding hell again. Talk about near misses.
‘There’s no denying, you did catch it.’ Jess is talking at me through gritted teeth. ‘Or more importantly, it chose you. It was really quite extraordinary the way it did that.’
‘Yeah right.’ I don’t give a damn, because she’s the one holding it now.
Her nostrils flare. ‘It’s only a bit of fun, Lily. It’s not real, you do know that?’ She runs a critical finger over the edge of a rose petal, reminding me she was the one who put it together this morning, although frankly it’s too dim to see much at all. ‘I’ll give it to Mrs K, she’ll be delighted with it.’
‘Great, good idea, whatever …’ My one step backwards, into the shadows, is meant to distance me. Metaphorically rather than physically. Like stepping over a line in the sand. Especially as the crowd is moving towards us en masse, all clamouring to see who got the bouquet.
One step, but it feels like I’ve stepped off the edge of the world. The grass isn’t there, and my foot plunges over one of those dratted pieces of timber edging. Platform heels are nothing like as stable as the name makes them sound. When I topple, it’s backwards, in a series of staggers. I’m preparing myself to end up flat on my back in a border, with everyone gawping at me. Bad enough, but I’ll have to handle it. Then something whacks me on the back of the calves, and tips me over. The toppling I was doing before is nothing compared to this. As I plummet into oblivion, instead of the thumping impact of my backbone on soil, there’s a huge splash.
‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh …’ Every bit of air leaves my lungs as I plunge into freezing liquid. Even my shriek dwindles to nothing. I’m not sure if my skin is burning hot or ice cold. What I am is wedged. Totally stuck. With my bum, head and body in sub-zero water and my knees hooked over some kind of wall.
Jess’s voice is a squawk. ‘Good heavens, Lily, Jules did mean real water. How could we miss an above-ground pond?’
‘Did someone call me?’ A second later, Jules’ telephoto lens is pointing down at me.
Spluttering through clenched teeth, I point at his camera. ‘Don’t you dare!’ Seeing a couple of open mouthed faces appearing, I let out a wail. ‘Don’t just stand there, get me out …’
Out of nowhere some broad shoulders are blocking the sky, and strong fingers close around my wrist. ‘Great attention-grabbing stunt you pulled there. But we’d better get you back on dry land.’
Just my luck to get an ironic one. Where was lovely Chas the fireman when I needed him? Although on second thoughts, as Immie’s spectacularly absent too, don’t answer that. There’s a sudden panic I’ll be too heavy for this guy to lift dry, let alone wet. But I needn’t have worried. One easy yank later, I’m upright, water sluicing down onto my shoes. Even if I’m giving mental groans at how an LK Bennett dry-clean-only suit will stand up to a soaking, the good news is that somehow my Kurt Geigers stayed out of the water.
Despite my convulsive gasps, and the dimness of the garden up-lighters, when I look up the eyes I meet are smoky grey. They’re also disarmingly familiar considering they belong to a stranger. From the way his lips are twitching there’s a laugh bursting to get out. And he’s right about the audience. Beyond the straggling curtain of my hair, I make out a circle of wedding guests, clapping.
As I scrape the pond weed out of my eyes, my other hand is still clasped in his.
‘We might as well get the introductions out of the way.’ He gives another tug on my hand, and lets his smile go. ‘I’m Kip Penryn. Happy to drag you out of the carp pond.’
Penryn. I’m half way to being dazzled by the charm of it all, when the filing system in my brain catches up, and my stomach sags. Then shrivels. Back in the day Penryn meant rough denim, hot skin, and more brothers you could comfortably count on one hand. A motherless hoard, who descended on their uncle’s second – or third – home every summer. They’d roar in to the big house, and disappear just as fast. Wildly unreliable, and between them they covered every kind of bad. Filed under ‘B’ for ‘best forgotten’. At least that explains my racing heartbeat. Sending female pulses soaring off the scale is programmed into the Penryn DNA.
I drag myself back to reality. ‘A carp pond? At the Goose and Duck? Aren’t carp huge? I could have been eaten.’ Bloody Alan Titchmarsh has a lot to answer for.
‘Probably only goldfish in there.’ He leans closer, examining the leaf he drags out of my hair. ‘And water lilies, by the looks of this.’ Now that super-smile of his has gone, he’s back to the kind of hollow cheeked chic we all know is best avoided.
‘So what are you doing here … Kip, is it?’ I’m ransacking my brain, trying to remember all the names. And work out if we’ve met before. That’s the other thing with Penryns. There’s no point backing off, you have to face them out.
‘Apart from rescuing drowning damsels?’ He gives another sardonic laugh. ‘I’m from the exclusive local wedding venue, Rose Hill Manor.’ Many more laughs like that could get annoying.
‘Right.’ Two out of ten for an answer that explains zilch. But the Manor’s where Sera-the-dress-designer’s sister got married at Christmas. They only have about two friends-and-family weddings a year there. Which is a bit of a strange thing to refer to, but whatever. There’s something about him that makes me push. ‘So how come you know Sam, whose wedding we’re at now?’
‘I don’t.’ His shrug is unrepentant. ‘I dropped in for supper at the pub, and had to settle for left over hog roast. That’s why it’s worth paying for an “exclusive use” wedding venue every time.’ He actuallydoes the finger wiggle speech marks. And there’s that damned laugh again. ‘Exclusive use means you avoid random strangers like me looking for pasties and crashing your wedding party. As you’ve found out, it’s well worth paying for.’
What a disgusting attitude. As for him scoffing the hog roast, I’m so angry I’ve practically got steam coming out of my suit pockets. I’m opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish – or maybe a carp – because I’m in so much of a rage the words won’t come out. But then a knight in shining armour walks in to fill the gap with his smile.
I’m joking here, obviously. It’s Rafe’s friend who was waving at me earlier. Wearing a three-piece tweed and brogues, not chain mail. As he shoulders Kip out of the way, he’s whipped off his jacket. And he’s holding it out to me.
‘You’re shivering. Here, take this.’ His Cornish burr is soft after Kip’s clipped moneyed vowels. ‘We’d better get you inside.’
The jacket’s heavy as it wraps around me, but it immediately stops the wind. As for my knight, he’s all boy-next-door, and close up his smile is even easier than it was from across the room. Which is way less disconcerting than the Penryn high-wattage version.
‘Here, take these …’
If I’d actually got around to shutting my mouth, I needn’t have bothered. The next moment, he’s handing me his waistcoat, and what the hell …? He’s pulled his shirt off over his head, and he’s handing me that too. I try to make my eyes less wide. Close them even. Not that I’m an expert, but as torsos go, this one’s ripped.
‘If you wanted a stripper, you only had to say …’ It’s Kip, laughing in my ear, before backing off across the grass. ‘Catch you later, Water Lily.’
What? I stamp on the shiver that rattles through me. The name thing has to be a coincidence. He can’t know me.
‘He’s right, we should go inside.’ It’s Jess, her hand on my arm. ‘Fabulous apps though.’ She’s not wrong. Apart from the obvious.
‘Abs, not apps.’ However many times I say it, it doesn’t go in. ‘Apps are on your phone, Jess, abs are …’ I stop short of drawing any more attention to what’s right in front of our noses. Despite the over-powering smell of wet pond, the scent coming up from the jacket wrapped around me is a lot like Jules. Only considerably more subtle.
Jess is steering me back towards the pub. ‘We’ll dry you off, and get a taxi back to town.’
But Rafe’s bare chested friend is on our heels, protesting. ‘You can’t leave now. There’s clearly enough clothes here for both of us.’
When I run my fingers through my sopping hair, it’s a mass of straggly curls. Worst case scenario. ‘I don’t know.’ What’s more, as we come back into the brightness of the pub, the only visible patch of my silk top is completely transparent.
There’s another waft of Jules’ scent, as Rafe’s bare-chested friend leans in close enough to nudge my elbow. ‘We all saw you looking gorgeous before. That’s what I’ll remember when I see the damp version.’
Excuse me while I faint. I can’t remember when anyone last paid me this kind of compliment. Although to be honest, I usually manage to fight off attention before it gets to the point of people saying nice stuff to me. Even Jules knows to keep his distance – or else – and he’s very huggy. Has someone sprinkled fairy dust on me? Is this the bouquet effect? Should I be shoutingjeez, I’m not marrying anyone? And then it dawns on me. All that’s happened is I let my guard down. Who wouldn’t when they were dripping wet and had just been hauled out of a garden pond? So there’s no need to panic here. I mean, I really wasn’t the one who caught the bouquet anyway. If anyone needs to watch out here it’s Jess.
‘So what do you think? Stay and party or back to town for cocoa and an early night?’ Jess’s eyebrows are raised expectantly.
We both know she’s bluffing about going to bed. It would be a quick shower for me, then Jaggers until dawn. Jaggers, for those who aren’t local, is a cocktail bar in St Aidan, with red perspex tables, a teenage clientele, and a penchant for Sex on the Beach happy hours. And if it’s a choice between that or this, even if it means letting my wavy hair out in public, there’s only one way to go.
Which is how I come to spend the rest of the Sams’ wedding in the landlady’s Pilates leggings. Wearing an oversized white shirt that smells of algae and photographer, with a tie for a belt. Talking to a farmer wearing only a waistcoat over a bare chest. Who reminds me his name is Fred.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_b7d7d1a1-7966-5d88-aee4-710859bda1e5)
Wednesday, 15th February
At Brides by the Sea: Beginning with flowers
‘Great, now we can get down to proper business.’ Jess puts down her coffee, and pulls up a chair at her table in the corner of the White Room.
Considering how late it was when we got back to St Aidan last night, we were up and out startlingly early. I swear I was still comatose as we hit the bakery and the dry cleaners. Not that there was anything dry about my poor suit as I handed it over. The assistant at Iron Maidens promised they’d do what they could. But given her groan as she peered at the sodden fabric in the Tesco bag, I’m not hopeful.
‘Right.’ As I stare at the stack of pastries towering next to the appointments book my stomach wilts. ‘Actually, I might save the pain au raisin for later, thanks.’ I have no idea how Jess is dashing around with so much enthusiasm, when I’ve barely woken up. Although now I come to think about it, her stamina is legendary. At parties and in the workplace, she’s always the last woman standing.
She runs her fingers through her hair. ‘When I said working breakfast, I wasn’t talking toast, Lily. I want to discuss your job. The one that’s disappearing in the company takeover?’
My mouth drops open. Was I talking in my sleep? That would be the lost job I didn’t mention to anyone at all last night. The one I’m not even thinking about. ‘You know?’
From the way Jess is pursing her lips and clenching her fists, she’s building up to something. ‘News travels fast in the business community. And I assume your accommodation’s going with it?’
Ouch. No messing. Straight for the jugular.
My mouth is so dry, my voice is a croak. ‘I’ve got two weeks to get out. But I get to keep the car.’ One tiny compensation in the whole mess of my imploding life. That’s the worst part of a live-in job. When they offered me a room in the staff quarters after Thom and I split up, I didn’t think it through to the point of takeovers, years down the line. I let out a long sigh, because although I’d meant to keep this secret, it’s a relief that Jess knows.
Jess narrows her eyes. ‘Did you enjoy the work?’
The question catches me unawares. Being fully responsible for a team, putting fresh flowers in every room in ten boutique hotels was a niche job. It began with flowers for the tables in one restaurant, expanded into front of house and bedrooms, and went exponential as they bought more properties. I’m unlikely to find another job like it. Certainly not in two weeks. But by the end, the job was so large, my assistants were the ones who got to do the fun parts, while I chewed my knuckles into the small hours, over orders and budgets.
‘The work was fine. Except I haven’t actually touched a flower for ages.’ Now I stop to think about it, I miss that. Without realising it, I’d given up the part of the job I loved most. The reason I first came to work with Jess was because I was crazy about flowers, and Jess’s tiny shop window showcased the most amazing bridal bouquets. Believe it or not, Brides by the Sea began as Jess selling flowers in one room before it expanded to four floors of loveliness. Every other flower shop I’d seen in Cornwall back then had the same old same old. And the florists where I found a job straight out of college were so old fashioned, the owner made me serve, while she took care of arrangement orders. Doing flowers for Jess was my dream job. And because she pushed me, and the shop expanded so fast, I learned so much about the whole wedding business along the way too.
Jess draws in a breath. ‘How would you feel about coming back to Brides by the Sea?’
I’m so surprised for a second I don’t reply. ‘To do what? You’ve already got all the florists you need.’ There’s a crack team, who work out of the lower ground floor of the shop.
She gives a knowing nod. ‘I’m thinking so much more for you than just flowers, this time, Lily. It’s going to be a super career move. I want you to grow the styling side of the business for us.’
‘Styling?’ It comes out like an echo.
Jess’s eyes are glistening with excitement. ‘Whereas planners deal with the nitty gritty bits of weddings, the stylists do the pretty parts. They’re the interior designers of the wedding world.’ She counts off her fingers. ‘Colours, decor, flowers, invitations, furnishings, the setting. A stylist will perfectly tailor the look of the wedding for each individual couple.’
I nod. ‘I know what you mean. Stylists, as used by celebrities and footballers’ wives, and seen in Hello magazine.’ Surely there can’t be enough of those in Cornwall to support a full-time position.
Jess’s face breaks into a smile. ‘That used to be the case. But not many couples today settle for a bunch of flowers at a local hotel, like you did. Stylists are a crucial part of a lot of weddings now, and Brides by the Sea needs to keep up.’ Her significant stare flags up that Thom and I tied the knot long before the word tipi made it into the urban dictionary. ‘These days every couple wants a wedding that’s totally unique to them, that their friends and family will remember forever. Making that happen is a whole new growth area.’ Those last two words will be the key to Jess’s enthusiasm.
‘But where do I come in?’
Her eyes narrow. ‘A handful of brides are creative enough to know what they want, design their own wedding backdrop, and source every item to make their day spectacularly special. But most newly engaged brides won’t know their favours from their fairy lights, and even if they do, they won’t have time to organise everything. Which is where they’ll turn to you to pull everything together. You might be involved a little or a lot, the budget might be tiny or huge. But basically you’ll be here to guide brides towards choosing the right dreams for them. And then you’ll make them come true.’
‘I will?’ My eyes are growing wider with every question.
As she rubs her hands, she’s almost purring. ‘We’ll begin simply, by sourcing lovely items brides might like to buy or hire to accessorise and personalise their weddings. Then we’ll move on to creating a gorgeous department couples can visit for inspiration and guidance.’ She’s making it sound almost possible.
‘Right.’ I’m gnawing at the gel coat on my nail.
Her beam is widening. ‘It’s win win. We’ll be helping people get the polished events they want, without necessarily spending any more. You’ll get to design the flowers, and so much more too. And we’ll offer a set up, and tidy away option. You wait, we’ll have a fully-fledged wedding styling service up and running faster than you can say bunting and bouquets.’
That sends my voice high with panic. ‘I’ll be fine with the flower part. But what about the rest?’
And finally she picks up on my terror. ‘There’s no need to look so scared, Lily. Trust me, if I didn’t know you’d ace this, I wouldn’t suggest it.’ Her tone has switched from full-on excitement to soothing. ‘You’ve always had a great eye for weddings, you’re brilliant with brides, and you’re used to spotting trends with your flowers. What’s more, you’re talented enough to do this in your petticoat. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to extend your floral skills and push your creative boundaries at the same time.’ She sounds like she’s given this a lot of thought.
Not that I’m about to mention it, but apart from my vanishing job, I’m fine with the boundaries I’ve got. ‘But why me, why now?’
Jess gives a low laugh. ‘Good business is about seizing opportunities. You’re available, you’re here, I’d be mad not to tempt you to expand your horizons.’ Which all sounds so scary I need to make my excuses. And go.
‘I’m not sure I should be running back to St Aidan.’ My voice comes out as a croak. I left with such high hopes, and there’s not a lot to show for the last five years. Bolting home to the place I worked when I was twenty is like admitting defeat.
Jess gives a rueful smile. ‘Which is why I’m adding a sweetener. Poppy barely uses the flat upstairs now she’s with Rafe. We could throw that in too.’
‘Right.’ It’s so sudden, my mouth is still catching up. A job and somewhere to live. When five minutes ago I had neither. And even if my stomach has disintegrated at the idea of styling weddings, the view of the sea from those little round attic windows upstairs is luring me to think about it. Hard.
‘Of course, if you feel St Aidan is a backwards step, why not look at it as temporary? Find your feet, have a go at the styling, and move on elsewhere in your own time if it’s not for you. I’m happy with that.’
Jess is so great at making things work for people. That’s why she’s such a brilliant sales person.
Now she’s started, there’s no stopping her. ‘We don’t know what your mum’s plans are, but unless she’s eloping, I’m guessing she’ll be busy with a wedding. This way you’ll be around to help.’
What did I say about persuasive powers?
‘You might even be able to grow those flowers for her bouquet.’
‘Okay.’ I hold up my hand before Jess gets completely out of hand. ‘Thank you, and yes. To everything except the last bit. Flower growing was never more than a fantasy.’ That dream belongs to a different life. To a girl who took happiness as a given. I’m not that person any more.
Jess draws in a breath. ‘We’ll see.’
At times, she has a maddening habit of not taking ‘no’ for an answer. I’m mentally pushing up my sleeves, preparing to argue it out, when the shop door opens, and Poppy dashes in. She’s wearing the Barbour jacket Rafe got her for Christmas, and from the way it’s done up on the wrong poppers, I’m guessing she left home in a hurry.
Jess pushes the plate towards her. ‘You’re just in time for our brainstorming breakfast. Cinnamon whirl?’
Looks like this is me off the hook.
Poppy brushes the plate away with a half shake of her head. Without being rude, Poppy eats for England. Refusing breakfast ties in with her face being as white as the walls.
She undoes her coat, and sinks into a chair. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened.’
Jess and I stare at each other, our jaws locked. Put on the spot like this, it’s hard to know which way to jump.
Jess unfreezes first. ‘A tiny clue?’
When Poppy speaks, it’s not so much of a prompt as a tirade. ‘It’s the total worst news ever. Never in our wildest nightmares did we imagine this. Talk about saddling up bloody horses. We might as well throw away the damned pony and be done with it. Weddings at Daisy Hill Farm are finished.’
‘What?’ Jess isn’t following any more than I am.
As I go and crouch down beside Poppy, her body is shaking so hard it’s making the Louis Quatorze chair creak. ‘Okay, take it easy. Whatever it is we’ll help you. Now tell us again, but slowly this time, starting at the beginning.’
Poppy takes a shuddering breath. ‘Rafe was out early this morning …’
For those of you who don’t know, this particular farmer doesn’t seem to go to bed. What with milking, and all things farmerly, as far as Rafe’s concerned, getting up at the crack of dawn means a lie in.
I nod my encouragement. ‘Go on …’
‘So he saw it first. There’s a huge hoarding in the field on the way down to Rose Hill Manor. It must have gone up literally overnight.’ Poppy’s voice goes so high it’s almost a squeak. ‘The Manor’s setting up as … as a wedding venue.’
‘Surely not …?’ Jess gives a disbelieving shake of her head.
‘They absolutely bloody are.’ Poppy’s talking through clenched teeth now. ‘Bloody exclusive use, blissful bloody country weddings. That’s what it says on the sign.’
Exclusive use? ‘Oh no.’ A trickle of cold sweat meanders down my back. Because actually I already know this, and I can’t believe I didn’t take it seriously at the time. ‘Omigod.’ I hate myself for saying it, but sometimes nothing else will do. ‘The guy who pulled me out of the pond said the same thing, but I took it he was talking through his butt.’
Poppy wrinkles her nose. ‘How did Fred know?’
‘Not Fred. One of the Penryn brothers was there tucking into the buffet, getting off on acting the hero. I should have warned you.’
Poppy’s forehead furrows. ‘A Penryn? Not Quinn?’
There’s an uneasy twang in my stomach. I can’t bring myself to repeat that particular name out loud. ‘No, this was … er … Kip.’
Poppy is momentarily distracted. ‘Quinn was best man at Sera’s sister’s wedding. Quite a handful. He crashed a van and smashed all the crystal ware.’
Sounds about right.
‘Fabulous car though. And charm by the bucketload.’ At least Jess stops short of commenting on his apps.
‘Out of control? That fits.’ An image flashes up in my brain. Me, dripping wet on the shore at the Manor. What is it with Penryns and water? Okay. I’ll come clean. I got stranded on an island with that particular Penryn brother as a teenager, and I chose to swim away rather than stay and sleep with him. Perhaps not a great decision given how weak my breaststroke is but that was the only option for me. ‘There’s a lake at Rose Hill Manor.’ It’s out before I can stop it, although luckily I bite my tongue before the rest follows.
‘It’s not just the lake.’ Poppy’s voice rises to a wail. ‘There’s a humungous spectacular house, shedloads of bedrooms stuffed with four posters. And a ballroom. Daisy Hill Farm can’t compete with that on any level.’
Jess is tapping her loafer on her chair leg. ‘But you have holiday cottages that the Manor doesn’t. And you’ll soon have the main farmhouse up and running, and the big barn will be done for the autumn.’
Poppy hugs herself. ‘But all our financial projections relied on us being the only venue in the area. If we lose any bookings to the Manor, we can’t make it pay. And they’re going to have everything we offer, only better.’
Jess narrows her eyes. ‘Don’t underestimate yourself. You’ve made a lot of friends in the industry. We’re all behind you.’ Even though she’s sitting down she thrusts her hands onto her hips, and her voice drops to a growl. ‘If this Penryn wants wedding wars, we’ll fight him all the way.’
‘If Quinn was anything to go by …’ Poppy’s voice trembles.
Jess jumps in. ‘Quinn couldn’t organise a fire in a coal shed. If he’s anything like his brother, this Kip will crash and burn.’
‘Every time,’ I say, my fist flying through the air. Although that punch isn’t only from today. A good proportion of the power is down to past resentments. ‘To overthrow Penryns you hit them head on. It’s the only way.’ Then I shut up, because I don’t want to come across as an expert.
Jess’s expression softens. ‘Strategy is my strong point. And we also have our new secret weapon.’ She pauses for effect. ‘Brides by the Sea has a brand-new manager of a brand-new department – Wedding Styling.’
For a second Poppy and I both blink. Then my heart gives a lurch as I catch up. She means me.
Jess jumps in to save Poppy’s confusion. ‘Lily’s agreed to take us forward with the designing and accessorising side.’ And miraculously she’s missed out that I haven’t got the first clue how to do this.
‘That’s brilliant news.’ Poppy pulls me into a huge hug, despite her wobbles. ‘But what a surprise.’
‘For all of us.’ I’m not joking. ‘I’ll fill you in later, Poppy.’
Jess is rubbing her hands. ‘It’s very fortuitous. This way we’ll be able to parachute you behind enemy lines, Lily. You can be our under-cover agent.’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’ I feel like I blinked and woke up in a James Bond movie.
Jess rolls her eyes in frustration. ‘As our wedding stylist you have the perfect excuse to go to Rose Hill Manor. If we can land a styling booking for a wedding there, so much the better.’
If my jaw hadn’t instantly locked with fear, I’d be screaming.
Poppy looks unsure. ‘I know we’re desperate, but doesn’t spying sound a bit underhand? You mustn’t do anything you aren’t happy with, Lily.’
I bite my lip as I weigh up the evidence so far. ‘With this Kip Penryn, we’re talking about someone who crashed the party and ate the Sams’ hog roast. His signage appeared in the dark. He’s your neighbour, setting up in competition right under your noses, and he hasn’t had the decency to call round and discuss it with you. I reckon the combat’s already started. If it saves Daisy Hill Farm, I’m happy to come out fighting.’ Even if I’m wobbling about the styling part.
Jess rifles through her table drawer so furiously, she could be searching for boxing gloves.
‘Right on target, Lily,’ she cries, as the contents of her drawer fly across the desk. ‘It’s survival of the fittest. Do or die, sink or swim. There’s no time to lose.’ So much for an over enthusiastic imagination. We’re back to water again. Eventually she comes up with a pen. ‘I’ll start with a list of contacts to lean on.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Poppy gives me a last squeeze. ‘Oh my, you’re going to need your lovely suit more than ever for this, is it going to be okay?’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Somehow I doubt it.’ But suddenly it doesn’t matter any more. Waving goodbye to my LK Bennett is somehow symbolic. As if my ruined suit marks the end of my old life. ‘I can always get another. Although I could have done with power dressing for my appointment later.’ Hopefully my wink hides how much I’m dreading coming face to face with my mum. I stare down at my jeans and sloppy sweat shirt. Whereas I’m happy to use my all-day pyjamas for exactly that, regardless of destination, my mum always dresses like she’s going to Ascot. That’s twenty-four seven, whether she’s leaving the house or not. My jeans aren’t going to cut it, but that’s too bad. Life should be about who we are, not what we wear. Maybe my mum needs to learn that.
Jess beams. She’s got her mini vac out now, whisking the croissant crumbs off the table, ready for her nine thirty bride. ‘Meeting the fiancé is always a big moment.’
True. But when he’s your mother’s, and you don’t know him from Adam, big doesn’t begin to cover it. And when your mum is my mum … Well, anything could happen.
Poppy clasps her hands to her mouth. ‘Of course. Blimey. What are you doing?’
‘Afternoon tea at Heavenly Heights.’
Which was always my friends’ pet name for the modern close at the top of the village where we lived. I’m thanking my lucky stars I’ve got away with sandwiches and cakes rather than a formal dinner. As for Poppy’s wedding wars, not that I’m a pessimist, but they might not be the only explosions in the Rose Hill area over the next few months.
‘Do you need a wingman?’
I shake my head at Poppy’s offer. It’s great that she understands, but I’ve got to do this on my own.
Poppy rubs my arm. ‘Try to act happy for her. At least for today.’
Which given the way my tummy is twisting, might be difficult.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_49a1b776-a4e9-5b92-a98f-458b78e83b20)
Wednesday, 15
February
On the way to Rose Hill Village: Three point turns and missing rings
BLISSFUL BOUTIQUE COUNTRY MANOR HOUSE WEDDINGS …
‘Not exactly subtle is it, Gucci?’
Okay, I’m talking to my car again. It’s easy to slip into the habit when you do a lot of miles on your own together. It goes with singing along to heart break songs very loudly. But enough about that. I’m doing a mini-detour on the way to afternoon tea with my mum, to take in the Rose Hill Manor wedding sign. But the hoarding on the field edge is immense, and the lettering is so ‘look-at-me’, I forget to steer.
‘Signs like this should be banned. They’re a danger to the public,’ I moan, as I veer off the narrow lane and bump along the verge, simply because I can’t take my eyes off it. There are so many ‘exclusive use’ stickers, it’s probably visible from outer space.
Pulling to a halt, I grab my phone, and jump out to take a few pics to show Jess later. As I fight my way past the hedge my feet slither on the wet grass. Damn. Hygiene standards at Heavenly Heights are surgical. Arriving with mud smeared boots will put me at a huge disadvantage. But it’s too late now.
It’s bad news all round then, because the hoarding graphics I’m clicking away at are startlingly professional. Somehow I didn’t have the Penryns down as being this classy. On the close-up photos it looks like a venue to-die-for. I’m scouring the posters for something to criticise – like anything would do – when there’s the roar of an engine on the lane. Next thing I know, there’s a Land Rover beside me, with the driver’s window open. And when I turn round, I’m staring straight up. At Kip Penryn.
‘Speak of the devil.’ It’s out before I can stop it.
Kip rubs the stubble on his chin. ‘Do I know you?’ He wrinkles his forehead, then the penny drops. ‘Of course, you’re the one who caught the bouquet. Dried off, and out looking for a wedding venue? That was fast work.’
‘More like driving off the road, due to being distracted by your effing great hoarding, you mean. Big can be brash, you know.’ I refuse to acknowledge how perfect his promo material is.
‘We’re doing unmissable introductory offers. I have to make this work. Anyone getting married has to be interested.’
The words send a chill through me on Poppy’s behalf, if only because he sounds so desperate to succeed. ‘I’ll pass on the offers, thanks.’ Although I’m amused that he’s got things so wrong with me. ‘Unmissable’ offers are even more compelling and tasteful than ‘special’ ones. He’s certainly got his act together here.
‘We’re exquisite and exclusive, but we’re also exceptionally negotiable. I can cut you a deal.’
I give a sniff of disgust. ‘You do know if you overuse the word “exclusive” to the point of exhaustion, it loses all impact?’
He backs off on the hard sell, and goes back to being persuasive. ‘Come for a look around, you’ll see for yourself. The offers won’t last forever. All those Valentine’s proposals, it’s a busy time. I’ve had non-stop viewings since the signs went up.’
Sorry, but his win-win attitude is as annoying as hearing about his rush of punters. ‘Except you’re here. So I’m guessing you must have stopped.’
‘What?’
I’m going to have to spell it out. ‘Well you’re not doing viewings now, because you’re here talking to me, aren’t you?’ I let that sink in. ‘Or do you drag all your customers in, kicking and screaming, from the lane?’ Saying the word drag, reminds me I should possibly be more grateful for what he did for me last night. But stuff that, given what he’s going to do to Poppy and Rafe’s business. They’re right to be concerned. From what I’m picking up here, they should be very worried indeed.
His lips begin to curl into a slow smile. ‘You’re not looking for a venue at all, are you? Or you wouldn’t be so dismissive. You’re not even wearing an engagement ring.’
Dammit. For the first time in years, I wish I was. Just to prove him wrong. And not all engaged women wear rings, but I’m not going to get into that. So maybe he’s not quite as in tune with the business of getting married as he thinks.
‘I’m not personally searching for a venue, but I know people who are. Hence the pic.’ At least that’s explained. No way do I want him thinking I’m a sad single, taking selfies in front of a wedding sign. Although I’d settle for that, rather than the truth. It’s way worse to be caught out spying.
‘If there really aren’t any takers, you can always give me a call,’ he says with a wicked smile.
‘Sorry?’ Now I’m the one who can’t work out what he’s talking about, it’s not so great.
‘If you’ve got a free evening we could go for a drink? I’m new round here, I don’t know many people.’
Or more likely, people know him too well, and avoid him like the plague.
What a cheek. ‘A pick up on the lane? You are joking? You might be desperate, but I’m not.’ As I make a dive for my car door, it’s total bad planning because it means he gets the last word.
‘Your loss.’
Two tiny words which pretty much sum up the arrogance of the guy. As for Weddings at Rose Hill Manor, I suspect this operation is way slicker and more of a threat than any of us imagined.
The only good thing is that for five minutes it took my mind off where I’m going next. As I coax Gucci into a thirty-four-point turn in the lane, and zoom off towards the village for tea with my mum and her new squeeze I feel sick. I would not mind missing the next hour in my life.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_3c98de04-ccbf-5bd5-a4ff-9dc8c425d4f4)
Wednesday, 15th February
At Heavenly Heights: Tangerine jeans and matching slippers
‘Ring the bell? Knock and say “hi”? Or what …?’
It’s the weirdest feeling. Standing in front of the house where I lived since I was eleven. Muttering. Staring at the stonework, not daring to go in, because so much changed in those few minutes’ yesterday afternoon. It’s not only what I might be interrupting. Walking in on my mum snogging? Don’t even go there. It just doesn’t have the certainty of home any more.
‘Dahling, it’s you!’
‘Shit.’ I jolt as the door opens. And I’m off to a bad start, dammit, given Heavenly Heights is a curse-free cul-de-sac. The language at this altitude is so clean, they don’t even need swear boxes. It’s also the kind of road where domestic perfection is a competition sport. If home tidying was in the Olympics, they’d have more gold medals than Bradley Wiggins.
‘Well, this is a lovely surprise. But where did all that dirt come from?’ One glance at my feet, and my mum’s already got her long-suffering face on. Sad to say, it’s pretty much her full-time resting expression when we’re together. ‘Why are you loitering out here, come on in.’ She never looks this disappointed when she’s with her friends.
It might be worth flagging up here that of her two kids, she’d always rather see my brother, Zac. Eleven months younger than me, he’s always been her real dahling. But since he absconded to the job of the century in Silicon Valley in the US, she’s been stuck with second best. And what the hell does she mean by ‘surprise’ when I rang to pre-book eight hours ago? Remembering Poppy’s ‘act happy’ instruction, I wrench my mouth into a smile.
Then as I stumble past a terracotta pot in the porch, I get my lucky break. ‘Hey, lovely primroses.’ My mum warms to compliments, as much as I’m warming to these flowers. ‘Orange ones too.’ My dad’s favourite. His winter borders in our gardens were always bursting with polyanthus plants. We used to love pouring over the plant catalogues together, planning the colour schemes. I can still remember the thrill of persuading him to try oranges and yellows, when he was still a sucker for blues and reds. Every October, from when I was small, he’d wrap me up in his warmest windcheater, and he’d dig the holes, and I’d hand him the plants. And even though my fingers were burning with the cold, I’d stay out there with him for as long as it took to get every last plant into the borders. It’s a relief to find there’s still a little bit of that left. Even if it’s just one pot.
My mum’s pained expression melts with the compliment. ‘David helped me do it. He bought the pot when we went for lunch at the Happy Dolphin Garden Centre.’
‘David?’ From nowhere, there’s an iron hand gripping my guts. Although I’m going to have to get used to the name. And he has to be tame, if he’s up for traipsing round garden centres. It was a point of honour. My dad preferred nurseries, and he refused point blank to go to places with poncey names, and logos depicting frolicking sea life. Then I do a double take that leaves my heart racing so hard, I almost have a coronary. ‘What the hell’s that?’ I’m pointing at a plastic gnome. And lurid doesn’t begin to describe it.
My mum laughs. ‘Oh, that’s Trevor. He’s another of David’s gifts. Don’t his tangerine trousers go perfectly with the petals?’ She lets out a kind of high, spontaneous giggle I haven’t heard before. Very unlike her.
‘But you don’t like gnomes. You think they’re tasteless and moronic.’ I’m quoting here, and I can’t help that my voice has gone all high either. It goes with the ‘gobsmacked’ territory. That gnome might fit in with my mum’s obsession to have her entire life colour matched, but he’s a million miles away from her style guide. In full view, on her front doorstep. Where everyone can see him, and judge her. Up to now I was under the impression she’d got engaged, but she appears to have had a personality transplant too.
‘Don’t be silly, dahling. He’s only a joke. Whatever happened your sense of humour?’ She’s staring at me as if I’m the one with the problem here. ‘Hurry up and take off your shoes, there’s someone in here I’m dying for you to meet. And please, at least try to look happy for us. Even if you’re not.’
My efforts at ‘delighted’ are falling flat then. But on the up side, this might be the first time in my life my mum has seen me in jeans and not complained. Come to think of it, she’s pretty dressed down herself, in button through floral silk, and fluffy sheepskin mules. What’s more, as I follow her down the hall, the accent wallpaper hasn’t changed since my last visit. Back in January I’d have sworn the yellow and grey geometric print was on its way out. My mum’s always been obsessed with redecorating, but since my dad died she does it before the paint has even dried. Although, thinking about it, most of that time since then, she’s been away with her bestie, Jenny. Lately, if my mum hasn’t been up to her ears in home makeovers, she’s been away on a cruise.
As we turn into the living area, I close my eyes. No idea what’s coming, but I’ll try not to pre-judge. When I open them again, there’s a figure standing by the French doors, looking out to the lawn. I have to smother a pang that my dad used to stand in the same spot doing just that. He loved to unwind on the golf course. Then he’d come home for what he called his ‘garden gazing’. Whenever I visited I’d stand there beside him, and join in. Nod as he pointed out his latest Tinkerbell primulas, poured out his hopes for his Grandissimo violas. Smile at the promise of sweet peas with dreamy names like Cherub Northern Lights, Berry Kiss, or Cream Eggs.
The funny thing is that arranging my dad’s blooms for the village show as a kid was how I discovered I could throw flowers into a jam jar in a way that made them look better than everyone else’s. Back then he called me his lucky charm. It’s true, he never won when he arranged his own. Better still, somewhere along the line, I found out that picking flowers, and making them look pretty made me happy in a way nothing else did. Dad always claimed his first prize for sweet peas back in nineteen ninety-two was the reason I became a florist. It’s one of those family legends we’ve heard so often, we all believe it now.
But this is no time to drift off into the past. And we certainly won’t be talking about it today. I drag myself back to the figure by the window. Force myself to refocus, and begin again. Believe me, ‘tight bum’ is not the second thought you want to have about any of your mum’s mates, least of all her fiancé. But there’s no other way to describe what’s facing me. This particular backside could give Bruce Springsteen’s a run for its money. At least this explains why my mum lost her life-long aversion to denim.
As he turns, I stick out my hand. ‘Nice Levis, I’m Lily.’ I’m willing the front view to be older than the back. Because, holy crap, I’ve heard about these young guys who hook up with needy widows on Match dot whatever, and bleed them dry. I’d just never in my wildest nightmares considered it could be happening to my mum.
‘And this is David.’ My mum’s eyes are popping as if she’s holding her breath, though I can’t see why she’d be doing that.
There’s a vague recollection as a blond guy in a sharp Superdry polo-shirt, walks towards me. ‘Nice to meet you properly. We met briefly before?’ And while he is older than his back view, he still has to be years younger than my mother.
Trying not to gawp at his slippers that match my mum’s, I’m going the extra mile here to show I remember, even though it’s hazy. ‘You’re David. The electrician?’
His expression is bemused. ‘Not quite, I’m a personal trainer.’ Which might explain the neat back view.
I throw him a lifeline. ‘I was thinking of the lightbulb changing?’ One lifeline wasn’t enough, so I hurl out another. ‘When we met on the stairs at Christmas?’
‘Oh that.’ From the way his face brightens, he’s hugely relieved he’s finally caught up. ‘Of course. Love at first light. Wasn’t it, Barbs?’ He winks at my mother, and laughs.
Bad puns, laughing at his own really awful jokes, and calling my mum Barbs? All in the space of two seconds? There’s only so much assault a person’s guts can take. If my mum’s waste paper bin hadn’t been hand-painted with dragonflies, with a three-figure price tag, I’d have vomited in it. If this David was on three strikes and you’re out, he’d already be down the road. And that’s before we get onto the winking.
‘Anyway, now that’s gone so swimmingly, shall we move on with tea, dahling?’ My mum’s voice is strangely strangled.
The nod she gives David must have conveyed something exceedingly significant I missed. I’m about to offer to help, but he’s already in the kitchen. I make a mental note to remember, I’m not the only dahling round here anymore.
My mum skips after him. ‘So young, yet so well trained.’ There might even be a whisper of the word ‘toy boy’, followed by a muffled shriek. But from the way they both erupt into giggles, I assume that was meant for him not me.
Right now, I’m wishing I’d taken Poppy up on her offer to come too. At least then, when we talked about this afterwards, she could tell me I hadn’t imagined it.
My dad always sat in the chair on the right of the fireplace. The wood burner and the chair have both had an upgrade, but plumping myself down in that position, at least I feel like I’m holding on. Although I’m not quite certain what it is I’m hanging on to. And I’m pretty sure it’s futile. Even the thought of the coming cake doesn’t cheer me up.
When they finally come back, a whole load of laughing later, my mum’s carrying the teapot, and he’s pushing her hostess trolley.
‘So I’ve got you your favourite French Fancies, but David’s low carb gluten free, because it’s Wednesday,’ my mum says, as if that explains anything. ‘So sandwiches are chicken and pesto, tuna and rocket. Both on special wholemeal, with pine kernels.’ Whatever happened to mum’s plain old egg and cress?
When it comes to pouring, their moves are so coordinated, they could almost be on Strictly. If they’re like this serving tea, their first dance is going to rate an off-the-scale 12 across the board. I offer up a silent plea that there won’t be any twerking.
I can’t stay silent forever, so I accept a pink iced lozenge from the cake plate my mum’s holding, and launch. ‘So, big congrats, how did you guys get together?’ Somehow the word ‘engagement’ won’t come out.
My mum beams at me over her tea. At least she’s stayed true to her Gordon Ramsay china. ‘We met at the gym. But it was the cruise that really cemented things.’
My cup slams down so hard, most of the tea slurps into the saucer. ‘The cruise you went on to New York after Christmas … with Jenny?’ It’s high voice time again.
She nods, apparently impervious to any suggestion of deception on her part. Although she makes a lightning change of subject. ‘You really should try the gym, Lily. You look as if you could do with the exercise, and who knows, you might meet someone there too. All those miles alone in your car can’t be good for your dress size or your single status. As Jenny says, it’s back to front. You should be the one getting married really, not me.’
I take a second to reel at the insults. On balance, it’s best not to count them. At least she missed out her favourite topic, how I could make more of myself if I dressed like her.
My smile is as sweet as the French Fancy I still haven’t started yet. ‘Except I don’t want another husband – whereas, I take it you must, given you just got engaged.’
David puts down his tuna roll, without taking a bite. ‘When something’s this good, life’s too short to mess around wasting time.’
Cliché alert. Did you ever hear so much drivel in one sentence? I’d feel more inclined to believe David if I were certain he meant my mum, rather than her bank account. This early, who can tell? Although when it comes to choosing partners, I’m the last person to talk.
I let my eyes slide towards the garden for a few seconds’ respite. Big mistake. How could I have forgotten my mum pegs her washing out all year round as long as it isn’t raining? I’m staring straight at the rotary dryer, and the line of underpants I see hanging there almost brings sick into my mouth. Variations on the Superhero theme. It’s so not helpful to know your future step-dad wears Batman briefs. Although given how many pairs there are hanging there, it’s a pretty good indication he’s moved in.
‘Summer’s a fabulous time for a wedding.’ It’s a squeak, to move my mental image on from flapping boxers. Okay, it doesn’t exactly follow on, but I’m talking in the general sense, so I’m not being a hypocrite. ‘Lucky I’ll be here to help.’
‘You will?’ My mum can’t hide her immediate breathy panic. ‘How come?’
I sense I need to back pedal. ‘I’ll only help if you want me to.’ Then I push on to get the next bit over. ‘Jess made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so I’ll be working at Brides by the Sea in the styling department. Doing flowers, and lots more. As of next week.’ Hopefully the spin will make it shine.
My mum’s face falls. ‘But what about your lovely hotel job?’ Believe me, it’s never had praise that glowing before.
Saying it out loud is a wake up call. St Aidan is not a consolation prize. It’s a safety net I’m choosing to throw myself into. As Jess says, it doesn’t have to be forever.
Not every question needs a straight answer. At least this time smiling brightly is easier than it was earlier. ‘I’ll be living over the shop. Good timing for discounts too.’
‘Great.’ Her expression doesn’t match the word. ‘We’ve decided to stay local for the wedding anyway. Get married in the village.’
‘Brilliant.’ I couldn’t cope with a ‘destination’. At least this means a welcome extra booking for Rafe and Poppy. ‘The farm house at Daisy Hill will be ready for then too. And weddings there are so fabulous. There’s even a grand piano.’ Despite myself, I almost feel a flurry of excitement.
‘The farm?’ My mum sends David a wild-eyed glance. ‘Actually we’ve rather set our heart on …’
David holds up his hand. ‘No Barbs, we haven’t decided anything yet. Don’t let Lily think it’s a fait accompli.’ He turns to me. ‘We’re going to have a second look at Rose Hill Manor. We were there this morning. And it ticked a lot of boxes.’
Oh shit. A personal trainer who speaks French too. That’s me put in my place. It’s already in the bag. ‘Lovely.’ It comes out as a rasp. So Mr Penryn wasn’t lying about his booking rush. Damned ironic that it was my mother though.
My mum’s wringing her hands. ‘You know me, I was never one for mud.’
Which reminds me, I’ve been here for what feels like an age, and I still haven’t caught a glimpse of the ring yet.
David goes on. ‘You could come with us to the Manor next time? As you’re in the business now.’
Talk about walking on eggshells. Although it’s a surprise he’s butting in, when this is between me and my mum.
‘I don’t want to intrude.’ If I had any sense, I’d keep right out of this. Viewing wedding venues with love birds has to be the ultimate gooseberry activity. Although if they’re anything like Thom and me, they’ll be at each other’s throats soon enough. But I’m torn, because for Poppy and Rafe’s sake, I should be jumping at the offer. It’s the perfect opportunity to check out what that damned Penryn is playing at. ‘Actually, yes, thanks for asking me. I’d love to come with you.’
My mum’s face crumples in horror, and her mouth opens. She knows all about brides getting railroaded. And wedding interference. She perfected the art when Thom and I married. But before her protest has time to hit the air, a figure appears on the grass outside, and there’s a knock on the French window.
‘It’s only Fred bringing logs.’ As she gets up there’s a gleam in her eye.
I catch my breath when I hear the name. Which is a complete accident.
‘He’s from a very nice farm, Lily. And sells the driest wood in the area. You could do a lot worse.’ By the time her hand lands on the door handle, she’s fixing me with her ‘now or never’ stare.
Here we go. This is what I have to put up with. ‘A “nice” farm? That would be one without mud then?’ I say.
But she’s not listening, because she’s flinging open the door. ‘Fred, do come in, there’s someone here I’m dying for you to meet.’ That old line. ‘No need to take off your boots.’
What? Who gets in here in their outdoor shoes? What’s more, why has my heart done the tiniest cartwheel in my chest when I’m having no part of this?
She presses a pair of bright blue shoe covers into Fred’s hand so fast, she must have had them up her sleeve. Then she seizes a tartan throw from under a cushion, and with one flap it’s open, and covering half a sofa. As Fred’s blue feet slither across the shiny oak floor, and my mum escorts him to his mud-proofed area, he sends me a grin over the top of her choppy blonde streaks. It’s obvious he’s done this before.
David has too, given he’s arrived at Fred’s elbow with a mug of tea, a plate and the tea trolley.
My mum waits until Fred unzips his hoodie and eases back onto his rug, then she launches the Exocet. ‘So, this is my daughter Lily, she’s currently on her own, and she’d love you to take her out for a drink. Or better still, dinner and a drink. Or even …’
If I cut in rudely, it’s to shut her up. ‘Or a mini-break in London would work for me. Or even a romantic trip to New York if you’re up for that?’ I only hope my mum’s happy I’ve been reunited with my sense of humour. And note how she flagged up my status without mentioning the ‘D’ word. Then I put on my best ‘appalled of Rose Hill’ face – I get a lot of practice at that with my mum – and shake my head at Fred. ‘I’m divorced, by the way. Excuse me while I crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment.’
From the way Fred’s choking behind his hand, he has to be laughing. Eventually he stops shaking, and smiles. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, Barbara. Matchmaking isn’t the best look for mums. In any case, you’re too late, I’m already taken.’
My insides deflate like a popped balloon. Which really isn’t my style. Not that I was interested in Fred. Because I wasn’t at all. But whatever.
‘B-b-but …?’ My mum’s even more confused than my flattened ego.
Fred’s lips twitch, and one eye narrows as he catches mine. ‘I met a lovely girl last night. Given she went home wearing my shirt, I’d say I’m well in there. Wouldn’t you, Lily?’ As he holds my gaze, a tiny part of me melts. Then he dips to adjust a foot cover, and slides me a wink.
It takes a few seconds for my ego to brush itself down. Then it does a skip and canters back to where I can’t see it. ‘Absolutely right, Fred. I’d say the shirt’s a clincher.’ I’m getting out of my mum’s proverbial frying pan here, but who knows what hot place I’m ending up in.
Okay, I know I said winks were tacky. But it does depend on the wink. And who it comes from. And Poppy was so right when she said I could do with a wingman here. Right now, times are desperate. I’ll take whatever friendly support I can get.
‘So you’re saying she’ll be up for a mini-break, then, maybe New York?’ Fred laughs, and gives me a significant grin.
There’s no point leading him on when I’ve no intention of going. ‘That sounds like quite a lot of logs.’
‘Good thing I’ve got a chainsaw then.’
This kind of banter could go on all day. If I don’t make a run for it now, my mum will claim her cupid stripes, regardless of women with prior claims. And Fred will be another on her long list of men delivered on plates that got away.
I slide my French Fancy into my bag for later. ‘Well I’ll leave you guys to your wood delivery. Let me know about the Rose Hill Manor visit.’
Hopefully that gets me off every hook, and leaves the next move up to everyone else.
I’m half way back to St Aidan when I realise. I still haven’t seen the ring.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_16dae993-c166-5416-ae6c-8e23880747cd)
Tuesday, 21st Feb
At Brides by the Sea: Bare branches and customer service
When I told my mum I’d be back in St Aidan so soon, it didn’t feel real. But the up-side of living in a hotel room is there’s nothing much to move. My worldly belongings fit into Gucci, and there’s still left room for a trip to Ikea to pick up bedding on the way. Less than a week later, I’m clattering down the stairs from the attic flat at Brides by the Sea, to fill in for Jess down in the shop.
‘Tuesday morning’s our quietest time, as there aren’t any appointments. Acclimatise yourself, we’ll see you after lunch,’ she says, as she rushes off with Sera the dress designer, for an ‘at home’ appointment with a couture client. As Poppy’s not in yet either, I really am ‘home alone’.
Creating a new job and a new department, it’s hard to know where to begin. But given Jess has promised there won’t be any customers, I take my laptop over to the table in the White Room. I’ve decided to start by sourcing storm lanterns to add to the displays, and looking for a dressing table to offer as a cake table for vintage weddings. But I’ve barely settled into my Louis Quatorze chair, when the shop door rattles. A perfume cloud arrives first, carried on a gust from the sea. Whoever’s on their way down the hall, they haven’t stinted on the YSL Black Opium. And from the way they’re stamping across the boards, they’re either wearing tap dancing shoes or dizzy high heels.
‘Hello, coooo-ey, surprise …’
There’s a tinkling laugh. Then a clenched fist appears around the door frame. Along with the hugest rock of an engagement ring. In the world. Ever. Like Kardashian size, or bigger. As the diamonds waggle on the arm end, they don’t just twinkle in the light from chandeliers. They literally flash. If Jess had warned me, I’d have brought my sunnies down. I tiptoe to the front of the desk, bracing myself for whatever’s coming.
‘It’s sooooooo wonderful to be back.’
A figure storms towards me. A second later I’m squeezed into a mega hug, and I’m fighting for breath through fur and a perfume fug.
‘Is this real?’ I tug on the sleeve. When it comes to wearing animals, I’m a die-hard vegetarian.
‘Don’t be silly, fox hunting’s banned dahling.’ The hugger staggers backwards. ‘Omigod, where’s Jess? And who the hell are you?’
Looks like I’m not the only surprised one here. ‘Delighted to meet you too.’ Crap. Way too sarcastic. My first brush with a client, and it couldn’t be a bigger fail. I rush in to smooth things over. ‘I’m Lily. I’m working in styling, we’re making a brand-new department.’ Hopefully the gush will make up for the lack of expertise, and my grimace at almost saying my new job title out loud. ‘Sorry, Jess is out.’
‘Omigod, you’re a stylist? In that case I need to book you. Immediately. Like now.’ She’s flapping her hands so hard her scarlet nails are a blur.
‘Shit.’ I wince as something heavy thuds onto my foot. A bloody massive handbag. I bite my tongue, and think of the styling booking as I stoop to move it. ‘Oh, it’s a Gucci. That’s nice. And you are …?’
As she slides a knife edge of bottom into the chaise longue, and arranges her legs, I get my first proper view. She’s pretty much everything my mum wants from me, but doesn’t get. Groomed. Glossy as a race horse. Accessories that coordinate. Rocking the red lips and floral silk thing.
‘I’m one of Seraphina East’s biggest fans, and I’m here for a rematch.’ The laugh she lets out is almost a neigh. ‘It’s my second time around.’
‘Fabulous.’ Another divorcee. Despite my crushed toes and the horsey giggle, I’m warming to her.
‘When I called my wedding off last summer who’d have thought I’d be shopping for a dress again so soon? Or that I’d find my very own James Bond.’ A moment later her phone’s out, and the proof’s under my nose. ‘Isn’t my fiancé, Miles gorgeous? He’s a C.E.O. with his own coatings company.’
Daniel Craig could have made me well jel. Pierce Brosnan with added wrinkles, not so much. Whatever a C.E.O. is – I can never remember – I can see the professional coatings contacts could come in handy.
‘Lush.’ I sense it’s not enough. ‘Phwoar … to die for.’ Still more needed. ‘What a catch.’ Phew to not going on about ex-husbands then, given this one hardly looks first hand. I’m picking my jaw off the floor, and counting on my fingers. ‘A new man and a new ring all in six months. Well done you.’ You have to admire the tenacity. And the speed. ‘Was it a Valentine’s proposal?’
She nods, and drops her voice. ‘My dress from last year is still in the store. I haven’t got an appointment, but we’re going for a summer wedding. This year. I was hoping for a teensy look at some of Seraphina’s dresses. Seeing as Tuesday’s your quiet day.’
It’s not as quiet as it was, given how her laugh is warming up. No idea why, but my ‘tricky customer’ alarm bells are ringing. ‘It’s my first day, and I’m not sure how fast the dresses can be delivered. You might prefer to see Jess later?’ I open the appointment book, because I don’t want to mess this up. ‘She’s free from one?’ Hopefully my grin will make up for the deferral.
The disapproving sniff is loud. ‘I’m one of Jess’s most prolific customers, and “now” works for me. I know all about Seraphina’s range, so if you get the drinks, I’ll make a start.’ She’s scooped up her bag and she’s already making a bee-line for the Seraphina East Room, shouting over her shoulder. ‘Prosecco’s in the kitchen fridge, flutes are on the shelf. And if there’s any Valentine’s chocolates left, we’ll have those too.’
Whatever happened to ‘no’? Although, let’s face it, not many people buy two wedding dresses in the space of a year. And Jess is big on seizing the moment with customers. By the time I go through with the fizz, there’s a row of dresses hanging in the fitting room. And the customer’s on her knees, unwrapping a box.
‘Last summer I had these darling shoes from White White White Weddings. A total snip, at six hundred. Do tell me I’ll able to wear them this time.’
That’s Bristol’s swankiest bridal shop, with prices to match. But I hold in my whistle, because at Brides by the Sea we try not to judge. ‘So long as you’re comfortable wearing them, go for it.’ Although I doubt anyone could be that comfy in the heels she pulls out. ‘The bride makes the rules,’ I say, then instantly regret it. I’m not sure this bride needs encouragement. As for the emerald beaded flowers snaking over the sandals? Carp ponds and waterweed tangles spring to mind.
‘I’m so totally in love with Seraphina’s Country Collection, I may need to try every dress.’ The jewel encrusted watch she glances at as she takes a slug of fizz could almost have dropped off one of her shoes. ‘I need to be at the hair salon in four hours. So snip snap! Pass the chocolates, we’d better get started.’
Despite reeling at the Mary Poppins hand claps, I do as I’m told.
Her nose wrinkles as she peers into the basket I offer her. ‘You can’t fob me off with foil covered hearts, even if they are pink. Where’s the handmade confectionery?’ Disgusted doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘You do realise White White White give their brides smoked salmon blinis?’
I’m sensing the canape gauntlet is being thrown down here.
‘Yes, but do White White White allow casual drop ins?’ We both know they don’t. Once I’ve made the point, I soften, due to guilt. ‘Sorry, the truffles went super-fast this year.’ In other words, Poppy, Sera and I wolfed them all when we hauled my stuff upstairs. After four flights the calorie deficit was huge. I fire off a customer-is-always-right smile as I head for the door. ‘Give me a moment. I’ll see what else I can find.’
Lucky for me, there’s more ‘thank you’ confectionery in the kitchen than in a nurses’ station on a surgical ward. Given this is approaching an emergency, I grab a rather spectacular Ferrero Rocher tree, complete with taffeta bow, and head back. A lot more dresses have arrived in the fitting room since I left. But I take it from the simper that greets me, I’ve made an accidental good choice of chocs.
‘What a stroke of serendipity.’ She wiggles her fingers, and plucks a gold ball on a stick from the Ferrero tree. ‘When I marry, I’ll actually be Mrs Ferrara. How apt and absolutely fabulous is that?’
Pure fluke. But it reminds me, she still hasn’t told me her name yet. Even if I’m about to see her in her underwear, it’s somehow too late to ask. At least I know who she’s going to be.
‘Brides by the Sea might not do savoury snacks, but we do our best to have happy brides.’ Five years on, and it’s all coming back to me as if I’d never been away. ‘Which dress would you like to try first?’
The next two hours are so fraught they leave me longing for the calm of fully booked hotels. My worst moment? Discovering the extent of Sera’s new capsule ‘mix and match range’, which Jess has slipped onto the rails to trial. Separate pieces, designed so brides can put them together to create a look that’s completely unique. Silk shifts, chiffon tops, lace over dresses. Beaded sashes, ribbons, sequined tulle skirts, diamanté belts. I swear we’ve tried most of the four million permutations.
‘One last chocolate?’ I hold out the almost bare tree trunk. Believe me, without the soft praline centres from the Ferrero tree we’d both have collapsed of exhaustion after the first three hundred versions.
The future Mrs Ferrara unwraps it, and pops it into her mouth. ‘And only one last dress to try now.’ Whatever lippy has held its own crunching through this many hazelnuts, my mum needs to be let in on the secret.
I sink down into the mother-of-the-bride director’s chair, and pull the fitting room curtain over my head. ‘There’s another?’ I can’t believe we’re not done here.
‘It’s the dress from the Daisy Hill Farm website. From the photo shoot they did there with Poppy’s friend. I fell in love with it last year, but it was too late, I’d already bought my other one.’ She whisks a dress from the end of the rail, and staggers back into the fitting room. ‘Stay there, I can do this.’
If I’d been run over by a tractor I couldn’t be more mangled. But the word ‘farm’ wakes me up. Given they only got engaged last week, the Ferraras will be looking for a venue. There might well be a booking here for Rafe and Poppy.
‘Thinking about the styling …’ I wait until there’s an ‘mmmmm’ from behind the curtain. ‘Have you decided where you’re getting married?’
I’m holding my breath, waiting for a reply when the jolt of the shop door makes me jump. As I reach the hall I come face to face with Poppy.
She frowns and sniffs. ‘You’ve gone wild with the Black Opium today, I can smell it out in the street.’ Then she squints at me more closely. ‘You look dreadful. Have you been out running again?’
I take it she’s talking about my sweat patches, sunken cheeks and haunted eyes.
I gesture frantically towards the striped fitting room curtain behind me. ‘I’ve had three and a half hours with a drop-in bride.’ Then I tip toe back in to the Seraphina East Room, pulling Poppy with me. I turn up my volume so I can definitely be heard in the fitting room. ‘The future Mrs Ferrara is about to show me her wedding dress. And tell me about her venue.’
There’s a rustle, as the curtain moves, and from the flash of green I catch under the hem, for the first time, we’ve got the pricey shoes too.
‘Ta-dah …’ Her smile is wide as she shakes her veil and does as much of a twirl as the shoes allow. It’s actually more of a standstill with an occasional wobble. ‘So much work, but this is definitely “the one”.’ As she scrapes a nail under her eyelashes, her voice is a whisper. ‘Thank you for helping me find it, Lily.’
Brave woman. If I had inch long acrylic nails like hers, there’s no way I’d risk poking my eye out. What’s more, I can’t believe she knew this was the dress she wanted all along, but whatever. That’s customers for you. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed the tissue box, and I’m pushing one into her hand.
‘You look beautiful …’ There’s a bit of a gap where her name should be. I stoop to smooth out the hem, and look to Poppy for reassurance that I’m doing it right.
Poppy’s brow crumples as she peers beyond the veil. ‘Nicole? It is Nicole isn’t it?’
The woman blinks. ‘Poppy! How lovely to see you again.’
The high speed pecks last a nano second. Then the clenched fist shoots out, and we’re back to clustering round first the ring, then the phone.
‘You two know each other?’ Yes, I know I’m stating the obvious, but it’s been a long morning.
Poppy’s nod is decided. ‘We certainly do. And what brilliant news about your new fiancé, Nicole.’ For Poppy, her voice has taken on a brittle edge.
Nicole runs a finger over the delicate lace covering her arms. ‘The best part is, it’s not just love where I’m getting another bite of the cherry, I’m getting second chances all round. This time I’m getting everything right, including the dress.’
‘You are,’ Poppy and I cry together, even though Poppy has no idea how heartfelt that is on my side.
A red nail comes up to quieten us. ‘And this time I’m a hundred per cent sure. I definitely want to get married in the farmhouse at Daisy Hill, Poppy. It’s what I wanted all along last time. Whatever the size, we’ll make the wedding fit the venue. And Lily’s already agreed to be my stylist.’
I’m beaming because this is such good news. All round.
‘Absolutely not.’ Poppy jumps in so firmly, Nicole and I are left gawping. Whatever happened to Poppy grabbing every booking she could?
Poppy senses she’s answered too fast. ‘What I mean is, I’m so sorry, but that won’t be possible. We’re fully booked in the farmhouse for this year. But I know you’d love Rose Hill Manor. It’s a brand-new venue, just down the road. It’s very up-market, and I’ve heard they’re doing fabulous deals on bookings for this year.’
‘Up-market?’ For the first time all morning, Nicole sounds uncertain. ‘I know the cottages were rough and ready, but there can’t be anywhere as perfect as your farmhouse.’
Rough and ready? Ouch to that. Maybe that’s my clue.
Poppy’s nodding furiously at me. ‘Seraphina’s sister got married at Rose Hill Manor at Christmas. It was magical.’
At least we both know she’s sincere about this. She was there. The photos are phenomenal. Who wouldn’t want a horse drawn carriage and a white Christmas wedding? Not that Nicole would be expecting snow if she’s marrying in summer.
So I chime in. ‘It’s exclusive use, my mum saw it and she said it was amazing.’ Okay. I know she didn’t say that exact word. But she must have thought that if she wanted to book it. Even as I throw that in, I’m struck by how like my mum Nicole is. ‘And best news of all for your shoes, it’s a mud-free zone.’
‘Right.’ Nicole’s expression lightens.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. As if on cue. It’s a text from my mum.
Hi Lily, There’s a preview day at the Manor on Saturday. If you’d like to come, Mum
As for signing texts with a name, why do people do that?
‘Excuse me looking at my phone, but I just heard. It’s Open House at Rose Hill Manor on Saturday. There’s so much scope there for making a truly individual wedding, you should take a look Nicole. And lots of availability for this year too.’ I pull a face at Poppy, because I can’t believe I’m talking up the opposition. Especially given the way she’s slicing her hand across her throat at the mention of the open day. ‘And seeing the time, Nicole, we’d better get you out of your dress, and off to the salon.’
There’s a glint in Poppy’s eye. ‘If you do decide to book at Rose Hill Manor, Nicole, don’t forget to mention we sent you.’
The sooner I get Nicole out of here and find out what’s going on with Poppy, the better.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_b07e03bc-604a-5a08-8331-8c2f78b40660)
Tuesday, 21st Feb
At Daisy Hill Farm: Ironing piles and storage solutions
In the end, Poppy had to leave the shop before Nicole, so I didn’t get to find out why she was turning down her booking. But she did offer us some space in the converted buildings up at Daisy Hill Farm, which is why I zoom over there as soon as Jess gets back to the shop.
‘Jess wants us to buy in props to hire out for styling, so we’ll need somewhere to store them between weddings,’ I explain to Rafe, as we pass him humping some kind of sack up the yard. Jess has decided to invest in things we’ll use a lot, and hire in the more unusual items. ‘With any luck most of the weddings will be here at the farm anyway, so it would be great to keep them on the spot.’ Handy for Rose Hill Manor too, just down the lane, but I skip over that.
‘Great, help yourself.’ Rafe almost spins on his wellies, but at the last minute he turns back. ‘By the way, our friend Fred was asking if I’d seen you. He mentioned a shirt? And a date?’
Crap. ‘Tell him no worries, it’s on its way to the ironing pile.’ Which sounds a whole lot better than, ‘It’s in the washing bag’. The down side of washing it is that I’ll have to get in touch to give it back. As for the date part, I blank that.
As Rafe heads off, Poppy leads the way from the stone built farmhouse, up towards the holiday cottages. By the time we reach a courtyard that’s so picturesque it could have come off a vintage biscuit tin, I can see her smile bursting out. ‘What’s this? Still hanging on to Fred’s shirt?’ She lets her laugh go. ‘Seriously though, have you noticed how much like Jules he smells?’
I shrug, to show how completely not interested I am. ‘Except not so over-powering.’
It’s amazing how she’s completely at home here, in her waxed jacket and a sloppy jumper I suspect belongs to Rafe, with Jet the dog wagging along beside her. Her red spotty wellies are the only hint of her townie past.
As we reach a long low building, and she pushes her way through a grey plank door, a rush of warm air wafts out. ‘We’ve got a couple of spare rooms next to the farm office. See what you think.’
I follow her into a whitewashed space, and gaze up at the high sloping ceilings. ‘Nice beams. And it’s a lot cleaner than I was expecting.’ I’m surprised it smells of fabric conditioner, not cow’s bottoms.
‘Clean? Why wouldn’t it be? My crack team keep the whole farm chuffing spotless.’ A throaty voice is coming from behind a mountain of sheets that’s wobbling towards us across the cobbles. A glossy black high-heeled Hunter ankle boot comes out and kicks the door open wider. ‘You’re next to the laundry too, so it’s warm and dry.’ As the sheets land on the floor, Immie’s broad face appears, and she flings a punch at me. ‘Great to see you back again, Lily. Let’s hope it’s for keeps this time.’
I’m rubbing my arm, but I caught a flash of purple along with the left hook. ‘You haven’t chosen a ring yet then?’ Of all our friends, Immie’s the one who never left, and who wants us all back in the village. Forever. She won’t be happy if she gets the idea that I’m just passing through, which is why I’m moving the subject on.
When she puts her hands on her hips, and rolls her eyes, she looks just like she used to when we were all at infant school. That was in the days before my mum dragged the family up in the world, when we lived in a higgledy-piggledy cottage down in the village. And when the older lads made life hell for me and my brother, because our mum called us ‘dahling’ very loudly, and insisted on giving us goodbye kisses all the way along the playground over the wall, and toothbrushes to clean our teeth after school lunch, Immie was the one who kicked them into line. Literally.
Immie rubs her knuckles on her jeans, polishing the chunky perspex. ‘I’m marrying a fireman, so it’s like evacuating a burning building. There’s a strict order of priority. Even when organising a wedding. But Poppy had a gap in the farmhouse wedding book in mid-August, so we grabbed that. And we nailed fabulous Jules for the photos. We definitely want it to be different from Chas’s last “do”.’
The wedding-that-never-happened was a mega bash in a huge tipi. Legend has it that the bride-from-hell called it off at the eleventh and a half hour. But the party went on regardless, and everyone camped out in the field for a week. Which was when Immie moved in to help Chas mend his broken heart.
‘Don’t worry, a wedding in the house with dancing in the Orangery won’t be at all the same as one in the meadow.’ Poppy’s obviously used to nursing couples through tricky spots. ‘And you can always add a marquee in the walled garden if the numbers grow.’
‘The ring’s next.’ Immie tears at the short spikes of her hair. ‘And then there’s the whole nightmare of what to wear.’ She grabs her throat and makes a strangled scream.
I bite back a smile. ‘That bad?’
‘Oh yes.’ She nods. ‘I’m definitely leaving dress shopping until July. At the earliest.’
Poppy rolls her eyes at that, but she’s flapping her hands and looking like she’s about to burst. ‘Which reminds me Immie, something huge happened. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I couldn’t find you. Nicole turned up at the shop today.’
Immie’s eyes go wide. ‘Blazing toad bollocks, you are joking?’
‘Nope.’ Poppy turns to me. ‘I didn’t dare tell you when she was there, but Nicole is Chas’s ex. That’s why I knocked her back with her booking.’
So that explains a lot. ‘Not the Bridezilla to end all Bridezillas?’ Which is how she’s always been referred to, hence me completely missing the significance of who she is. I’m in awe that I spent four hours placating her and came out the other side alive.
‘That’s the one.’ Poppy’s groan is heartfelt. ‘She was barely warming up today. Demanding and unreasonable doesn’t begin to cover it. However desperate we are, I couldn’t take her booking and go through all that again.’
Immie’s face is all screwed up. ‘She’s getting married?’ For once her husky voice has turned to a squeal.
‘To a James Bond look-alikey, after a Valentine’s proposal. And she was in to choose a dress.’
Immie’s clenching her fists. ‘Not Sean Connery? I refuse to let the Franken-bride who wrecked my fiancé marry him.’
Poppy’s got her soothing voice on. ‘Keep your hair on, he’s more Pierce than Sean. But getting engaged on the same day as you and Chas? You couldn’t make it up, could you?’ Poppy bites her lip as she hesitates. When she speaks, her tone has changed from soft to firm. ‘But this doesn’t need to change anything for you, Immie. Chas loves you for yourself.’
Immie changed the habits of a lifetime to go the extra mile for Chas, not that he ever asked her to. But she’d never dallied with make up or heels before last summer. You only have to look at her tottering along in those wellies to see the effort she’s put in.
I pick up where Poppy’s coming from, as well as her wild-eyed calls for back-up. ‘It’s you he wants to marry, Immie. Definitely you. You as you are. Not looking like anyone else.’
‘Right.’ Immie’s nostrils are flaring. ‘Ring Brides by the Sea, please. I need an appointment. Now.’
‘But it’s fine to do things your way, Immie.’ I say. ‘Whatever happened to dress shopping in July?’
Immie’s straight back at me. ‘Stuff that. I need to get on the case.’ Her eyes narrow, and her voice drops. ‘What kind of dress is Nicole having?’
Shit. At Brides by the Sea we’re always discreet. And what if there’s a new, upgraded confidentiality code I don’t know about? ‘She was mainly looking in Sera’s room,’ I say airily. Hopefully that gives Immie the information she wants, without breaking any rules.
‘Great.’ Her fists are on her hips again. ‘That’s where I’ll have my appointment then. Soon as you can, please. But make it a day when you’re both there to help.’ She blows out her cheeks. ‘You might need to tie me down. I’m already hyperventilating.’
I have a feeling she’s not kidding. They had their hands full trying to get her into even a bridesmaid’s dress for our friend Cate’s wedding last summer, which I missed because I couldn’t get time off from the hotel in the summer season.
I remember there’s a final piece of icing on today’s cake. ‘And Poppy sent Nicole to see Rose Hill Manor, along with her compliments.’
‘Nice move.’ Immie’s frown melts to a chortle. ‘Those Penryns are a laugh in a bar. But they’re as likely to deliver on weddings as fly to the moon. That Quinn was like a bull in a china shop when he was best man at Sera’s sister’s wedding at Christmas.’
I can’t help grinning. ‘When picky Nicole hits Kip, he’ll run for the hills. She’s the perfect weapon to see off the opposition, Poppy.’
Even as I’m laughing I’m aware the joke may yet come back to bite me. As Nicole’s stylist, I might not be smiling so much if I end up in the middle of them.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_6c810638-5011-5c24-a1ee-6281f2f25109)
Saturday, 25th Feb
On the way to Rose Hill Manor: Sitting ducks and farmers on safari
‘I’m so excited to see the Manor. But really, I could have driven there myself.’
It’s no secret I’ve been dying for Saturday to arrive to get a sneak peek inside. You have no idea how often I’ve been pouring over the pictures of Sera’s sister’s wedding on Jules-the-photographer’s website. And how scared shitless I am by the size of the place, and the thought of styling a wedding. If Nicole does decide to have her wedding here, it’ll be a huge responsibility for me. It’s all very well Jess saying she knows I have the eye and the talent. I’m just not that confident I’ll be able to deliver.
I’m definitely not stinting on the ‘happy daughter’ effort this morning. But as I clamber into the back of David’s sporty MPV at Heavenly Heights, I’m regretting it on so many levels. And it’s not just the close-up view of my mum putting her hand on David’s knee as she picks invisible fluff out of his designer stubble. When she leans in for the ear nuzzle she assumes I can’t see, I actually get sick in my mouth.
‘So have you made a start on growing my bouquet yet, Lily?’ It takes a talker like my mum to fire questions through a mouthful of earlobe. She’s peering past the head rest at me. ‘Why the blank stare? Catch up.’
From where I’m scrunched up on the black leather upholstery in the back seat the PDAs are barely two feet away. Worse, she can put me on the spot about her ridiculous wedding flower plans. Which incidentally, I’m having no part of.
‘I thought that was a gimmick to get on the radio,’ I say. ‘Like saying you do online dating, when you don’t even know what the internet is.’ My mum doesn’t have the first clue how to open a laptop, let alone use one.
There’s an amused smile playing around her lips. ‘I’ll have you know, Jenny and I are entirely computer literate.’ At least it’s taken her mind off horticulture.
My squawk is high with disbelief. ‘Since when?’
‘Since we joined our U3A Access course last year. It’s Thursdays after Aqua-fit. Once we’d Googled Lonely Hearts, we took to Safari like ducks to water.’ She gives a toss of her head. ‘David and I are Cornish Casual Computer Couples’ fifth engagement in a year.’
So that’s told me, but my voice is still a squeak. ‘Aqua-fit? But you hate to swim.’ Talk about the secret life of parents. It could be worse. At least she’s not on Tinder.
‘When you’re all alone, the days are very long.’ Her voice has a hard edge. For a moment, she sounds like she might be about to cry. Then it gives way to the giggle that’s becoming so familiar. ‘But that’s all over and forgotten now. As for the flowers, it’s all arranged. Fred’s got a greenhouse for you. By the time they’re ready to plant out, he’ll have found you a patch of garden to use too.’
‘Mum, I don’t want to grow flowers. I didn’t say I would.’ More to the point, I don’t actually know how. Doing it with Dad back in the day is way different than doing it myself. I’m protesting through gritted teeth, because there’s no way I want to make her argue in front of a stranger. What’s more, Fred’s been bombarding my phone with messages – unanswered, obviously – and this is the first I’ve heard of his involvement.
‘Lily … how often do I ask anything of you?’
Okay, here we go. Whenever I hear that whine in my mum’s voice, I brace myself. At times like this I completely understand why my brother chose to live on the other side of the world, and not visit. It’s why Bath worked for me. And why St Aidan may not be the best idea, however desperate I am.
She gives a disgusted sniff. ‘Quite simply … never.’
‘That’s not entirely true.’ I close out the passing village green as I clamp my eyes shut, although that’s not going to save me. This is always how it goes. The times when my mum slips into her martyr-drama-queen persona are not her best.
‘I ask you to contribute one thing towards my dream of future happiness, and you refuse. As for your father … he’d be mortified to know you didn’t care.’
Since dad died, she always calls him that. As if he’s nothing to do with her any more. And this is nothing to do with me caring about her.
‘Leave Dad out of this.’ I’m croaking, because my mouth is dry. It’s the ultimate below-the-belt manipulation, because he’d most likely be telling me to stand up to her, and do what was right for me. And we both know that. What’s more, if he were here, she wouldn’t be needing flowers to get married to another blinking man.
‘That’s another thing.’ She’s tapping her fingers on the dash. ‘Refusing to go on a date with Fred is foolish. At least if you’re in his greenhouse you might warm to him. If you carry on as you are, you’re going to be single, old and lonely.’
The ‘old and single’ chestnut. I heave a big sigh. ‘The point is, that will be my choice.’
David clears his throat, as he pulls the car around into the lane. ‘Why can’t we buy flowers, like everyone else does?’
If anyone apart from him said that, I’d say good point well made. Although he seems to have missed that I’m the one who’ll make up the bouquets. Unless they defect to the opposition again. Which they might do, given their form so far. But this is between Mum and me. He should stay the hell out of it.
‘I might give the seeds a try.’ As it comes out, I’m as surprised to hear it as anyone. It’s something to do with David. And that same feeling I had as a stroppy teenager. If there’s a competition between wanting to stand my ground with my mum, and wanting to defy David, there’s a clear winner. ‘We’ll see.’ I’m not quite sure what I’ve let myself in for here.
‘Talking of Fred …’ It’s my mum again, brightening, as we round the corner.
David joins in, as we swerve to a halt behind a row of waiting cars. ‘Watch out, logs in the road.’ There’s a blast of cold air as he winds down his window.
As Fred saunters up, pushing back his waves, I almost swallow my tongue. He grins at me as he leans his forearm on the car roof. ‘We lost our load right outside the Manor entrance. It’s taken a while, but it’s pretty much clear now. Only blocked the open day for a couple of hours, so we’re all good.’
A likely story. ‘Fred …?’
He gives a shrug. ‘Accidents happen. I don’t think he’s lost too many customers. The joys of country house weddings, eh?’ Just as he’s about to go he dips back. ‘Do let me know if you think of anywhere my new girlfriend would like to go, Lily. She’s proving hard to pin down.’
Then he’s gone. Off down the lane, and swinging up into the tractor. And a few minutes later we’re driving down a gravelled avenue, between huge oaks, towards tall roofs glinting in the sun. And a country house that’s jarringly familiar all these years on, yet completely living up to its build up this time around. As much as I want to hate it, for Poppy and Rafe’s sake, somehow I can’t.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_d45f7037-1434-5ec3-b312-90998d4681b9)
Saturday, 25th February
Open Day at Rose Hill Manor: Ice breakers and sharp claws
‘So you see why we like it?’
My mum’s suddenly less sure of herself, hanging back as we get out of the car.
It’s one of those times when my memory plays tricks with scale. Somehow now we’ve pulled up on the gravel at the front, Rose Hill Manor’s bigger than I remember from the few times I came here as a teenager. Sharper too. But the windows are irregular, and the stone is so mellow, its warmth pulls you in. And the huge front door is open and inviting. Although whoever’s organised the parking has scored a mammoth fail, because there’s no signage, and there’s a jam of cars as drivers try to work out where to go.
‘It’s lovely.’ My hand’s on the handle of the car door, when it hits me that my mum’s about to commit to something huge here. ‘You are sure about this? You don’t want to wait a bit?’ She wouldn’t be the first woman to sign up for a wedding just because she fell in love with the venue.
She picks up her handbag, and she’s missed the point by a mile. ‘So long as we’re quick, we should beat the stampede. There were a lot of cars in that queue.’
I let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m not talking about now, I’m asking if you should be waiting longer to get married. You could have the wedding next year instead?’ I mean, how would she react if I said I was rushing into marrying someone I barely knew?
My mum’s expression is determined, as she catches my eye in the sun visor mirror. ‘Time’s short. At my age, I have to make the most of the youth I’ve got left.’ As she snaps away her lippy, she glances at a band on her wrist. ‘If I skip round the Manor, I should get to ten thousand.’
She’s lost me. ‘Ten thousand what?’
‘Steps, silly – on my Fitbit.’ She shakes her head at my frown. ‘Never mind, we’d better hurry.’
As we arrive at the entrance, David’s standing next to a balding potted pine, hitching up skinny jeans that could be borrowed from an eighteen-year-old. Believe me, if I’d picked up on the spray-on denim earlier, I’d never have left Heavenly Heights. But as we go into the lofty hallway, I take Poppy’s advice, to pick out the positives.
‘Fabulous staircase, and it’s lovely and cosy.’
There’s a flash of dayglow lycra as my mum unzips her jacket. ‘What a crowd. And it’s positively tropical. Lucky I’m wearing my technical top.’ She picks up my blank look. ‘Special exercise fabric – it wicks away the sweat, darling.’
On a need-to-know basis, that’s way too much. Whatever happened to her love affair with Phase Eight and a sedentary lifestyle? But she’s not joking about the crush. Despite Fred’s delaying tactics, the place is rammed. As we thread our way through the wide-open plan reception rooms that flow from one into the next there are couples hugging the walls.
‘Any idea which way we go?’ I ask, as I squeeze my way into a room with polished boards, and linen covered sofas. Even though it could have dropped straight from a Country Living magazine, there’s no hint of weddings at all. And there’s a thrumming sound track, that sounds like it came from a Driving Rock CD. As Meatloaf gives way to Led Zeppelin, at least the chaos is eclipsing David’s embarrassing trouser situation. It’s not like you can see anyone’s legs.
A girl rolls her eyes at me over her glass of fizz. ‘Bubbly’s in the study. We served ourselves, but we haven’t got a clue where to go next.’
When it comes to listening in, my mum’s a pro. ‘Don’t worry, we know our way around, we’ve been before. Follow us.’ As she begins her running commentary, more people start to tag along. ‘The winter garden’s where the ceremonies take place, then the ballroom’s the party space.’
David’s right behind her. ‘You can have marquees by the terrace, or even a lakeside tipi.’
Not that I’ve landed a styling commission yet, but at least soaking up the spaces and the atmosphere makes me feel less like a spare part. Although it would make me a traitor to Poppy, a job here would be a dream if I had the courage to do it.
‘And upstairs there are masses of luxury bedrooms, and a bridal suite.’ My mum can’t hold in her enthusiasm. ‘We’d better head up there now, if we’re going to get to spinning.’
‘Spinning?’ As I puff up the stairs, trying to keep up with her, I get my first clear view of her state-of-the-art Nike trainers. Given how pink they are, I can’t think how I missed them earlier. What’s more, it’s the first time I’ve ever known her leave the house without four inch heels.
She laughs over her shoulder. ‘It’s all go. The hazards of having a fiancé who’s a personal trainer. As soon as you see the four poster you’ll understand why I want to marry him here.’
The thought of my mum on her wedding night makes me shudder. ‘Maybe I’ll check out the other rooms. Give you two some “couple” time in the bridal suite.’
Linking arms with David, she heads for an elegant panelled door. ‘We’re in here then, you’ll need to be on the next floor. The single rooms are up under the eaves.’
There’s no point taking the truth as a jibe, but it still stings. ‘With your insider knowledge, they should be employing you as a guide.’ As I back down the landing, I’m visualising cupcakes. ‘I’ll wait for you by the refreshments.’
It’s a fight to reach the study, but I know I’m there when I spot a hand-written sign blu-tacked on the door. Drinks and Bookings. Kip Penryn is obviously an optimist then. The bad news is there’s not a crumb of cake in sight. It’s an indication of the entire event. I’d give ten out of ten for venue, zero for effort. But on the plus side, the study’s delightfully empty, with an array of bottles and ice buckets on a long oak desk. I’m helping myself to apple juice, when I hear a voice in the corridor outside.
‘If the fizz is as good as the rest of the place, they’ll be splashing round the Bolly. Fingers crossed for smoked salmon blinis.’
Someone blagging smoked salmon blinis? How’s that familiar? My stomach wilts, although it’s all my own fault. I’m the one who was shouting about the open day.
It’s a good thing I’ve put down my juice, because the next moment the door pushes open, and an apparition in white fur is storming towards me, arms out-stretched.
‘L-i-l-eeeeeeeee …’ Someone elongates my name as they drag me into a strangle-hold. ‘I was soooo hoping you’d be here.’
‘Nicole …?’ I haven’t totally seen her face, but the haze of Black Opium, and the faceful of fur are the giveaways.
‘And this is Miles … Miles, this is amazing Lily from Brides by the Sea, who found me my dress, and who’s going to be our wedding stylist.’
As Nicole relaxes her grip, I make a mental note to keep my toes well away from her bag.
‘Hello Miles, lovely to meet you.’ However big my smile, it’s going to be hard to live up to the build up.
‘You too, Lily.’ As he raises an ironic eyebrow and grasps my hand, he’s every bit as 007 as Nicole promised. A little bit older in real life than on his photo, but an impeccably cut suit lifts his ‘phwoar’ factor to a solid eight point five. Speaking impartially here, obviously.
‘Bolly for both of you?’ I’m joking, but when I pick up the bottle to fill their glasses, I’m spot on. Which is a teensy bit crazy, when Prosecco would have done the job. And in no way makes up for the cupcake deficit. As I hand them their flutes, I can’t help thinking it’s like Nicole and my mum got their men mixed up. But that’s entirely up to them.
‘Did someone say Bolly?’ This time it’s my mum’s head coming around the door, so they must have fast forwarded on the bedrooms.
‘You were quick.’ I manage a smile as they shuffle in.
‘There’s no time to lose, we need to do this.’ The corners of her mouth are white with excitement.
‘Have we met?’ Nicole butts in, staring at me expectantly.
‘Sorry, Nicole, Miles, David, and Barbara is my mum …’ I rattle off the names, and throw in an ice breaker. ‘You all got engaged on Valentine’s Day.’ I skip the Pirate FM bit. The sooner we forget that, the better.
When Nicole’s fist comes forward, surprisingly – or maybe, not – it’s not for a hand shake. ‘I’m so lucky, and isn’t this the most fabulous engagement ring?’ She’s waggling her rocks on her left hand, and seeking out my mum’s ring hand with the other.
I’m bracing myself, because if this is a bling competition there can only be one winner.
‘Ooooh, very Beyoncé.’ My mum’s smile freezes, as she pulls her hand away. ‘Actually, mine’s still being re-sized.’
So that explains why I haven’t seen it. More surprising still, now they’re closer, I can’t help notice her lips match Nicole’s. Bright pink Chanel Mighty. I’m still reeling at my mum’s bitchy return, trying to think of some way to move the conversation on when the door swings again.
‘So Bolly and bookings? Have we got any takers? Everything’s half price today.’
Okay, it had to happen. Kip does live here. I’d just hoped to avoid him. Less ridiculous than it sounds, seeing as he was doing such a good job of making himself scarce.
As he strides in his smile’s wide, and he’s rubbing his hands. Literally and metaphorically, no doubt. And if Penryns in denim are dangerous, in a dark jacket this one’s incendiary. Not that it matters to me though, because I know to keep a country mile away. At least.
‘So … we meet again. You really couldn’t resist my exclusive venue?’
Seeing he’s whizzed straight past four potential customers, to home in on me, I’m guessing his business sense isn’t as sharp as he pretends.
My mum jumps forward. ‘This is Lily, she’s my daughter …’
If she asks him for a date on my behalf I’m going to expire. But I’m saved because Nicole’s straight in there.
‘But much more importantly, Lily’s from Brides by the Sea, and she’s my wedding stylist.’ If she lost out in the ring tussle, she’s not backing off now. And professional trumps family every time. ‘We’re here to make a booking, and as we were in here first, it’s only right we get first go.’ She’s powered past us, plonked herself in the swivel chair, and she’s tapping an acrylic nail on the polished desk. ‘Although we will be looking for assurances of up-grades. Complimentary cocktails, snacks in the Bridal Suite, a hot tub on the lawn. You could do with having a wedding fair too.’
And that’s just for starters. Exactly why Poppy ran a mile. And Nicole’s barely begun. I must be mad thinking I’ll work for her.
‘Great.’ Kip sounds less excited then he might. ‘If I can get to my seat, we’ll see what we can do.’ He shepherds Nicole back around to the front of the desk.
‘Saturday August 12th, it’ll be our six-month anniversary, and we want two days before thrown in too, for styling.’
I should be grateful for the extra preparation time she’s grabbed, but instead my knees are actually knocking with nerves that it’s real. I’m sure that’s when Immie and Chas are tying the knot too. What are the chances of that?
Nicole dips into her bag. ‘Here’s the deposit.’ A shower of notes slithers across the desk. At least that explains why she needed such a humungous bag.
My mum’s low moan is so heartfelt, it almost has me looking for a wounded dog.
I turn to her. ‘You didn’t want that day too?’
She bunches up her mouth, and nods.
‘Too late, it’s taken.’ Nicole’s air punch is gloating. ‘Second best gets second place. Suck it up.’
I know I’m not ecstatic about my mum getting married. But right now I’d like to knock Nicole’s lights out. Or smother her. Or anything else that would silence her. What’s more, I can’t understand why any couple who’ve only been together a few months would put themselves under the pressure of organising a wedding. At such short notice too. It’s not as if they don’t know any better. They’ve all been there before.
From the way my mum’s mouth bunches, she’s not taking that lying down. ‘Lily’s never actually styled weddings before. So good luck with that one, Nicole.’ Ouch. With friends like my mum, who needs enemies? Although I’m probably the first ammunition that came to hand.
‘It always rains in August. September’s much sunnier,’ I say, momentarily putting to one side that my mum’s just dropped me in the shit, and wrecked my chance of a job. Am I a bitch for wishing torrential storms for Nicole? With any luck my mum will see this as a sign. Leave it until next year. By which time she might have come to her senses.
‘Whatever.’ Kip counts the cash and tries three drawers to find a pen. The way he reaches for an A4 ruled pad to write out a receipt sets my alarm bells ringing.
‘So what about corkage?’ I blurt it out before I can stop myself.
I’m no expert. But it’s to do with costs for opening wine, and every venue has a policy. It’s not exactly my business, but it is the perfect test question to see if he knows what he’s doing here.
‘Corkage?’ As soon as Kip repeats the word, he gives himself away. It’s obvious from the wiggles on his forehead he hasn’t the first clue what I’m talking about. A definite fail.
‘A list of approved caterers and suppliers? Price lists? Agreements?’ I watch his eyes widen as I screw him down, and his throat bulges as he swallows.
But a second later, he holds up his hand. ‘Not quite in place. Yet. Hence the stonking early bird discount.’ Talk about thinking on his feet.
‘So what else don’t you know about?’ I’m not the one making bookings here, but his don’t-give-a-damn attitude’s left me fuming. My voice soars. ‘These people are trusting you. You can’t mess around. We’re talking about the biggest days of their lives here.’
The smile’s vapourised, and his scowl is directed straight at me. ‘What exactly is your point?’
In other words, butt the hell out. But if he thinks I’ll back down, he’s wrong.
I make my eyes as cold as his. ‘If you can’t take a whole lot of heat, you really shouldn’t be messing around in this particular kitchen. Is what I’m saying.’ I suspect he hasn’t got any idea what he’s getting himself into here. And he could ruin a whole lot of hopes and dreams, as he claws his way up the learning curve. ‘Running a wedding venue is about a whole lot more than collecting the money, you know.’
Although, I might be talking to myself here, given my mum’s entirely engrossed flicking through a tiny diary, and David’s nodding wildly.
‘Right, that’s settled. We’ll take the third Saturday in September.’ My mum’s missed the whole altercation, and she’s hurtling towards the metaphorical cliff edge like a happy lemming.
‘What date’s that?’ Kip dips to scramble through the desk drawers, presumably searching for a calendar, but comes up empty handed. He drums his fingers expectantly.
‘16th September,’ my mum says, helpfully.
If I were a tiger, I’d be roaring. ‘An appointment book might work here?’ I’m spitting the words out. ‘Or is it too early for something so rudimentary?’ There’s no point telling him most venues have dedicated files, for years ahead.
He rips a sheet of paper off the pad, and scribbles the date. ‘Got you.’
Nicole’s pointy nail pokes Kip on the chest. ‘And don’t forget us. You haven’t written us down yet.’ Just this once I forgive her for being so unbearably pushy.
‘You might need to add names and phone numbers to those dates, you know.’ It’s not my place, but someone has to tell him. And maybe staple the paper to his head to stop him losing it. As for what it’s going to take to pull a wedding out of this? We’re about to find out, because David’s already tearing his cheque off.
My mum’s scribbling her details next to her date. ‘Sorry, we’ve got to dash. We’ll be in touch. Fifty per cent off, we can’t go wrong,’ she’s saying as she heads for the door.
In my head, I’m screaming, ‘oh yes you can, don’t bloody do it, for every reason’ at the top of my voice. But somehow the words never make it into the air.
We’re barely two steps out of the door when my mum lets rip instead. ‘Who was that awful woman? Someone should tell her pink doesn’t work on brunettes. You must be mad leaving that nice hotel to work with hideous people like that, Lily.’
At least she still thinks I had a choice. Although seriously, I’m quaking at the thought of taking on Nicole. We’re outside getting into the car when I remember what I’ve got away with.
‘So much excitement, you forgot to try to fix me up with a date with Kip Penryn. That has to be a first.’ If there’s one good thing about my mum getting married, that was it. Unless she had the good sense to see this is the one guy in the world best avoided.
The sun visor’s already down and she’s getting to work with the Chanel Mighty. ‘There’s no point either of us wasting time there, Lily. He’s way out of your league.’ Her lips are popping as she launches into her favourite mantra. ‘You could do so much better for yourself, if only you’d make the effort.’ She looks at my trousers, and winces.
Black jeggings. A size too big. Very practical for the shop. Not that someone in fitness bottoms like my mum’s is in any position to dish out fashion advice.
David gives his own jeans a wrench as he slides behind the wheel. ‘As a guy I’d say old Kip was way more interested in Lily than he was in us, or his bookings. Seriously Lily, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
There he goes again. Butting in. And talking the usual bollocks. As for my mum, the criticisms’ been raining down since nineteen eighty-four. Mostly I shrug it off.
‘Part of the Penryn empire went to the wall recently.’ David’s rubbing his chin, musing as he waits for my mum to finish. ‘It was all over the FT, as I remember.’
My mum raises a querying eyebrow. ‘The what?’
‘The Financial Times.’
As my frown meets David’s in the driving mirror, his is worried, while mine is disbelieving. I suppose he has to read something when he’s on his exercise bike. Or he might be making it up.
My mum brushes away his concerns, as she flips the sun visor up again. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, dahling.’
Meanwhile I file that information snippet safely in my ‘good to know for a later date’ box, because it’s always useful to have something to hold over a Penryn. And as the tyres scrunch along the gravel drive, I’m horrified to find I’m scanning the horizon for logs and tractors. But thankfully they’ve all gone.
‘Let’s just hope “old Kip” pulls his finger out, and stays solvent here until September.’ I say, as we roar off up the lane towards the village. Because if he fails on either count we’re all in trouble.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_c2183c66-edf9-591f-b29f-0f7b31cd88a0)
Tuesday, 28th February
At Brides by the Sea: Gold paper and personalised T-shirts
Despite Immie’s desperation to get started immediately, we’d deferred her appointment until today. If she’s going to play the reluctant bride, it’s best she does it in an empty shop. When Immie was a bridesmaid last summer, despite softening her with alcohol, they practically had to winch her into the fitting room for the first trying-on session. But as we hit the kitchen to sort the Prosecco, she’s not hanging back.
As I get the glasses off the shelf, she frowns. ‘Forget champagne flutes, I need a proper glass. Give me the biggest you’ve got.’
I hand her a tumbler, and fill it with fizzy wine. But before Poppy comes in half a minute later, I’m already topping it up.
‘What the hell are those?’ Immie wrinkles her nose at the dainty biscuits on the plate Poppy’s carrying.
‘Amaretti cookies, just out of the oven. They’re great when you’re trying on, because they’re tasty, but very light.’ Poppy’s coaxing is falling on deaf ears.
‘Stuff light. I’m going to need cupcakes at the very least. Big ones too, not those piddling bite sized things. What the hell’s the point of those?’
Poppy grins as she reaches for the box under the plate. ‘I thought you might say that. Vanilla okay for you? With heart sprinkles to get you in the mood.’
If I thought Nicole was demanding, a nervous Immie is leaving her standing.
‘You’ll feel better once you have a calorie hit, Immie,’ I say, trying to encourage her. As I snaffle one too, I can tell from the weight they’re XXL specials. By the time I’m peeling down the gold paper case, and dipping my finger into the buttercream on mine, Immie’s sinking her teeth into her second.
Poppy bites into her own. ‘And your We’re getting married at Daisy Hill Farm T-shirt is looking fab too.’ It’s one of the first of a new line, with personalised happy-couple names, as masterminded by Rafe. Eat your heart out, Not On The High Street.
‘The king of the chest-front slogan gets full marks for these.’ I’m wiping the crumbs off my hands, bracing myself for what’s coming. ‘I love the glittery print.’
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