Kitabı oku: «The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea», sayfa 2
2
In Rose Cross village: Ice breakers and a handful of hounds
‘Bolly, Brioche stop pulling!’
The wind whooshes away my wail as I stagger after two lurching honey-coloured bottoms and wagging tails. Dog walking is never like this on the IAMS adverts.
‘Brioche, Bolly, heel pleeeeeeease!’
I’m doing my best to be in control, but channelling my inner dog-charming goddess is impossible this early in the morning. The extra early start is because Cate, Immie and I have a big shopping day ahead of us. They don’t come much bigger than shopping for bridesmaids’ dresses, especially when we’re shopping for eight. And if you think eight bridesmaids sounds excessive, you should see the rest of Cate’s plans. Her wedding is shaping up to be the Cornish country wedding of the decade.
As an in control dog walker, I score an epic fail every time. You’d hardly think I’d been doing this most Saturdays for six months, which is how long it is since I decided to dedicate my scarily empty Friday evenings to a babysitting sleepover, so my bestie, Cate, and her soon-to-be husband, Liam, can have a weekly night out together. With four kids, two lively labradoodles and full-time jobs, they find it hard to spend any quality time together. Although sometimes when I’m tucked up on their sofa with little George, and the three older kids, it’s more as if they’re the ones looking after me.
As a cake maker I like to match people with their perfect cake. Cate’s cake is a delicious Moroccan orange sponge, with a covering of perfectly piped buttercream, and crystallised orange trimmings. Cool, yet sophisticated. Sometimes I still think of Cate as she was when we were six, when we were at Dancing Jillie’s tap class in the village hall. Cate was the one who could do all the steps, not a blonde curl out of place, tapping away like she could give Ginger Rogers a run for her money, while I was the one getting my legs in the arm-holes of my lycra all-in-one, and losing my shoes. But Cate’s luck ran out at twenty five when her husband ran off with a woman from the reprographics department. Left with three kids under four, she grappled her way through the next few years. Now she’s finally found the guy she deserves, and had another baby, I couldn’t be happier for her.
Back to the labradoodles, I swear we crossed the last three fields without my feet touching the ground. Although today fast is good. When I get back, Cate will have finished giving George his breakfast. And then we’ll meet up with Immie, whose signature cake is either a donut or a double chocolate muffin. She’s had the same stocky build and no-nonsense short hair since we were kids, and however much we try to persuade her into other outfits, she always wears jeans and a sweatshirt. We’re heading to Brides by the Sea, which is where we all know Cate’s going to buy the bridesmaid dresses. It helps I get mates’ rates.
My feet finally make contact with land again as we come to a stile. The dogs bound over into a muddy puddle the size of St Aidan Bay, making tidal waves as they leap. As I follow them Bolly does a double bounce that soaks me, then yanks me off the hillock I’m balanced on.
‘Nooooo Bolly …’
I let out a wail as my left Ugg plunges deep under water. Blinking, I scrape the mud splat out of my eye with my fist, and let out a deep sigh as cold oozes round my toes.
Whereas a mud pedi on a Tuesday morning in a salon in St Aidan would be bliss – not that I can afford them these days – I could do without a DIY Cornwall countryside version. The same goes for the leopard print pattern of mud, dappled all the way up my jeans. We’ll all be in line for a hose down from Cate when we get back home. It’s completely my own fault. If I’d taken a removal van instead of a flight bag when I left Brett in a hurry, I’d be wearing my beloved purple festival wellies, and my feet would be dry now.
As we work our way back along the lane towards the village, Rose Cross, the dogs are beginning to flag, but the cluster of house roofs peeping over the hedges, and the promise of some civilisation perks me up no end. This is the village where Cate, Immie and I grew up. But whereas they love the countryside, I think of it as wilderness. At eighteen I couldn’t wait to leave for London. Even coming out here from St Aidan on a Friday night gives me a culture shock, and not in a good way.
Taking advantage of the slack leads, I slide out my phone to check I’m not running late. Then, as we round a bend, we come across a grey Land Rover Defender parked on the verge ahead. Impressed by my car knowledge? All gathered when I had to make a Land Rover fortieth cake for a 4x4 obsessive, with full detail and chocolate mud splatters. I inherited the cake baking gene from my mum, picking it up because she did so much of it when I was little. My earliest memory is standing on a chair in our cosy kitchen, licking out cake mix bowls, and drawing shapes with my finger in the dusting of icing sugar on the kitchen table. Give me a sponge and some icing and I can work wonders Whether it’s fairy castles, dumper trucks for birthdays, or the multi-tiered wedding cakes I make so many of now, they come easily. Sadly, if icing isn’t involved, I have a great talent for stuffing up.
I’m in my own world, thinking about mum as a guy in faded jeans saunters from behind the Land Rover. Two words pop into my mind.
Perfect ten.
Talking about the guy here, not the car, obviously. Although that’s definitely not a compliment. More of a warning to myself to avoid at all costs. When they have it on a plate like that, they rarely learn to be nice.
My gaze slides past a cashmere sweater, and comes to rest on what has to be one of the most cross looking mouths in the south west. This guy might be a straight ten, but he looks way too bad tempered to be working those good looks. Yes, Immie, who’s studying psychology at university, would have a lot to say about me honing in on the lips, but in this case I’m only reading the situation. I don’t need a degree to recognise obstinate when I see it.
A sharp tug from Bolly and Brioche jolts me back to reality, knocks my phone out of my hand, and as it skids across the dirt track I see why they’re pulling.
Somehow I’ve failed to notice the guy has a dog with him. It’s huge and black, and it’s bounding towards us now. Before I can scramble to reach for my phone, I’m in mid-air as the dogs lunge. Whereas Bolly and Brioche are careful where they put their gigantic paws in the house, when they’re in midflight they don’t give a damn.
‘Look out!’ I shout, but my warning comes too late. They collide with Land Rover Hunk, who staggers, waves his arms, and topples backwards onto the verge.
Man down! Literally. There’s no time to wince at the thought of cashmere hitting mud, because the dogs bound on.
As the dogs all come face to face, there’s a blur of dog limbs, and excited yelps. They tumble and roll, thump into me at knee height, and I slither sideways. As the barking subsides, I come to a soggy and chilling halt in the gully below the hedge.
‘Bolly, Brioche …’ It’s hard to sound masterful when I’m on my back, bum deep in the ditch. More icy water, this time seeping up my spine. On the plus side I’m actually pretty proud that I’m still hanging on to the leads.
A stream of angry swear words comes from the guy as he scrambles to his feet.
‘No need to panic, they’re only playing.’ Mr Land Rover is hauling Black Dog out of the heap by the collar. He shoulders the dog back into the car. ‘They’re wagging their tails, see? But seriously, you need to get those dogs of yours better trained. It’s completely irresponsible to let dogs run wild in the countryside.’
Excuse me? I’m the one who kept hold of the leads here.
‘At least they haven’t killed each other.’ I mutter. ‘It might have helped if yours had been on a lead.’
He ignores that and is looming over me now, holding out his hand expectantly.
Shit. Introductions. I remember my manners and stick out my spare hand. ‘Pleased to meet you too …’ I realise I’m mumbling as well as lying. And why the hell am I rubbing the mud off my face with my sleeve and trying for a smile?
He lets out a low laugh. ‘It’s not an introduction, I thought I could pull you out. Unless you’d rather stay there?’
Anywhere else I might have shrivelled at my mistake, but when you’re soaking wet in a hedge bottom there’s not much point. A moment later, he’s yanked on my arm, and I’m back on my feet by the roadside, dripping for England. I’m not sure my festival wellies would have saved me here either.
‘Your phone …’ He hands it to me. ‘You’re very wet …’
This guy goes in for stating the obvious. As he passes over the phone I’m distracted by how his rugged hand doesn’t fit with his expensive jumper.
‘Although if you go rampaging around with two mad hounds, hurling yourself into ditches, you can hardly expect to stay dry. I’d offer you a lift, but …’ He trails off awkwardly.
The way he’s screwing up his face, we both understand. ‘But’ is the meaningful part of that sentence. No way is he inviting me and two sopping dogs into his precious Land Rover. He needn’t worry. Even if I did accept lifts from total strangers, I’m not about to ruin his up-market seat covers with puddles and labradoodle splatters.
‘I’m so sorry … don’t worry … it’s completely fine … we don’t have far to go …’ I’m doing it again. Babbling. And apologising. Both things that Immie’s trying to train me not to do. Anyone else but me would have managed to laugh it off by now with a witty quip about mud wrestling.
‘It’s no-one’s fault.’ He shrugs as he reaches for the car door. ‘Sorry all the same. I bet you didn’t plan on mud wrestling when you set out?’
There you go. Why couldn’t I do that?
As he moves back to the car his expression softens. ‘I guess I’ll see you around then.’
If he’s glad to see the back of us, the feeling’s mutual. ‘See you.’ I say this airily, safe in the knowledge that I absolutely won’t. Ever.
I know I should be over being embarrassed about stuff like falling into a ditch. And I’m working on it, okay? As long as the clean up doesn’t delay the shopping trip, the girls will most likely wet themselves laughing about it.
‘C’mon dogs.’ Two furry faces instantly turn to me. Mud up to their ears, but still looking like butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Hurry up, there are dresses to try on …’ As we set off, my wet jeans are stiff, and the water in my Uggs sloshes with every step, but for some reason my mouth still curls into a broad smile.
Land Rover Guy might have avoided me and the dogs muddying up his Landy, but from the mud slick on the back of his jeans, I’d say he’s going to leave a pretty good bum impression on the driver’s seat.
3
At Brides by the Sea: Dimples and Saturday girls
Saturday is the busiest day at Brides by the Sea. As Cate and I push through the door on the dot of nine, the shop is already buzzing. We manage to pass the chaise lounge and the shoe cabinet without getting waylaid by any rampaging bridezillas. Then just as we reach the stairs Jess comes hurtling towards us, a dress in a cover in one hand, and a tiara and veil in the other.
‘Cate, lovely to see you.’ As Jess flies past she tosses us air kisses. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve sorted this pick-up.’
Cate, phone in hand, looks doubtful. ‘Sorry, it’s only me at the moment, apparently Immie’s running late.’
When she’s not studying for her psychology degree, Immie works at the local farm, running the gorgeous barn conversion holiday cottages. We know she’s delegated most of her jobs for today so she can come to the fitting so this must mean she’s tied up with her family. Immie has a shed-load of brothers who she hauls of trouble. Saturday mornings at the police station are a regular thing.
Dodging a large display of freesias, I call over my shoulder. ‘We’ll grab a coffee upstairs while we wait for Immie.’
Jess calls back through a cloud of tulle. ‘No worries. Come down to the Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut as soon as she arrives and we’ll go through the dresses.’
As we finally finish our climb to my attic, I drop my bag in the flat hallway, and lead the way to my kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’
One look at Cate’s pained face, and I turn on the oven.
She groans. ‘I’m ravenous, more so now I’m up here with the permanent smell of baking.’ She’s still battling to lose the baby weight from George in time for her wedding, although the curves really suit her. She gazes up at the shelves groaning under the weight of mixing bowls and wooden spoons and cake stands and recipe books.
‘I know it isn’t a tenth of the size of Brett’s place’ I say, assuming she’s making the comparison. ‘But I don’t miss getting the cake mix splatters off his expensive, polished surfaces.’ My baking things were the one thing I brought with me when I left.
Cate pulls up a stool. ‘This kitchen suits you way better.’ She leans to sniffs the daffodils in the red tin jug. ‘I love it because it feels so like your mum’s. When I think of all the wonderful cakes that have come out of your kitchens over the years, I’m drooling.’
‘How about I make pancakes while we wait for Immie? Or better still, muffins.’ I grab a bowl from the stack on the shelf, and I’ve cracked the eggs and added the oil and milk before she can argue.
Cate, Immie and I grew up together, breathing in the delicious smell of my mum’s baking. Cate’s mum worked at the bank and paid my mum to look after Cate from when she was a baby. Immie and her brothers all piled into the cottage next door where their gran lived, but from the day Immie learned toddle, she invariably ended up at ours. Not that my mum minded. She was on her own with me, so two extra made us more of a family.
‘Chocolate or blueberry?’ I ask, knowing Cate takes her five-a-day very seriously. She’ll always go for the healthy choice. As I whisk in the sugar, the batter begins to turn creamy.
Cate leans forward to sneak a finger into the mixture. ‘Pops, are you sure you’re okay with all my wedding stuff?’
As I tap my hand on the side of the sieve, the flour lands in a dimpled pile on the batter. ‘I work with brides every day, I can hear the word wedding without getting break-up wobbles.’ The funny thing is, when weddings do give me that lump in my throat it’s more because my mum isn’t here, than because Brett and I broke up. ‘It’s not as if Brett and I were even engaged,’ I say, to emphasise the point.
‘You may not have had the ring, but you were together a long time.’ Cate’s pats my hand on the way in for another dip. I’d have banned her from the kitchen for putting her fingers in the mixture if I were baking for a customer, but this morning I look the other way.
‘The trouble with the break up was when Brett went, my whole life went with him.’
I push a couple of baking trays and a stack of muffin wraps towards Cate. She knows how it feels to get dumped, so she goes out of her way not to flaunt the deliriously happy bride thing. Even though she had her heart truly trampled back in the day, she never gave up on love. Now she’s found Liam, who’s truly her Mr Right, she deserves a wonderful day. Cate has booked her dream wedding at Daisy Hill Farm just outside Rose Cross, where Immie looks after the holiday cottages. When they started doing weddings last year Cate was first to book. Believe me, she’s going to need acres for the size of wedding she has in mind.
‘Blueberry then?’ I grab a handful from the fridge.
‘How did you guess?’ She passes me the tins.
I spoon the mixture into the cases, then there’s a rush of hot air from the oven as I open the door, and push in the muffins. ‘Twenty five minutes, then we’re good.’
Her eyes light up expectantly. ‘Can I lick the bowl out?’
‘One condition.’ I grin. ‘No pink bridesmaids dresses. When you’ve got orange hair like mine you have to be very careful what you put it next to.’ Taking the scissors to my blonde ponytail was my way of rebelling after the break up. But I still get palpitations every time I catch sight of my spiky pixie cut. As for the home colouring, it’s nothing like as easy as it looks on TV. Last time I missed pillar box, and ended up vermillion. Seriously, Johnny Rotten in the butter advert was not the look I was aiming for.
Cate tugs her fingers through her layered bob as she ponders. ‘Pink dresses would look fab in a hay meadow, but there again …’ She grabs the mixing bowl. ‘Okay, you’ve got a deal.’
Cate’s still scraping her spoon around the bowl five minutes later when there’s a clattering on the stairs, and Immie bursts in.
‘Dean, drunk and disorderly, no charges, enough said.’ She throws her bag onto the table. ‘Sorry I’m late … can I smell muffins?’
‘Blueberry ones, they’ll be ready in twenty minutes.’
‘Okay, so where are these dresses then?’ She’s already got her ‘disgusted of Rose Cross’ face on. ‘With my short legs and my beer gut, I know I’ll look like a duck’s arse in most of them.’ She gives a determined jut of her chin. ‘Although Freda from the Goose and Duck says I’ll be fine so long as we stick with navy.’
‘Right.’ Cate purses her lips. ‘Blue is out because the boys have nabbed that.’
Immie gives a groan, and I’m ashamed to say I’m doing silent cheers. Navy’s not really my colour.
‘Actually there’s something I need to tell you before we get onto dresses.’ Immie’s frown lines deepen. ‘I’m so sorry, Cate, you might want to sit down. The word at Daisy Hill Farm is that Carrie the wedding planner has quit.’ Immie leans back against the work top, hands on her hips, to let the news sink in.
‘No.’ Cate’s face falls.
Immie’s looking grave. ‘It gets worse. Big boss Rafe is talking about pulling out of weddings altogether … as of now.’
Under her blusher Cate’s cheeks have gone three shades lighter. ‘He can’t … can he? We’ve already paid the deposit?! The wedding’s barely seven months away.’
Immie shrugs. ‘Who knows? The wedding planner went back to London for Christmas, and she’s decided not to come back.’
‘She took her time, it’s February now.’ Cate lets out a moan.
Immie carries on. ‘Rafe’s tried to replace her, but there aren’t many bookings, and the hours are erratic. Not to mention he’s not the easiest person to work with. Anyone decent runs a mile.’
Cate’s sigh is long. ‘Right. I’m not giving up on this. This is my wedding day.’ Her mouth hardens into a determined line. ‘I need to find someone to save the day and fast. I need a wedding coordinator.’ She turns on Immie and me. ‘Who do we know?’
This is why Cate has zoomed up the ladder at the council in her day job. She won’t take no for an answer, and when the going gets tough, she fights.
I screw up my face and think. Who could take over the wedding coordination at the farm? Jess would be amazing but she’s got her hands full with the shop. I come up with zilch. As I open my eyes again, Immie and Cate are both staring at me.
‘It’s obvious.’ Cate says.
‘It bloody is,’ agrees Immie.
I blink at them. ‘Am I missing something here?’
Immie rounds on me. ‘You’re the perfect person for the job.’
What? It’s a moment before I take in what she’s saying. ‘But why me?’
Cate jumps in now. ‘I need the help, please Poppy. I work a fifty hour week in a highly stressful job at the council, and I’ve got a house and four kids to look after. And Liam, and the dogs too.’ She looks desperate. ‘This is my wedding day at stake.’
I turn to Immie. ‘Well you’re at the farm now anyway, managing the cottages, why can’t you just add in weddings too?’
You know those no-can-do stares that builders have? That’s what Immie rolls out here. ‘No way.’ She folds her arms. ‘I love you Cate, and I want your wedding to be perfect, but Morgan’s running wild now he’s fourteen. If I’m not around he’ll be balls deep in trouble in no time. Then there’s my degree. Final year is full on. I’ve got all the holiday cottages to manage and clean. Plus my stand-in shifts at The Goose and Duck. Weddings would be the last straw.’
I try once more. ‘Your final year at uni isn’t until next year.’
She dismisses that. ‘I’ve still got assignments coming out of my ears.’
As I look from Cate to Immie, I can’t help feeling they’re ganging up on me.
‘Whatever.’ Immie shrugs. ‘You know you’d be awesome at this, Pops. You’ve always loved weddings.’
‘And you’ve had so much experience with the brides at the shop.’ At least Cate has the grace to look guilty about pushing me into this. ‘Not just with your cakes either. You know the wedding business inside out. It could be the perfect career move.’
Immie chimes in again. ‘Out of all of us, you’re the one who could nail this.’
When they put it like that, I need to go on the defensive.
‘I can’t organise weddings. I’ll end up ruining them!’ There’s a squeal of panic in my protest. ‘I left my London job years ago.’ Once upon a time I was a food designer, working in food development. Remember hedgehog flavour crisps? They were my baby. And my salmon en croute for a certain famous supermarket scooped all the awards. As did one extra special luxury Christmas pudding, with almonds and Cointreau. And my Huggie Bear Birthday Cake was a huge best seller. But that was another life. Since I moved back to Cornwall all I’ve done is run around after Brett and play at making cakes.
Immie jumps in. ‘You could easily fit the Daisy Hill job around your cakes, and the extra cash would come in handy.’ As a single mum at uni, Immie knows all about juggling jobs to make ends meet. And she’s not wrong about the money either. I’m ashamed to admit how much I’d come to rely on a well-paid boyfriend.
‘Seriously, Poppy, you could do this in your sleep. You deal with brides all the time.’ Cate’s tone is persuasive. ‘It’s only until the autumn. And I need you.’
My mind flashes back to the fields in Rose Cross, and the mud. A job on a farm would be my worst nightmare, even if it did involve weddings.
‘But I’ve got no actual experience.’ I might as well point it out.
Cate brushes that aside. ‘If we’re going to save my wedding you’re damn well going to have to blag it.’ Her cheeks are flushed now. ‘You’ve had the insiders view from so many brides, you’re practically an expert already.’ She gives a triumphant shake of her fist.
‘Exactly.’ Immie is cheering her all the way. ‘And I’ll be there for back up, if it all goes tits up.’
‘Tits up?’ I echo. If I had any sense, this is the moment I should have run. But Cate is my best friend, and she needs me.
The look Cate flashes Immie for the tits up mention is filthy. ‘We’re talking a few tiny weddings here. There won’t be any problems.’ Her voice is soothing. ‘Please Poppy, give it a go, just for me?’
Cate’s been like a big sister to me all my life. The last few months she’s really looked after me, and this is one way I can show how truly grateful I am. I need to man up, and save the day for Cate.
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