by Jane Linfoot
‘We’ll take the scenic route, there’s too many speed cameras on the main drag,’ Quinn says, as he veers off onto a side road half an hour later.
I brace myself. Last time out, Quinn did St Aidan to Rose Hill in seven minutes, so I know what’s coming. That’s half the time most people take, and a quarter of what it takes me in Gran’s mini. I try to find a handhold that doesn’t involve Johnny’s thigh.
‘They won’t have salted these back roads,’ Johnny says, flatly.
Quinn gives a sneer. ‘Okay, Johnny, we all know you’ve driven on every racing track in the world, but Sera and I are the Cornish experts.’
By the time we round the next bend, I’m practically on Johnny’s knee. Every racing track in the world. This is Johnny, who was so busy getting on with his career he had no time to travel. Okay, he was heading for some high-flying engineering job, but it was in the Midlands. He went for the mortgage route too. Not being rude to people who live there, but Coventry was hardly the most exotic place to tie himself down in. I was the one who was free as a bird and hooked on gap-year exploring. But as Quinn just pointed out, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I’m tied to Cornwall now.
Johnny shoulders me back into my seat, but leaves his arm across my body, pinning me into place. ‘Isn’t this the bit where you tell us you’re a dot-com billionaire, Quinn?’ The laugh he gives is mocking and bitter, rather than amused. ‘And that everything Dan has is down to you?’
Ouch. When did this turn into best man wars? Not that I’m one to tell people what to do, but they need to stop this. I take a deep breath, hold up my hand and go for it.
‘That’s enough, guys. Chill!’ I don’t sound like me at all. It’s half way between Jess on a bad morning and Alice in a razz. But it’s worth it if it stops them. As for Johnny, how did I once spend a two whole years hanging on his every word, aching to be the one he draped his arm around at the back-yard barbies? Back in the day, I must have been blind as well as stupid.
Quinn sends me one of his unrepentant smirks and floors the accelerator.
Johnny sniffs. ‘Watch out for ice, that’s all I’m saying.’
Not that ice will be a problem, given the wheels are barely touching the road. By the time we go over the next bump, we’re going so fast I swear we take off. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed a fistful of Johnny’s jeans to steady myself. And to hell with the consequences. The next hour literally scares the Brazilian briefs off me so much, I get my organ donor card out of my purse and slip it into the pocket of my shorts. Just in case.
But at the same time it’s exhilarating, in an omigod, silent screaming kind of way. I reckon my heart has been pounding at a steady two hundred beats a minute for the entire time. I’m not sure I’ve taken a breath the whole way back to Rose Hill Manor. So when Quinn does a handbrake turn at the top of the drive and we set off down the snow-covered avenue, I’m starting to exhale with relief.
Quinn lets out a triumphant shout. ‘See, what did I say? We’re back home and no problem with ice at all.’
I’ve let go of Johnny’s leg and I’m flapping my fingers in front of my face like an angsty adolescent from an Australian soap. As Elton John drifts out of the speakers telling us to ‘Step into Christmas’ I’m thanking every god I can think of that I’m still alive. Then on the last corner, Quinn jumps on the brakes. The back end of the van slips and the next thing, despite Quinn’s yanking the steering wheel every which way, we’re spinning backwards off the drive. Even though the scenery’s moving really fast in the wrong direction, it feels as though time’s standing still. We veer sideways across the grass, then plough an arc through the shrubbery, and as we finally bump to a halt at an angle, the noise from the back of the van sounds like a bottle bank’s being emptied.
For a moment we just stare and listen to Elton John, who hasn’t missed a beat. When Quinn speaks his voice is a hoarse whisper. ‘I think we maybe hit the ha-ha.’
It sounds like a joke, but none of us laugh. Instead, one by one, we ease ourselves out of the fug of the cab and into the raw afternoon air and begin to assess the damage.
Johnny’s breath billows as he prods at the scuffs on the bumper and the dents on the wing of the van. ‘It’ll take your billionaire bank account to pay the excess on this, Quinn.’ He shakes his head. ‘I damn well knew you couldn’t handle this van.’
‘Shit.’ Quinn’s hands are deep in his pockets as he kicks the splinters of the flattened azalea bushes and stares at the gouges of fresh earth sticking up through the snow. ‘My uncle will possibly throttle me for this. On the up side, we made a whole trip without getting a parking ticket.’ He catches my eye, then thinks better of it.
I’m still not laughing. Padding round to the back of the van, I pull on the handle and prop the door open against my back. When I peer inside, I’m hopeful, because the boxes are all pretty much as they were when we put them in, just not so neat. I pick one up, hold my breath. Then I give it a tentative shake. There’s a jingling, like a distant wind chime in the breeze and my stomach plummets. Shards of crystal clinking. ‘We are so screwed.’ I’m talking to myself, but Johnny and Quinn have closed in too. And if either of them start to criticise the other, I’m going to throw the damn box at their heads.
‘How am I going to break this to Alice?’ I grimace at the hideous accidental pun, but the others don’t even notice.
‘Maybe you could tell her later?’ Thank Christmas Johnny’s switched to being reasonable. ‘But only if you need to.’
‘I’ll sort this.’ Quinn’s cheeks are ghost-pale under his tan. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll go back tomorrow. I’ll take more care…’
Johnny’s glaring. ‘You damn well better had.’
With any luck they’ll both go. And leave me to have a quiet day on my own.
15
Monday, 19th December
In the farmhouse kitchen: Lost and found
‘So do things often go wrong at weddings, then?’ I ask, as I’m sitting opposite Poppy and Rafe, a lot later that evening, in the farmhouse kitchen.
We’re all tucking into a delicious Aga-cooked hot pot, made by Rafe. I probably said it before, but that guy’s a keeper if ever I saw one. And so damned in love with Poppy. And yes, I did check that I wasn’t going to be playing gooseberry before I crashed their dinner. Apparently Rafe’s on his way out to take a wrench to his mate down the road – no idea what that means, but whatever – so when Poppy spotted me skulking round the yard searching for Alice’s car, she came out and dragged me in. Given they’ve had a full summer of weddings here at Daisy Hill Farm, they should be able to answer my wedding question. As a designer, I see the dresses, and sometimes the brides, but only if it’s a bespoke order. Occasionally I get to see the pictures afterwards. But my experience of the weddings themselves is limited. Sometimes I pick up snippets of gossip in the shop, but, let’s face it, although I’m usually up to my elbows in satin and tulle and beads and bows, the mechanics of weddings have passed me by. When Poppy and Rafe hear my question they exchange glances and then practically fall off their chairs laughing.
‘Things go wrong all the time.’ Rafe pulls a face.
I’m not sure this is what I want to hear.
‘Put it this way…’ Poppy’s chewing her last forkful, as she takes in my shocked expression. ‘There aren’t many weddings where everything goes right. But on the day it’s rarely a problem.’
‘Really?’ I’d completely forgotten how hungry I was until I started tucking in to the crusty potato slices and the tender meat and veggies in thick gravy. I’m already on my third helping. But this news is restoring me as much as the delicious food.
‘You name it, we’ve had it.’ Rafe says. He’s sounding strangely enthusiastic considering he’s talking about disasters. ‘Everything from guests stuck in a sea of mud, to a baby who arrived on the wedding night. We even had a bride who didn’t come to her wedding at all.’
‘Fuck…’ I say, thinking of Alice, who’s still not
back. ‘I mean… wow.’
Poppy puts down her fork, props her chin on her fist, and leans towards me. ‘So how are things working out with Alice and Dan’s big day?’
‘Fine,’ I lie, making my voice as light and unbothered as I can. A glimpse of Poppy’s one raised eyebrow tells me she’s not buying it, but I barely know where to begin. ‘The venue’s beautiful.’ That’s one place to start.
‘So that’s good,’ she says. Her smile is encouraging me to go on.
‘And the Cinderella carriage is on track,’ I say. ‘But it goes downhill from there.’ That’s a serious understatement. ‘The electronic sky’s gone missing and I suspect the groom has too. The best men are pistols at dawn and the snow’s not going to last. Today we accidentally smashed an entire van-load of crystal into tiny pieces. Even the Turkish Delight is in the kitchens when it should be next to the sofas.’
Rafe rubs his chin. ‘Sounds about right. Anything we can do to help, just shout.’
Poppy frowns. ‘Sometimes when brides are stressed, they can get very exacting. And that’s very hard for everyone who’s trying to help.’
‘Yes.’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ It’s such a relief that someone understands.
‘People get caught up with the small things,’ Poppy says gently. Probably thinking of all that Turkish delight she put out, six feet too far to the left. ‘But so long as the bride and groom are strong as a couple, whatever else goes wrong won’t matter. Especially if you have a lovely venue.’
‘Alice and Dan are rock-solid,’ I say. ‘They’ve been together forever.’ Everyone knows couples don’t come any stronger than them. But suddenly, in my head I’m replaying a YouTube clip of a Cornish cliff collapse, up near Dead Man’s Cove. Thousands of tons of rock tumbling into the sea. Not so solid that day, then. It comes out of nowhere and I blink it away fast.
‘It’s all going to be brill.’ Poppy reaches across and pats my hand.
If I’m picking up negative vibes, it’s probably just the fall-out after spinning off the drive in the van earlier.
Rafe stands up and takes the plates over to the dishwasher. ‘Remember, we’ve got burly guys, generators, lanterns, four-by-fours, tractors and trailers. And an office full of tame chickens. You’re welcome to any of them.’ He drops a kiss on Poppy’s head on his way to the door.
Poppy gives his hand a squeeze as he goes. ‘So are you up for icing some Christmas cupcakes, Sera?’
My ears prick up at the word ‘icing’. I know I’d planned to spend this evening working on dress designs but let’s get real: it’s a choice between a warm kitchen and cupcake decorating with a friend I haven’t seen for weeks, or drawing, when my ideas are about as exciting as an unsugared doughnut. Well, which would you choose?
‘I made the icing earlier.’ She dips into the huge fridge and brings a bowl to the table. Then she puts down a tray of deep cakes, next to it. ‘Snow-white vanilla buttercream.’
I’m licking my lips as she fills two piping bags, then pushes one in my direction. ‘You’re expecting me to do icing?’ Surely not.
She laughs at my squeak. ‘Squeeze and swirl, like I’m doing. You’ll soon get the knack. Then we’ll do the decorations together.’
When a bare cupcake lands in front of me I screw up my courage. Pick up my bag. And go for it. Buttercream has to be the stickiest thing in the world. My fist squirt misses the cake and hits the table. So I scoot that into my mouth before Poppy sees. The next squeeze is gentler and gives a pathetic squiggle that ends in a smudge. So I scrape that off and eat it too.
‘It’s only a trial run, but more on the cake, less in your mouth.’ Poppy sends me a grin.
By the time I’m on my fourth cake, I’m getting better, but Poppy has done at least twenty and she’s already bringing the decorations over.
‘I’ve got pale-pink edible glitter.’ As she shakes some out, it glistens like sunrise on the buttercream peaks. ‘And tiny gold-and-silver stars and balls. You can make some ties, to go with these miniature holly leaves and Christmas labels.’ She hands me some scissors and the bag of lace I brought her.
‘When do we get to taste?’ I ask, twisting a lace strip through a miniature luggage label and tweaking it into a bow.
‘That’s so pretty.’ Her face lights up as she sticks the label into the icing. ‘Let’s taste as we decorate and wash it down with some fizz.’ She’s back with glasses and a bottle and she’s popped the cork before I’ve sprinkled the stars on my next cake.
‘Great idea.’ I peel back the gold paper case, take a monster bite of cupcake. Then I lean back and let the cake and sugary vanilla melt on my tongue. Wherever heaven is, I’ve arrived.
Poppy scrapes a crumb from the corner of her mouth, licks her finger and takes a slurp of fizz. ‘So did you say there are two best men?’
I let out a sigh and nod. ‘Scrapping like little boys.’ Since we started with the icing I’ve been concentrating so hard, I’d almost forgotten the gruesome twosome and how awful today was. Which is probably why people ice cupcakes at hen parties when they want to relax. Although Alice didn’t go in for anything quite that enjoyable. She opted for a Japanese afternoon tea – bite-size cucumber squares on rectangles of bamboo. If you’re looking for something yummy and comforting, I don’t recommend it. Followed by a trip to the opera, which was cancelled six months in advance, due to work commitments.
Poppy’s lips twitch. ‘And is the second-best man as dreamy as Quinn, then?’
‘I’d hardly describe Quinn as…’ I haul on the brakes, determined not to rise. If my cheeks are warm, it’s down to the cold weather and the wine. Nothing else. ‘They’re very different. Johnny’s efficient, serious, and a little bit Scottish.’ That just about covers it. I leave out the bit about knowing him.
She’s grinning now. ‘So there’s McSteamy, who walks round in his towel, and McFlurry, who gets things done. And I bet you ten cupcakes they’re fighting over you?’
‘Loving those names.’ But she’s so wrong about the rest. ‘Their conflict’s nothing to do with bridesmaids, it’s pure power struggle. All the way.’ I know, I’ve spent five hours squeezed between them. I bury my teeth in my cupcake, hoping to blur them out again.
‘So do you have a strategy to handle them?’ She’s scooping icing up on her finger now.
Good question. As if I’d have a plan for anything. But now she mentions it, strategic point one is to keep my hands off. Both of them. At all costs. ‘I think they’re easier apart than together.’ I’m thinking aloud. Although it’s the opposite of safety in numbers. And given I’d prefer to avoid Johnny altogether, that leaves me with Quinn.
‘You need to up your game. Make sure you’re the one who calls the shots.’ Poppy’s sounding a lot like Jess since she’s been in London.
It’s all very well her talking about calling the shots. ‘Up my game?’ It’s almost a wail. ‘I’m not even in the game.’
That eyebrow’s shooting up again. ‘Maybe it’s time to play. Find your inner sass and start telling them what to do.’
‘As if.’ When they were giving out balls to girls, Immie, Jess and Poppy got my share. I back off every time.
I’m about to say as much when I’m saved by the landline ringing. Poppy crosses the kitchen and finds the handset under a pile of Christmas wrapping paper. As she answers she catches my eye and mouths, ‘Alice…’
Oh my. Calling the farm to leave a message, no doubt. Poppy’s pointing to the phone, asking if I want to talk, but I shake my head. If Alice isn’t coming back, I’m not sure I know what to say.
‘There’s snow coming in, so she’s staying over.’ A moment later, Poppy’s back at the table, looking puzzled. ‘Although the forecast I saw earlier said rain.’
I sniff, and poke at the holly leaf on a cupcake. ‘Probably an excuse because she’s off her face.’ It’s a better thought than what I suspect is happening. And, between us, it’s unlikely she’s drunk. Alice is great at getting drinks down everyone else,
but less good at drinking them herself. Somehow I have to carry on the excuses on her behalf. ‘If she’s been knocking back the Christmas cocktails like we were the other night at the shop party, she won’t be able to drive.’ My face cracks into a grin at the idea of Alice ever getting as legless as we were.
Poppy’s leaning into me, suddenly delighted. ‘There, that’s your sassy smile.’
She slaps me on the back so hard I almost drop my fourth cupcake.
‘Flash that at the guys,’ she goes on, ‘and wrinkle that deliciously freckly nose of yours – they won’t be able to refuse you anything.’
Except the one time I tried this smile on Johnny, that’s exactly what he did. Turned me down flat. Maybe now’s the time to come clean.
‘Actually Johnny was in Bristol when I was there.’ I leave it at that, but then toss in a last-minute confidentiality clause. ‘Not that I’m broadcasting it.’
‘Better and better.’ She’s bypassed surprise and she’s sticking both her thumbs up. Waving them around looking way too pleased. ‘Quinn’s got a lot of ground to make up to win the girl here. Guys love it when they’ve got to put in the effort.’ On balance, shock would have been way easier to cope with than a gallop to this conclusion.
‘Stop.’ I put up my hand, because I need to make it completely clear. ‘Seriously, the girl is not available. Not for Quinn or anyone else. Really I’m not.’ And just to get in a bit of practice, I broaden my smile and twitch my nose. It feels very odd, but some part of it worked, because Poppy gives a whoop.
‘There you are, you did it again.’ She punches the air and grabs her glass. ‘Seraphina East, you just found your bossy. Jess will not believe this when I tell her. Let’s drink to that!’
16
Tuesday, 20th December
At Rose Hill Manor: Breezes and good calls.