by Jane Linfoot
‘The jewellery’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ I say. When did my mum ever need drawing into conversation? The very swish local designer jewellers jumped at the chance to exhibit, and I noticed Mum and David hovering round their cabinet earlier. ‘Did you see anything exciting?’
She rubs her bare ring finger thoughtfully. ‘The venue was easy. Nothing feels quite right yet for the ring.’
Poppy smiles. ‘How about the dress? Is there anything here you’d like?’ She walks over to the Brides by the Sea rail, and my mum goes too and nods at the mannequins.
‘It’s hard to decide which way to go,’ my mum says, in a hesitant way that’s very unlike her.
Let’s face it, red track suits and electric pink Nikes are hardly indecisive.
‘You could have a pastel linen dress and jacket?’ Despite her penchant for dayglo florals, I throw that in to see where she stands. ‘Jerry Hall looked fab in pale grey Vivienne Westwood chiffon.’ Although somehow I don’t see my mum in anything that understated.
‘Per-lease dah-ling, we don’t all want your brand of dowdy. All over sequins are the new satin. I’m a bride, not a bride’s mother. Although there’s precious little hope of that ever happening either if you don’t lose that puppy fat.’ The despairing shake of her head directed straight at my singledom doesn’t last long, and she carries on. ‘Beyoncé’s mum had bare shoulders, and snow-white slinky satin with a gold belt when she got married. I can carry that off, even if you can’t.’
So even though that’s put me in my place, it’s a relief she’s back to her bitey old self. At least we know when it comes to dresses she’s taking Destiny’s Child and mermaids as her starting points.
She drops her voice again, and raises an eyebrow, which for anyone who knows her, is her full blown ‘matchmaker’ mode. ‘By the way, Fred’s looking for you.’ Dammit, even at a coupley event like a wedding fair, I thought I’d escaped her trying to glue me to anyone.
‘Are you sure?’ My heart sinks. He brought enough manure to fertilise the entire village yesterday. And there’s no other reason for him to be here today.
She nods. ‘David and I met him when we went for a romantic lakeside stroll.’
I ignore the sick feeling in my stomach at the thought of their stroll. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to David? See what you think of the table settings and the flowers in the ballroom. There are even some menus too.’
The way my mum struts off, those few snipes have rebooted her mojo.
Poppy sighs. ‘She doesn’t get any better, does she?’
‘Nope.’ I’m completely used to shrugging off my mum’s extreme bitching. At the same time I’m beyond grateful Poppy didn’t remark on how loved up she was looking. ‘Time for vanilla fudge before the next rush of customers?’ As I sidle over to deliver one to Poppy, I give a nod to where Kip’s giving out glasses of Bucks Fizz in the ballroom. ‘So how do you think he’s doing?’
Poppy untwists the paper, and pops the fudge into her mouth. ‘Pulling you in to organise today was a genius move. But he’s a lot less worrying in the flesh than his über professional signs suggest, that’s for sure.’
I like that Poppy’s so perceptive. ‘He’s clinging onto that new clipboard like it’s a life raft, serving drinks one handed. There’s still no appointment book either.’
Poppy frowns. ‘That’s a recipe for disaster. When I took over at the farm, weddings were in all kinds of a mess. On the bright side, if Kip’s in chaos we might get to pick up his double bookings.’ Somehow that sounds way too defeatist.
I wave the list of email addresses we’ve already collected. ‘We have ammunition here, but there has to be more we can do. Give me a few days, I’ll put my mind to it.’
As the notes of a piano come drifting through from the ballroom, I peep forward so I can catch a glimpse of the clusters of candles and daffodil bunches in jars along the top table. ‘However much of an amateur Kip is, he’s got a fabulous house to work with.’ Just for a second, the refrain on Adele’s Someone Like You makes my heart squish. Maybe I should see if I can spot Fred, if only to see what he’s up to. ‘Are you okay here if I pop outside for a second?’ Don’t read anything into it, by the way. It’s a well-known fact. Adele does that to us all.
On the lawn it’s even warmer than inside. Kip’s installed his latest idea of a romantic play list at the microbrewery tent, and the beat of Addicted to Love is thumping across the grass. I’m padding across the turf, scanning the milling couples, and sniffing to see if I can catch that familiar scent of farmer drenched in body spray, when a rugged guy with dusky grey hair and a tan as deep as a pirate’s steps towards me, with his arms outstretched.
‘I hear today’s all down to you, Lily. Congratulations, you should be very proud.’
I send him a bemused grin. ‘Thanks for that, I hope you found the day useful.’ Even though I don’t know who the hell he is, my chest is still swelling with the praise.
‘I do have a special interest.’ For some unknown reason his eyebrows are rising expectantly. If he’d been wearing a suit instead of a crumpled linen shirt, his smile would have looked vaguely regal. ‘I’m Bart, Kip’s uncle.’
Oh crap. No wonder he looks like he could own the place, when he does. Major respect called for then. ‘I’m very honoured to meet you. If someone –’ That’s someone, as in Kip. ‘– had let me know you were coming we could have given you a special welcome, and a VIP tour.’ Of his own house? Even I know I’m sounding ridiculous here.
His laugh is even huskier than Kip’s. ‘Not at all, I dropped in incognito. It’s almost impressive enough to tempt me to do it all over again.’
I’m staring beyond him, to someone waving their arms over the hedge in the distance, when I hear Jess’s purr behind me.
‘Lily’s done a fabulous job.’
I leap to make the introductions, before Jess has a chance to make a fool of herself like I almost did. ‘Jess, the force behind Brides by the Sea … meet Kip’s Uncle Bart.’
This time his laugh is even more gravelly. ‘I saw you looking at the rings earlier, Jess. So you’re taking the plunge then?’
Jess’s eyes widen in horror. ‘Hell no. The shop’s strictly for customers, I’d sooner jump in the lake than take on another husband.’ For some reason when her laugh breaks, it’s extra husky today too. ‘I buy my own perfume, choose my own jewellery and my life’s bullshit free. What’s not to like?’
For some unknown reason, this cracks Uncle Bart up. Eventually he stops slapping his thigh for long enough to reply. ‘Maybe the lady doth protest too much?’
Whatever he’s getting at, someone needs to tell him talking in ye olde Englishe is very aging. On closer inspection, he’s got some serious wrinkles.
Jess must have seen those too, because instead of her normal flirty purr, her nose shoots into the air. ‘Methinks Sir is talking total cobblers.’
I have to say, I’m with her on that one.
Uncle Bart claps his hands, apparently delighted. ‘By George. She be but little, but she is fierce.’
I’m opening and closing my mouth, because no-one would dare to diminish Jess by referring to her as small. What’s more, I seem to have landed in the middle of a slanging match that could have come straight off a stage in Stratford-upon-Avon.
Jess, hands on her hips, is straight back at him. ‘Excuse me, but loathsome toads spring to mind here.’
And since when did Jess curse like Immie? I’m raising my hands, trying to work out how to stop the spat, when I spot Kip waving back at me beyond the cluster of guys clinging to micro-brewery plastic glasses.
‘Lily … sheep … loose …’ is all I catch of his frantic yell.
For a nanosecond I think he’s joining in with the family insults. Then I hear the baaaa-ing and my heart skips a beat. Next thing, there’s a clatter of hooves coming around the end of the house, and what seems like hundreds of sheep are stampeding onto the lawn.
Country lesson one: never confuse fully grown sheep w
ith fluffy lambs. They’re about a thousand times huger and when they’re galloping at forty miles an hour, they have the momentum of small tanks. First they take out the corner leg of the gazebo, then they topple the beer table, sending barrels bouncing. As the beer tasters scatter, their flying beer makes golden arcs in the sunlight. The indignant cries of protest are all about spilled drinks. They’re largely ignoring the livestock.
Uncle Bart’s hand lands on my shoulder. ‘Come on, Lily, we’ll head them off.’ He hurls himself across the grass, scattering couples as he goes.
As I dash after him, Jess is yelling breathlessly as she follows. ‘The ballroom, for chrissakes keep them out of the bloody ballroom …’
She diverts right like a sprinter, and reaches the wide-open doors at exactly the same time as the sheep. ‘Oh no you don’t …’ She’s lashing out with her loafers, beating the woolly faces with her fists.
That’s the thing with sheep. They definitely have that flock mentality they’re so legendary for. When the lead sheep decides Jess is more trouble than she’s worth and veers away, the rest follow.
‘Near miss, or what?’ Uncle Bart’s blowing, exactly as you would if you almost had a flock of sheep rampaging around your own personal dance floor.
We let out a collective ‘phew’ as we watch the shaggy bottoms bouncing, as they bolt off around the end of the house.
Kip hurries up, and puts his arm around Jess. ‘Well done, Jess, I always suspected you were a superwoman, now I know for sure.’
Behind us, the brewery chaps are rounding up kegs and collecting the shredded plastic glasses. The only trace of sheep remaining are the hoof prints between the grass blades, and clumps of sheep dottles.
As I leave Jess to her congratulations, and hurry after the sheep, it’s only to be sure they aren’t going to turn and come back on a return trip. Somehow I don’t think we can pull off Operation Wool Stop a second time. Once was enough of a fluke. Beyond the ballroom, I join the path that leads round to the stable yard. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to see they’ve headed past the coach house. But as I round the corner, I’m stopped in my tracks, when I come face to face with a radiator grill and some huge wheels. There’s a tractor blocking the way. And it’s perfectly positioned to drive the sheep through an open gate, into one of the fields that run down towards the lake. Bright blue can only mean one person.
‘Fred. You’ve come to the rescue again.’
Shooing the last sheep into the field, he swings the gate closed. ‘Pleasure to help.’ He grins as he checks the closing catch. ‘Lucky I had my tractor here. All these towny customers, leaving gates open on their way down to the lake. You can’t blame the sheep.’
Somehow there seem to be a lot fewer woolly backs now they’re spread out in the field than when they were careering over the lawn.
‘You’re a hero, Fred, however we look at it.’ The funny thing is, the footpath down to the shore was so clearly marked, even a townie couldn’t miss it. Knowing how crap Kip is at signage, I triple-checked it myself.
Fred swings up into the cab. ‘The joys of country house weddings, eh? Any time for a break?’
I’ve heard that somewhere before too, but I can’t place where. ‘Sorry, I’ve got two more hours of wedding fair waiting – which is still all in one piece. Thanks to you.’
He gives another ‘it was nothing’ shrug, then hesitates on the top step. ‘A little bird told me Kip’s got some big features coming up in wedding magazines. Can I count on you to neutralise those?’
Trust a guy to make real life sound like Call of Duty. But he’s right. My heart’s sinking at the thought of what Kip’s nationwide publicity exposé could do to Rafe and Poppy’s business. And if I ‘accidentally’ discover what’s in Kip’s pipeline, at least it makes the proverbial playing field more level. If we know what they’re up against, we can make a counter attack, and sort some similarly spectacular pieces.
‘Leave it with me.’ I back away. ‘And thanks again for “neutralising” the livestock.’ I send him a wink. ‘A hundred sheep loose in the house could have wrecked a lot more than just the day.’
He laughs. ‘There were only five, Lily.’
‘Right.’ This is why I’m a florist, not a farmer. As for the challenges from the Manor, I’m bracing myself. Something tells me magazine articles are the start of the war, not the end.
Chapter 19
Friday, 21st April
In the walled garden at Rose Hill Manor: Blisters and bad hair days
‘So how’s it going Water Lily? Long time no see.’ It’s Kip, in the walled garden, over by the door in the wall.
I take a moment to get over the tummy lurch. For a minute there I thought it might be Fred. Whereas Kip on a Friday tea time is just what I don’t need, even if it is three weeks since I last saw him at the wedding fair. Although on the plus side one look at him is enough to kill anyone’s butterflies. Staying out of his way has pretty much been my only achievement in April. Whereas Fred has dropped by most times I’ve been here. He claims he’s checking on his sheep, but he’s actually overseeing, and looking decorative in equal amounts. And he usually wafts in approximately ten minutes after I arrive, whatever time of day or evening I get here. It’s not as if I can exactly be discreet about where I’m hanging out when I drive a car as pink as Gucci. But despite spending hours in the garden over the last couple of weeks, you can barely see where I’ve been. When Dad and I gardened, he did the digging, while I carried weeds to the compost heap in child-sized buckets. And sometimes I raked the stones away with my kiddy rake. We all agree with feminism and equality, but when they gave out the muscles, I didn’t get any. So sadly, when it comes to exertion, I let down womankind every time, because I’m crap. The patch of border I’ve turned over today is tiny, and my legs and arms have already turned to jelly. At this moment I couldn’t be missing my lovely dad more.
I grunt, and ram my fork into the soil so I can lean on it and still look like I’m working. ‘I’m having a ball, Kip. I’d have thought that was obvious.’ I can’t help the sour worm sarcasm. ‘Digging’s excruciating, the blisters are agony, my back’s killing. What’s not to like?’
Gardening has turned out to be so much worse than I anticipated. Anyone who tells you it gets easier is talking bull. For someone like me who hates exercise, it’s hell on earth. You’ve no idea how much effort it takes to get one teensy patch of hard mud to the consistency of raw crumble mix. When I push back my hair, it sticks to my forehead. How disgusting is that?
Kip’s squinting at me like he’s examining exhibit one. ‘When did you get curls?’
He could have commented on anything in the damned garden. The leaves coming out on the fruit trees, the robin on the wall, the yellow forsythia flowers bursting out by the water butt. Just my luck he homes in on my wavy and wild sweat drenched pony tail.
‘Remember eighties perms?’ I pull a face at the image, even though I’m not old enough myself. ‘It’s a try out for a party.’ That’s a bluff and a half, given I haven’t been out in weeks, but whatever.
Kip’s hands are in the pockets of his jeans, and as he wanders along by the trees at the garden end, he’s kicking the grass with his bashed up Converse. ‘At least you look less like a bossy headmistress today.’
What the heck? ‘If it wasn’t your garden, I’d tell you where to stick your rake.’
He ignores that, and rubs his chin. ‘More like the girl off Dirty Dancing?’ Trust Kip not to let a subject drop once he’s running with it.
Bleughhh. Worse and worse. I shake my head and try to hide my horror. ‘You’re old enough to remember Baby? Who’d have thought?’
‘Still no apple blossom then.’ Nice change of subject there from Kip.
Although talking about the weather, it’s one of those years when the buds have stayed at the same point for ages. Despite the smattering of sunny days, there’s always been a chilly breeze from the coast. I’m wondering what he’s been up to, although I
’m not about to ask.
‘Have you had any more animals rampaging round the place since the fair?’ It’s a neutral place to start.
Kip gives a dismissive sniff. ‘The sheep have un-learned the knack of opening their own gate if that’s what you mean. And Bart’s disappeared to Antigua.’
I sense ambivalence in both comments. ‘Jess will be delighted to hear that.’ I’ve never seen anyone ruffle her feathers quite as much as Uncle Bart.
Kip pulls a face. ‘She’s not the only one. Thanks to him meddling with the wedding prices, my big “hello” discounts went out the window. The bookings won’t be flooding in to an unproven venue without those.’
Despite how this might hit the styling, I’m still cheering inside on Poppy’s behalf. I turn my grin into a grimace. ‘Oh dear, what a pain.’ Although when did Kip ever use words like unproven?
His nod is very knowing for a rank amateur. ‘In the wedding business you make your name by reputation. The serious cash comes later.’ As he takes in my look of astonishment, a smile spreads across his face. Smug doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘I’ve been visiting venues to see how it’s done. There’s a lot to pick up.’
Shit. Who’d have thought he’d go and do that? I try for sincere, and end up with super-bright. ‘Great. Anything you’re dying to share?’ I finally abandon my fork. I’m disconcerted that I’m desperate to know where he’s been.
Kip bends down and tweaks out a weed. ‘There’s a country house hotel in Yorkshire where they run four weddings simultaneously. And a converted mill in Manchester, where they’ve already exceeded two hundred exclusive-use bookings in their first year. I’m cherry picking from both business models.’
Which explains why he hasn’t been hanging round the borders. As it sinks in, my horror grows. ‘You’re thinking big then?’
He can’t keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘I’m thinking wall to wall weddings. It’s going to take a huge team of coordinators, and we’ll have to show people round in the early mornings. But the income figures are phenomenal. Three six five weddings a year is the target.’