Cupcakes and Confetti

by Jane Linfoot

  ‘You could have come through the gate.’ Rafe gives a snort. ‘Or was that too obvious?’

  ‘The gate?’ I’m open mouthed. ‘If you mean the gate that’s about a mile along the lane …’ I nod my head in the direction of the opening, which is so far away it’s practically a spec on the horizon. ‘Well that’s fine for people like you who travel everywhere by tractor, but not so fine for people like me who are on foot.’

  ‘Thoughtless, ignorant people like you climb walls and knock them down,’ he scowls, ‘then I have to slog my guts out re-building them.’

  I reel at suddenly being branded as thoughtless and ignorant, when the worst I’ve been up to today is an annoying pain in the butt. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘And why should you, you’re just a townie.’

  He says it in a disparaging way, which is funny, because I’m damned proud to be a townie. That would go well on one of those crappy slogan T-shirts he’s so fond of wearing. To be honest I’d hate to be anything else.

  ‘Great that you’ve got the time to waft around and enjoy a country walk,’ he says, with a sarcastic sneer, ‘but some of us have to work.’

  Excuse me? ‘Enjoy and country aren’t words I’d ever put in the same sentence.’ There’s no point hiding how much I hate it here. As for me stopping to rub the cows’ heads as they looked over the fence on the way up here, that was a definite one off. ‘In any case, this is a professional visit.’

  Rafe lifts one sceptical eyebrow. As he rubs his hand along a tanned bicep, I battle to keep my eyes on his face. Those abs of his are disgustingly well honed, and a glimpse of his battered jeans sliding low on his hips fills my tummy with a sudden storm of butterflies. I lock my eyes on a dandelion, and drive my brain elsewhere. In fact, since I’ve been sorting out weddings as well as my cakes, I’ve been working long hours. But let’s face it, Rafe might only be driving round his acres on a tractor, or talking to cows, or complaining about the cost of feed, but he never switches off. Maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy.

  ‘You might sound less bitter if you got out more,’ I say, because, frankly, someone needs to tell him.

  The way he narrows his eyes, maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.

  He picks up a rock from the pile on the grass, and heaves it onto the half-built wall. ‘If you’re asking me …’

  I jump in to make myself clear. ‘No I’m damn well not.’

  Rubbing his thumb across his jaw, he turns. ‘Good, because I was about to say I’m really not up for any more fall-over Fridays.’

  Bringing that up is low, and he’s wrong. ‘Actually, it was a Thursday.’ I stick out my chin, happy for a small victory.

  ‘Whatever.’ As he sneers, and jams another rock into place I close my eyes to shut out his rippling back.

  Ridiculous of me to think a savoury snack could make anything better here, but I pull it out anyway. ‘I brought you a pasty.’ I pass him the paper bag. ‘There’s a can of ginger beer too.’

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ he says slowly. The corners of his lips twitch as he pulls the pasty out of the bag. ‘Is there a catch?’ Those dark brown eyes bore into me.

  I may as well come clean. ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch,’ I laugh. I cram a piece of my own pasty into my mouth, because I’m ravenous after the walk. ‘There are things you need to know,’ I mumble, brushing the crumbs off my T-shirt as I chew. On balance I decide to miss out the word ‘important’. There’s no point scaring him off when I’m this close. I’ve been chasing him round for weeks, and tried everything, but this one won’t go away.

  ‘You’ve got five minutes.’ He says, glancing at his phone. ‘Go on.’

  It’s always best to get the worst over first. ‘Some more paperwork came to light,’ I begin tentatively. There’s no need to admit it was found by the rabbit the night of the wedding, or that I’ve been trying to sort the problem ever since. ‘The good news is, it means more bookings, but unfortunately two weddings have been scheduled for the same day.’ I’m skimming over the details here, talking fast so I can hold his attention. Pulling out the calendar, I point to the dreaded day in August. In the wedding business, a double booking is the worst crime there is. With the paperwork in the state it was in, we’re lucky there aren’t more. ‘I’ve checked, and neither couple is willing to change their date.’ Not surprising, really.

  Rafe swallows, and pops open his can. ‘It’s not a problem,’ he says, then he takes a swig. ‘The guests can all park in the middle field, and we’ll have a wedding either side.’

  Proving again that he really has no idea. ‘It’s not some rock festival,’ I almost shout. If I’m shrieking, it’s because I’m so appalled. ‘These couples have chosen an exclusive-use venue for the most important day of their lives. They don’t want to get married in a row of marquees, to the sound of next door’s disco.’

  He takes another swig of drink as he takes in that thought. ‘So, what’s the alternative?’

  I take a deep breath, knowing he’s going to hate what I’m about to say. ‘One of the parties is fairly small. We could keep everything separate if we let them use the garden behind the house.’ It’s the only solution, but it could save the day for everyone, us included.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ He’s straight back at me faster than I expect. ‘It’s bad enough having drunken revellers down in the field. I refuse to have them crawling around the house too.’

  He’s entitled to his opinion, but somewhere down the line he’s got to take responsibility. There’s no alternative. This is a total mess, but it exists, and it has to be sorted out.

  ‘Take some time to think it over,’ I say. It’s hard to sound reasonable when I’d like to wring his neck. It’s not as if he ever uses his garden anyway.

  ‘You’ll have to come up with something better than that.’ He snorts. ‘Is that it?’

  If he’s hoping I’m finished, he’s going to be disappointed. I’ve barely started. At least he’s provided me with an opening. I brace myself, and pull another piece of paper out of my rucksack. ‘In the light of the new bookings, I’ve pulled a few figures together.’ I flourish the paper under his nose. ‘The income from weddings is good, but when you add in the extra holiday cottage rentals, it’s too spectacular to ignore.’

  With a reluctant sigh, he takes the paper. ‘And your point is?’

  My point is, why the hell won’t he take his stubborn head out of the sand, make the most of a damned good source of income, and stop fighting the weddings? Everyone knows farmers are having a hard time.

  I carry on. ‘We’re having loads of hits on the website, since we put up the new pictures.’ I can only tell him, I can’t force him. ‘With a little extra push, we could really make the wedding side fly.’

  ‘Much as I appreciate the picnic, you can’t just come up here, whipping props out of your bag like a magician, expecting me to change into someone I’m not.’ He pushes the last piece of pasty into his mouth. ‘Read my T-shirt, I’m a farmer, not an event promoter. I deal with animals and crops, not frivolity and party goers.’

  That would be the T-shirt that’s crumpled on the ground then. If you ask me, a T-shirt saying ‘awkward sod’ would suit him a whole lot better. I decide to try a different approach.

  ‘Take that view …’ I wave my hand towards a group of buildings nestling into the next hill. That’s one of the pictures that looks amazing on the website. ‘Weddings simply let you make the most of what’s here.’

  Rafe’s jaw tenses and he lets out a bitter laugh. ‘Great choice. Do you know that’s the farm where my ex lives?’ His tone is bleak.

  Shit. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to upset you …’ Damn for jumping in with both feet.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says, less bitterly. ‘It was a long time ago. Local rumour might say differently, but I wish Helen well.’

  It spills out before I can stop it. ‘I’m a long way from thinking happy thoughts about Brett.’

 
Rafe’s voice is quietly reassuring. ‘You will do, one day.’

  ‘When someone you’re close to lets you down that badly, it’s hard to imagine letting anyone in again.’ I sigh, and bite my lip.

  He narrows his eyes. ‘That photographer’s certainly doing his damnedest to help you move on.’

  ‘Jules?’ It’s more of a confirmation that a question. Not surprisingly, Rafe hasn’t bothered to name him. I sigh. Jules couldn’t be more helpful or attentive, and Immie and Jess swoon over him, but his sexy side passes me by completely. It has to be because I’m not up for another relationship. ‘Being on my own is teaching me to rely on myself,’ I try to explain. It’s true, I’m changing every day. ‘But even when I’m strong, I can’t see myself trusting anyone again. Moving on for me won’t mean another relationship.’

  ‘Thanks for lunch, anyway.’ As Rafe crumples the empty bag into his back pocket, his mouth stretches into a grin. ‘It’s good to get the facts straight.’

  My point exactly, and having traipsed two miles uphill, I’m reluctant to leave things hanging. ‘So you’ll think about the suggestions then?’

  But he’s already turning back to the wall. ‘You’ve obviously forgotten how I feel about weddings.’ he says. His mouth has already returned to a grim line, as he slams another stone into position. ‘Two words to remind you: Not interested.’

  30

  In the tipi at Daisy Hill Farm: Orange glows and rounders bats

  ‘That cake is truly awesome.’ Immie’s licking her lips as she gazes. ‘It’s such a perfect combination of delicious and pretty, I’m actually drooling.’

  Ella and Jack have had their cake cutting moment captured by Jules, and now Immie’s come down to help me slice up the cake whilst the guests are outside, enjoying the sunset.

  ‘It’s been great.’ I admit, as I pass Immie a clean apron, and tie up my own. ‘I’ve been so busy making the cake, in the end I barely had time to worry about the wedding.’

  ‘Which has all gone without a hitch, thanks to your careful planning,’ Immie sends me a wink. ‘Just as I predicted it would.’

  ‘They couldn’t have had a sunnier day,’ I muse.

  ‘I told you I’d order one of those too.’ Immie laughs.

  ‘They’re here until tomorrow lunchtime, so there’s still plenty of time for things to go wrong.’

  ‘The hardest part’s over,’ Immie says. ‘Once it’s dark, the whole place will look magical, with the orange glow from the tents and the strings of lights.’

  Beyond the poles on the open side of the tipi, a huddle of children are making daisy chains. Further away, the guests are spread across the field, enjoying an impromptu game of rounders. A roar goes up, as Ella, barefoot and poised, bat in hand, slams the ball into the distance. She hurls the bat to the ground, picks up her skirts and waddles around the bases.

  ‘Amazing.’ Immie shakes her head. ‘How’s she still going?’

  There’s another roar, and shouts of ‘Rounder!’ resound across the grass.

  I shrug. ‘She’s determined to dance the night away too.’

  ‘Definitely got her nesting instinct,’ Immie says, explaining when I look at her blankly. ‘It’s this sudden burst of energy you get just before labour. Most women clean the house from top to bottom, but Ella’s obviously using hers to party. I wish I’d thought of that when I had Morgan.’

  So far, apart from watching One Born Every Minute, the whole baby experience has passed me by, and it’s right off my agenda now.

  ‘Talking of kids, Jules got some lovely shots of the little ones with the calves earlier,’ Immie goes on. ‘Baby animals are yet another selling point for Daisy Hill Farm. He said he’d already uploaded some to the website. He really goes the extra mile for you.’

  I undo the wrapping, and lay out a pile of serviettes to go with the cake. ‘It’s true, Jules has been brilliant with his pictures.’ I have to admit, he does seem exceptionally eager to please. ‘I don’t think he’s ever refused to do anything I asked.’ If I was looking for reliable, he’d be ticking every box so far.

  ‘And you still won’t go on a date with him, poor man.’ Immie chides, giving me one of her hard stares. ‘But the more you tell him “no”, the more he bounces back.’

  ‘I hope people don’t think I’m using him.’ I don’t ask him to do any of the things he does, but he’s endlessly enthusiastic, and thoughtful too.

  ‘How long will it be before Prince Jules proves himself worthy of Princess Poppy?’ Immie laughs. ‘You do know he’s staying in the yard in a camper van tonight too, so he can be on hand early for pictures in the morning.’ She sends me yet another wink. ‘Just saying. In case tonight might be the night.’

  ‘It definitely won’t be.’ I begin to ease the flowers off the middle ledge of the cake.

  Immie snorts. ‘Poppy Pickering, sometimes I don’t believe you.’ She might be talking through gritted teeth, but she still holds out the plate for the rose buds. ‘If that man had the hots for me half the way he does for you, I’d have had him against the barn wall months ago.’

  I jump as I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  ‘So what kind of a cake do you call this then?’

  Rafe’s the last person I expected to meet in the wedding tipi.

  ‘Nude, rustic, rose and berry.’ I say, as I stoop to pick up the rose I dropped. ‘Take your choice.’

  ‘Monumental suits it better.’ he says.

  ‘Created by Poppy.’ Immie chimes in.

  ‘You actually made it?’ Rafe’s eyes widen. ‘It’s practically the size of The Shard.’

  Who’d have thought he’d compare it to anything other than a cow? I’m shocked he even knows what The Shard is, seeing as he never goes out of the village, let alone to London. ‘All my own work,’ I say with a grin, ‘although three feet tall is a pretty standard size.’ I can’t help asking. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘I was being a good farmer, checking no-one’s going to get stuck in the mud, and I came inside when I spotted you. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘We’re making ourselves useful.’ I lift off the top layer of cake and slide it into a box for safe keeping, then ease the cake slice under the next layer, lift it down, and begin to slice it.

  Rafe watches me in silence. He has to be the only guy I know who wouldn’t clamour for a taste. ‘There’s one other thing before I go …’ His hesitation is ominous. ‘There’s a camper van parked in the yard. Is it anything to do with you?’

  Immie and I exchange frowns over the butter cream and sponge. It’s unbelievable, but probably not a coincidence, that Rafe has come all the way down from the farm to complain about Jules’ van.

  My chest tightens, as my knife flies in and out of the cake, scattering crumbs across the tablecloth. ‘The van belongs to wedding staff.’ I’m not going to be any more specific than that. I drag in a breath, to help me stay calm in the face of Rafe’s extreme pettiness. ‘It will be there over night, but you have my assurance it will be moved first thing in the morning. Okay?’ Sticking my chin out, I challenge him to disagree.

  Rafe sniffs. ‘I suppose it’ll have to be.’

  ‘Good.’ I reach for another large plate, and flash him a bright smile. ‘So if that’s everything, some of us need to get on.’ Hopefully he’ll take it as a hint to get the hell out of here before I have to chase him.

  As Rafe turns and strides out into the evening sun, Immie hides her laughter in her sleeve.

  ‘What are you two like?’ she mutters. ‘You’re handling him like a pro though.’ She narrows her eyes, and sends me one of her more piercing stares. ‘It’s all about marking territory. You do know, in dog terms, this is Rafe cocking his leg. On you.’

  31

  In the courtyard at Daisy Hill Farm: Backing off

  It’s funny how, on a normal night I’m yawning by midnight, but if there’s a wedding I’m still running around at three in the morning. While I have to dismiss Immie’s dog pee theo
ries, I can see exactly what she means about adrenalin keeping you alert. Tonight, now I’ve finished every job and every check, it feels like I’m definitely the last person standing. The lights are all out down in the field, the distant cries have faded, and the sky is starting to bleach towards dawn as I tiptoe across the courtyard to the farm office.

  As I hold my breath and move past the camper van, a click of a door makes my heart bang, and not in a good way. Next thing I know, Jules’ head pops out from behind the stripy curtains.

  ‘Poppy, over here.’ His voice is little more than a low murmur.

  I pull my cardigan closed as a breath of night air brings my arms out in goosebumps. A faint whiff of whisky wafts on the air as I cross the cobbles.

  Jules gives his scalp a vigorous rub, re-tousling his waves as I approach. His irises are strangely flat and muddy in the low glimmer of the courtyard lights. ‘Fancy a night cap?’ Sure enough, he pulls out a bottle.

  Much as I love camper vans, climbing into one with Jules in the middle of the night is definitely making the wrong kind of statement. ‘Sorry, I’m driving.’ Even as I make the excuse, I know that’s why I planned it this way. ‘I’m off home now, and I’ll be back first thing.’

  ‘You’ll need to get up before you go to bed.’ He’s twinkling at me now, but something isn’t working at all.

  ‘What’s the matter with your eyes? Has the strain of peering through a view finder for the last eighteen hours taken its toll?’ I’m thinking detached retinas here, cataracts, macular degeneration.

  ‘My eyes?’ he whispers, wrinkling his nose. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think you’d notice. I usually wear blue tinted contact lenses, but I’ve taken them out.’

  ‘Right.’ Jeez, so much for Mr Blue Eyes. And how shallow that I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  Stepping outside, he puts his mouth close to my hair. ‘They’re not prescription lenses, they’re purely for professional reasons.’ From the way he’s hissing straight into my ear, it’s obviously crucial no-one else finds out. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone.’