Kitabı oku: «Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop», sayfa 2
And then he’s stooping, grasping my hand, and before I know it, a waft of delicious man scent whooshes past my nose, and he’s whisked me back onto my feet. What’s more, as I drag a stray pine cone out of my hair, my dress is unravelling as if it’s alive. In the time it takes to blink, I’m back to the shape of one of those doll birthday cakes, with a Barbie body, and a sponge made in a pudding basin. Except in my case, it’s without the boobs.
‘You see… he said “pink” too.’ I’m sticking my chin out at Jess. ‘And what about the bloody bears? Who said you could sell them?’
It’s not often that Jess is lost for words, but for some reason it must be catching, because she’s opening her mouth and closing it again, and no sound’s coming out. And we’re all standing staring at each other when there’s a warbling noise from The Seraphina East Room.
Johnny’s the first to react. He raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyone expecting a Skype call?’
Fate works in mysterious ways. Johnny disappearing at the speed of light? Or me? Either is good.
‘That one’s mine.’ I hurl myself towards the sanctuary of The Seraphina East Room.
Johnny’s voice echoes after me. ‘Sorry to have disturbed your Friday. I’ll let you get on, then.’ So like him to want the last word. Although that’s not exactly true. The last time I contacted him he didn’t get back to me. At all.
A second later I’m in front of the laptop, staring at an empty chair on the screen, wondering where the heck my Bridezilla sister has got to.
2
Friday, 16th December
Brides by the Sea: Red carpets and wild ideas
‘So is Alice online yet? I’m dying to see her.’
As Jess swoops in next to me on the chaise lounge, she almost knocks my laptop off my knee. With any luck, Alice will move her on from Johnny. Although I’m aching to find out if he mentioned where the wedding was he was going to. Not that he can possibly have any link to Alice’s wedding. Can he?
‘Alice will be along any second.’ I’m whispering to Jess in case Alice comes back on screen. ‘She’s in Brussels, with an army of builders.’ As planned, the ‘b’ words have Jess leaning in even more intently.
In case you’re wondering, Alice works in international interiors. We’re currently waiting for her to attend to urgent site business, which probably means she’s bringing her make-up up to speed before she comes on screen properly.
As Alice’s figure sweeps past the webcam, Jess’s voice shoots high with surprise. ‘Oh, she’s dark. And beautifully groomed. So you’re not alike at all, then?’
Despite the insult, I can’t help laughing, because it’s true. Alice rocks the ‘Audrey Hepburn, poised for the red carpet’ look. Whereas I’m more ‘Courtney Love, the morning after’.
‘Great, I’m here now…’ As Alice slides into view again, she’s got her professional voice on, although it’s less snippy than usual.
‘And she’s so glossy.’ Given Jess is murmuring at my elbow, I take it she’s set on joining in and making this a conference call.
As for the gloss, it’s the expensive sort, not the flashy kind. The prefix high-end applies to every item in Alice’s life. But despite ten minutes spent applying concealer, she’s still got tired-shadows under her eyes.
‘I’ve been trying to get you for hours, Sera…’ She’s exaggerating. Obviously. It’s barely eleven and I’ve been next to my laptop for ages.
But whatever, the tension between us is already crackling. And I’ve no idea why exactly. When we were kids she was the kind of older sister who bossed me about without mercy, but she always stuck up for me when the going got tough. Since we left home, we respect each other’s views and lifestyle choices. Although they’re not the ones we’d choose for ourselves, we care about each other from a safe distance. And like so many other siblings, when we get together, we revert to type.
As for the Skype call, if I know Alice this is my reminder to pick her up when she flies in tomorrow. So I’m getting in first.
‘Don’t worry Alice, I’ve set my alarm for six, I’ll be in Exeter when you land… promise…’
There’s a pause, as she rolls her eyes, not believing a word.
‘That’s why I’ve rung…’ Her second hesitation is long enough for her forehead to pucker under her fringe. ‘Actually I’m not going to be able to come tomorrow after all.’
‘But why not?’ My voice is shrill with shock. Alice never breaks appointments. And what about her wedding? There has to be shedloads of work left to do for that.
‘I’m overseeing a polished-concrete installation, and the frigging mix hasn’t set.’
It’s a rarefied world she lives in. Only Alice would polish concrete. And she doesn’t usually swear either.
‘I see,’ I say, even though I don’t at all. ‘Isn’t it all a bit last minute?’
Her cheeks blow out. ‘It’s a rush job for a diplomat. I pulled it in to help pay for all the wedding extras.’ The heartfelt groan she lets out is very unlike her. ‘I so want all our guests to have a white Christmas they’ll remember forever.’
There you go. I knew she was counting on snow. And with expectations like that, she’s setting herself up for a fall. I try to let her down gently. ‘I’m not completely sure it will be white.’ In fact I’m a hundred percent sure it won’t be.
‘It simply has to snow, Sera.’ She’s wringing her hands, and her wail is so loud my laptop vibrates. ‘What’s the point in getting married at Christmas otherwise?’
Between us, a lot of people get married in December because it’s cheaper. Not that I’m cynical, but Alice getting married in Cornwall has more to do with the fabulous venue they’ve got their hands on, than the location itself.
‘The sparkle will be seriously special with all your gorgeous touches,’ I say, feeling weird that I’m suddenly trying to sell this to her. ‘And the log fires.’ I’m trying my hardest to reassure her here. ‘And it’ll be great getting everyone together.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she says, calmer now. Although she can’t be completely herself, because she doesn’t usually go overboard with the gratitude. ‘And I promise I’ll be with you as soon as I can. But until I get there, please can you look after things for me? Be my stand-in project manager on the ground?’
I’m blinking, screwing up my face. ‘What… me…?’ She can’t be serious.
It’s no secret the rest of my family are all hugely brainy and successful. But where Alice surpassed all expectations, I’m the big let-down. From full-on public humiliation when I had to re-take GCSE maths, to going off to college to do fashion, I’ve been the family embarrassment my entire life. We both know I struggle to manage my own tiny life. Not to mention the designs I should be doing. Adding in more is asking for trouble.
‘Don’t worry, the earliest jobs are mainly humping stuff around,’ she says, making me wonder why I’m needed at all. ‘Dan’s besties will be providing the muscle, but you’ll oversee.’ Her face lights up with a new thought. ‘You can be navigator. You’re the perfect person to guide them around. Go with them. Keep an eye on what they’re doing.’ Her nod is horribly decided.
‘Navigator?’ I mouth back at her, my voice a squeak. Alice really has no idea. I barely know my way round St Aidan, let alone anywhere else. I go from the shop, to the bakery, to the cottage, to the beach. And back again via the corner shop or café. I’ve barely done a thousand miles in gran’s car in the three years since she died. The airport was going to be a major challenge. Then I have my own brainwave. ‘There has to be someone better than me?’
We’re family and we’ll always have that tie. But the last few years you couldn’t say we’ve been close. Although my parents appreciated me coming down to Cornwall to keep an eye on my gran when I gave up my gap-year travel, I’m not sure Alice approved. After that there was always a distance between us. And it was about more than the miles between here and London. Gran and I liked to think of ourselves as the Cornish free-spirit family outpost. And when Gran died two years ago, everyone in London was happy to let me stay on in her cottage by the harbour. But Alice has never been interested in my life down here.
‘Actually I’ve thought about this very carefully.’ She’s tapping her pen on her front tooth. ‘You’re my sister, you’re genetically programmed to stand up for me. I won’t get better than that.’
‘Really.’ I can’t hold back my ironic smile. It’s so like Alice to analyse her problem so clinically.
She looks vaguely hurt. ‘Truly, Sera, you’re the only person I can truly trust for this. Deep down, you’re the one who knows me best, you instinctively know the choices I’d make. Which makes you the perfect person to make them for me, until I arrive. And to back me up when I get there too. Pleeeease say you will. There’s so much to do.’
If I’m blinking at her, it’s because she sounds so desperate. She’s strong, she never begs.
As she comes towards the screen her voice drops to a whisper. ‘I had no idea I’d find it this tough, it’s all turning out to be a total nightmare. As for Dan and his friends, if I’m not there to control them, anything could happen. You’re the only one who’ll understand what I’d mind about. You’re the one who’ll care enough to fight my corner… head them off… sort them out… stamp on their wilder ideas. You know what guys can be like? Sometimes I get the feeling they don’t give a damn at all…’
Actually I don’t have the first idea about guys, given I’m singleton of the decade. But I am familiar with Alice’s mindset. I know she’s meticulous about every detail, and maddeningly uncompromising. And I can see how uptight she is. What’s more, she’s right. I completely understand where she’s coming from, even if I don’t always get it. The only problem is, I’m a complete wimp. I’ve never fought anyone in my life. I’ve never had to. Because Alice always did the fighting for me.
Looking back on our childhood we didn’t have a bad time. It’s just our parents were busy with other things. But Alice was the kind of big sister who looked out for me every step of the way. I can still hear her bawling at the kids who made fun of me because my corkscrew curls were almost white. And when my wedding Barbie’s head dropped off, Alice toasted marsh mallows over a candle to make me smile again. Then my first week at senior school when I got to the top of the wall bars and froze, she ran out of her chemistry lesson to talk me down. I know I took her for granted back then, but looking back, she was the person who made every day okay for me. This is my first chance ever to pay her back. I owe it to her to step up here.
Alice smoothes her fingers across her cheekbones, then drags her bob behind her ears. ‘If it’s easier, think of yourself as head bridesmaid.’
‘Oh my.’ Worse and worse. When I signed up for bridesmaid duties it was to look awful in a dress for twelve hours, while carrying a posy. And smile for the photographer, so long as he wasn’t arsey. Something tells me if I agree to this, I’m about to add in a whole lot more.
‘Every detail’s covered. It’s just a matter of making it all happen. It’s all in the Wedding Handbook – you’ve got that haven’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Despite myself, I’m grinning. It’s under the waste-paper mountain in the studio. I opened it at a random page, saw a sentence about the bridal party not sleeping together, and slammed it shut again. But given how fat it is, I suspect Alice has every item nailed. Apart from her late arrival, obviously. And the groom’s friends who won’t do as they’re told.
‘Stop worrying, you’ll be awesome. You might even enjoy it.’ She’s suddenly sounding a whole lot better. ‘Dan’s best man’s got your number, he’ll pick you up in the morning. He said “ten at the Surf Shack”. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Yes.’ It’s my local caf, but I’m hyperventilating too hard to say.
That’s the thing about Alice. She isn’t exactly a Bridezilla, because she never makes a fuss, she simply powers through. And if I’ve got to step in to keep her plans on track, even if it’s only for a couple of days, it’s a huge responsibility. What happens if I break the wedding?
‘There you go. Knowing the Surf Shack, that’s a great start.’ Alice’s air punch is so unlike her it leaves me blinking as her fist rushes towards the screen. ‘We’re Team Bride, Sera. We’ll do this together.’
Which kind of sounds like a bit of a contradiction, given she’s not going to be here.
‘Any other queries, ring me, okay?’
Did I actually agree to do this? There’s a thousand questions I should be asking, but my mind’s gone blank. As for who the best man is, I want to weave that in too, but Alice has started again.
‘Thanks so much, Sera, I’ll catch you very soon, I promise. And good luck.’ Then the screen goes blank. And she’s gone.
***
‘What a morning.’ First Johnny, then this. I’m stomping around in my kitten heels, pink-sequined tulle flapping against my legs. Right now I’m thinking of heading for the beach, and running. And not stopping until I reach Scotland. Or maybe Wales?
‘What am I going to do, Jess? I mean you know me, it’ll be a disaster.’
Jess is still on the chaise longue, with wiggles in her forehead I haven’t seen before. ‘I know I “baby” you at times, Sera. But it’s time you took more responsibility.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Read Alice’s Wedding Book carefully. Then go and smash it. And Dan’s friends will be helping too.’ That thought smoothes out the lines on her brow. ‘Weddings are romantic times. Throw in Christmas, and who knows what will happen.’
Hang on. Whatever happened to our Brides by the Sea singles solidarity? Jess came to it because of a disgusting divorce, which makes it all the more surprising that she managed to rubbish our whole ethos in one tiny sentence there.
‘Forget Christmas and cupid dust, Jess, I’m not on the market.’ I grit my teeth. ‘In any case, it clearly says in the manual “no hook-ups in the bridal party”.’ Go Alice. Sometimes she really does think she can control the world.
‘Really?’ Jess looks gobsmacked.
If there’s one teensy bit of silver lining in this very black wedding cloud, it’s that I’m off the coupledom hook here.
As my pointy boots finally get the better of me, I sink down into one of the Louis Quatorze chairs that are meant for mums of our brides. The last time I collapsed into one of these chairs was when I found out Josie Redman wanted me to design her wedding dress. That pushed me a thousand miles out of my comfort zone, but it was nothing compared to this.
Jess beams. ‘I’ve got a feeling this might be the making of you, Sera. Remember our mantra? “Feel the fear and do it anyway”.’
I think she might have said that last time too. But last time, there was gin, which frankly I could do with now. And so long as I kept my nerve, last time I only had to do my job and design a fabulous dress. And if I’d messed up, there were a hundred people waiting to take my place. So that was easy in comparison.
This time failure is not an option, and I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing. And this is Alice’s wedding at stake. That’s not just any wedding. This will have to be the most perfect wedding, in the world. Ever. Delivered exactly as Alice ordered it.
I scrunch up my face and try to find a thought to get me through. It’s a few short days. It’ll be over before I know it. And a few days never changed anyone, did they?
3
Friday, 16th December
In the studio at Brides by the Sea: After dark
A lot later that evening, hours after everyone else left, I’m up in the studio. Perching on a stool, in a pool of light, at the high cutting table. Sorting through swatches of lace, fingering pieces of silk. Staring out of the blackness of the windows, to see the distant lights of boats on the sea. Starting a drawing, then tossing it aside and beginning another. Even if I’m making no progress at all on the designs, at least I feel like I’m putting the time in.
I love my long workshop, three floors above the mews, with its stacks of magazines and the inspiration clippings pinned to a huge board. After the snowy neatness of the shop, the studio is a complete contrast, with its creative chaos of dressmakers’ mannequins, ironing boards and giant scissors. Up here the tulle and silk are on rolls, and the rails are full of fragments of dresses. Bodices with ragged edges, half-finished petticoats.
Each of the beautiful dresses hanging in the shop downstairs began as a sketch. Those few first lines on paper capture the whole essence. You can’t imagine the work that goes in to get from one to the other. But without those first sketches there’s no guide to create the pattern. And without the pattern, the dress can’t come to life.
I can’t blame it all on Johnny. It wasn’t as if the work was going well before he turned up. But since he did, somehow my brain can’t get beyond those words.
‘Wedding… Christmas… best man…’
I can’t stop thinking how awful it’ll be if he turns up at Alice’s wedding. And how gutted I’ll be if he doesn’t.
But right now I have to forget that Johnny is in Cornwall. I have to block out that on a windy day we might almost be breathing the same air. And I’ve got to come up with some startling new sketch designs. Because if I don’t, instead of bursting with an astonishing new collection, next Autumn the Seraphina East rails are going to be empty.
4
Saturday, 17th December
At The Surf Shack Café: Dark chocolate chips and flashing decorations
Hi Sera, Alice’s best man here, heading for the Surf Shack Cafe at 10. See you there :)
Texting? In St Aidan? I hope this best man – whoever he is – knows he’s damned lucky that message arrived. Signal here is patchy. To be honest, in most parts smoke signals would be more reliable than a mobile.
Unless they’re Cornwall devotees, most Londoners don’t have a clue what it’s like down here. When they arrive for the wedding, Alice’s friends are going to have their eyes opened, big time. It’s like the rest of the world used to be, in the days before technology. Locals scratch their heads over Wi-Fi, and give you blank looks if you mention broadband. Why would you want those when you can phone each other on the landline? Or – shock horror – talk, face to face. For me that’s why I like it here. As for where Best Man has chosen to meet up, I couldn’t have chosen better myself.
‘So here we go.’ I pull a face at Poppy, as we pick our way between the empty tables on the terrace deck of the Surf Shack Café. Poppy’s the cake baker from the shop, who just came back from London, and one of my closest friends.
‘You’ll be fine, so long as you remember to breathe,’ she says, making a good point.
Now I think about it, the last time I drew a breath was when we started walking along the sea front. When Poppy dropped in to pick up some baking trays from her attic kitchen, Jess muscled in, and sent her along with me, supposedly to make sure I don’t chicken out and leg it down the beach. But this way Jess also gets a full report immediately Poppy gets back to the shop.
Unlike many of the beachside cafés which bear no resemblance to their names, the Surf Shack cabin is as rickety and weathered as it sounds, which is why everyone likes it. Add in excellent coffee, delectable cocoa and the fattest sandwiches on the bay, and you’ll see why it’s such a winner. What’s more, it appears to have been knocked together from a thousand random bits of wood. Sometime most days, winter and summer, this is where I hang out. And while Poppy’s been in London this is also where most of my calorie intake has come from.
On the dot of nine-thirty I shoot her a final grimace and brace myself. As we push through the swing door into the café, we’re hit by a rush of warm air and the scent of fresh coffee. The owner, Brin, is grinning at me from behind a spikey electric-blue Christmas tree, perched on the counter.
‘Mornin’ Sera. Nice to see you back, Poppy,’ he says, as he rubs his hands on his striped apron. ‘Frothy hot chocolate, XXL, with dark chocolate sprinkles and a swirl of salted caramel?’
‘Please.’ I glance up at the glittery festive garlands that are criss-crossing the ceiling. That’s my usual winter order. It takes at least twenty minutes to do justice to a Surf Shack hot chocolate, so the timing should be perfect. The mugs they come in are bucket-size, and the toppings aren’t so much sprinkled on as added by the shovelful. ‘What about you, Poppy?’
She wrinkles her nose as she studies the list on the chalk board.
‘Hot chocolate… super-sized please… with whipped cream… and marshmallows… and white chocolate chips… and a double chocolate muffin please.’ She gives a guilty grin. ‘Rafe cooked me breakfast, but that was hours ago. And I’ve so missed the Surf Shack.’
‘Have these on the house today, ladies, seeing as it’s Christmas.’
I blow Brin an air kiss as we wander off to choose a table.
Poppy nods towards a table with its own mini Christmas tree, complete with flashing lights, then steers me towards a chair. ‘This one’s good, if you sit there it gives you a clear view of the door.’ She tilts her head towards Brin. ‘You still haven’t been on that date he’s always asking for?’
I laugh. ‘You remember my gran always said it’s better not to have a guy at all, than to be with the wrong one.’ I guess she repeated it so often it stuck fast in my head. ‘Anyway, I’m too busy, guys aren’t worth the trouble.’ I say, as I slip my wool jacket over the back of a chair and unwind my scarf.
By the time Brin comes over with our order, Poppy’s ready to dive straight in. As she begins to demolish her muffin, even though it’s still long before ten, I have half an eye on my hot chocolate, half on the door, with its outline of multi-coloured chaser fairy lights. I’m more or less ignoring the boarding guys who walk in. Not pre-judging, but I’m guessing any friend of Dan’s who’s made it past Alice’s eagle eye to be best man will stick out a mile as a smart London type. Especially given she’s hanging out with diplomats these days.
And why did I think I’d be able to drink even a sip of hot chocolate, when there’s a million-to-one chance Johnny might walk in the door any second? In a weird twist of fate, could he really be Dan’s best man?
Poppy studies me as I sit, not touching my drink.
‘I can see you with a surfer.’ She scrapes a fingerful of cream from the top of her hot chocolate and sucks on it. ‘I reckon a hunky, beachy, free-spirit type would suit you.’
‘Just because you’ve finally given in to Rafe.’ I laugh. ‘For the record, I’m definitely not looking for a guy of any type.’ And just to clear it up, I don’t surf or swim either. My beach appreciation is definitely limited to the shore. ‘But anyway, I’m hardly going to pull anyone in a suit, am I?’ I gesture to my messy bun and general laid-back appearance.
‘Who knows? Opposites attract.’ Poppy teases. ‘Some smart city barrister might have a thing for ripped denim shorts.’ She leans in towards me. ‘Actually, don’t look now, but I think I just spotted your perfect soulmate. You know that thing where you’re supposed to choose a partner who looks just like you. He’s over by the coffee machines.’
‘You don’t say.’ I’m not even going to bother to look. Sometimes Poppy is so unknowingly ridiculous she’s hilarious.
‘He’s well fit. Pretty ripped under that baggy top of his, too.’ She’s not holding back on the details. ‘All sun-bleached blonde hair, just like you. Stubble – not like you, but whatever, his denim’s as threadbare as yours. You definitely look like you’d share an essence.’
If Poppy’s talking about essences, it’s time to stop her. ‘Bollocks!’ I say, meaning to hiss but it comes out a lot louder than it should. The momentary lull in the café’s buzz gives me enough time to go crimson to my ear lobes.
Poppy leans in again. ‘I’m right, he’s totally checking you out now.’
This is why I avoid nights out in bars.
‘Properly.’ She takes another triumphant slurp of whipped cream.
I laugh at her. ‘I just shouted “bollocks” at the top of my voice. Everyone’s looking at me. Obviously.’ But I might as well prove her wrong. Out of all the thousands of surfers who’ve wandered through St Aidan in the last ten years, I have clicked with zero this far. Enough said. I might as well do the job properly and make my point. I give it a second, pray this won’t be the moment that Best Man chooses to walk through the door, and sneak the fastest-possible glance over my shoulder.
I only mean it to be a nano-second. But when I flick around and take in the ragged blonde hair and the sloppy sweater, something holds my gaze. And I can’t turn away. I’m smiling at scuffed suede boots that could almost belong to me. One minute I’m running my gaze up over that stubble, the next there’s a flash of blue green and our eyes have locked. When his delightfully lived-in face breaks into a grin and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles, my tummy flips. Nothing so huge that it officially leaves the building. But enough to throw me right off.
Shit. I force myself to wrestle my gaze away. As soon as Best Man shows up I’ll be out of here, and I’ll never have to look at this ‘soulmate’ guy again.
‘See what I mean?’ Poppy’s laughing. ‘So what’s the verdict?’
I make sure my shrug is spectacularly diffident and make a big thing of trying to stir my hot chocolate. Then I clear my throat and swallow madly, because somehow all my saliva has disappeared. ‘Nothing special,’ I croak, desperately playing for time. ‘Although you’ve got a point about his jeans. They could make great summer cut-offs.
‘Oh my God…’
At first I assume Poppy’s perfect ‘O’-shaped mouth is because she’s so shocked and disgusted I’ve rejected my perfect match.
‘Oh my God…oh my God…’ The third time she says it and her voice is mounting to a shriek, it has to be something else. ‘Oh my God, you might be in here…’
‘What…?’
‘Don’t look now,’ she says, completely unnecessarily, ‘but he’s… COMING OVER.’ She mouths those last two words silently. Which frankly is a bit stupid seeing as the whole café’s been scrutinising us since she screamed OMG.
I can tell he’s arriving way before I see him. First there’s Poppy’s completely uncool flapping of her fingers in front of her face. Although strictly, with my puce chops, I’m the one who should be doing the hand-fanning. And second, there’s the way she’s puffed out her cheeks so far she looks like a football about to pop. And bear in mind surf hunk is getting the full benefit of this as he comes towards us. Which I assume he has, because there’s suddenly the most fabulous scent of hunky male. Definitely not salty skin and seaweed, with an undertow of testosterone, which, let’s face it, is what most guys smell of here when they drag themselves up the beach. More, expensive cologne, crashing into a motorcycle engine, in a cedar forest.
I draw in a long breath as he circles the table and swaggers to a halt. After waiting a couple of seconds – I’m guessing to maximise the swoon effect – he seeks out my gaze with a disarming grin. As his broad hand extends towards me, I grit my teeth, and will my heart to stop galloping.
‘Hi, it’s Sera isn’t it? I’m Quinn,’ he says, his low voice resonating as he hesitates. ‘Quinn Penryn…?’ The questioning tone of his introduction makes him sound even more super-confident than he obviously is. It’s as if he’s so famous he thinks I should know him, and believe me I don’t.
Random guys hurling themselves at me is the last thing I want. And I’m not about to bend my rules now. Not for anyone, no matter how much I covet their jeans. The faster I stop this, the better for everyone. What’s more, I’m horribly aware that the whole café is watching us like we’re some kind of floor show. There’s no time to lose, so I launch.
‘Sorry,’ I say, throwing in the most distant, yet benign and unsexy, smile I can muster. ‘I’m going to cut you short here, Quinn. Because I’m really not interested.’ I’m actually feeling bloody empowered here. Not to mention proud of myself, for the small detail of slipping in his name too. ‘It’ll save us both a lot of time and trouble if I’m honest here,’ I add, by way of explanation. Because although I want to sound decided, I don’t want to come across as a complete bitch. Especially as we’ve got an audience.
The way his eyebrows shoot up, I’m guessing he’s not used to getting the knock back. Which is very probably the case, because close up, he’s even more delectable than he was from across The Shack. But something about his surprise supercharges my new-found confidence. I’m on a roll here.
‘Pickups by strangers really aren’t my thing.’ I say, and fix my smile, determined to hold it until he’s backed off. ‘So, thanks, but no thanks.’
I look back at my hot chocolate, give it another stir. And wait for him to go. How much more of a dismissal does Quinn Pen-whatever he’s called expect? He’s still here, because when I look down I can see those distressed boots of his. Which is the exact point I remember that eternal question we were obsessed with at school. That thing about the relationship between a guy’s shoe size and something else significant. Which, embarrassingly, is exactly what I’m staring at, at table level beyond my hot chocolate. If schoolgirl legend is true, and there is a link between the two, his feet are going to be size twelves. At least.
Screwing up my eyes to block out the view, I will Quinn to leave. To make it clear that I’ve moved on with my life, and I expect him to do the same, I take a massive gulp of hot chocolate. As my cup clatters back down, Poppy begins to flap again. From the way her eyes are popping like saucers, I’m guessing she’s trying to tell me something hugely important. But I’m not getting it. As she draws her forefinger under her nose, my frown deepens. If this dammed Quinn wasn’t still hanging around, Poppy and I would probably have collapsed in a heap of giggles by now.
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