by Jane Linfoot
Cate raises her eyebrows. ‘In that case, we’ll talk about this again if there are any developments.’ She sighs. ‘And make sure you let us know the minute you hear anything. We don’t want another …’
Another hidden wedding dress scenario? That’s what we all know she isn’t saying.
Cate purses her lips. ‘Secrets aren’t always helpful.’
Of all of us, Cate knows that from experience. And Immie is horribly silent too.
‘Okay,’ I’m racking my brain for a way to move this on. I need some kind of metaphorical hatchet to break the ice, because this bright happy afternoon has frozen right over. ‘We’re in this lovely garden, probably for the first and last time, we need to mark the day. Come on,’ I grab my phone and hold it up. ‘Selfie anyone?’
When I look at the photo later, Cate and I are putting in the effort, with grins only a little less insane than usual, but Immie’s scowl is as deep and unforgiving as they come.
AUGUST
45
In the house at Daisy Hill Farm: Complications and ice cream cones
‘Made any good cakes lately then?’
If Rafe’s question was designed to take my mind off my notebook, it worked. For a nanosecond, I look up from the ten page long To Do list we’re checking off.
‘Why are you asking, you don’t even like cake?’ I say, chewing the end of my pen, pausing to glance around what are now manicured lawns and weed-free borders in the garden behind the farmhouse. So far every job highlighted has been ticked.
Rafe rubs a tanned hand across his forehead. ‘Light relief before we move inside?’ Nice try. ‘You’re a bit of a slave driver when you’ve got a list on board.’
Being called a slave driver by a workaholic is definitely an insult. It’s true, I’ve barely had time to breathe the last few days, what with weddings, record numbers of cake orders, and the shop being packed out. And life is so much more complicated when the town is rammed with holiday makers wandering round eating ice creams. Some days the streets are so jam packed with cars, I need a tin opener just to get home. If I’ve taken to doing tasks at double speed, with intense concentration, it might be down to a recent article I read in the Huffington Post.
‘Apparently best way to be productive is to forget multitasking, and concentrate on the job in hand,’ I say. It’s only thanks to this mantra that I’ve survived the last week’s workload.
‘Which is what we guys knew all along.’ Rafe says with that satisfied gloat he does that’s so annoying. ‘You look like you could do with a drink. If you agree to take a breather, I’ve got Red Bull in the fridge?’
His questioning gaze lasts long enough for me to count every one of his eyelashes. It’s hard to stay cross with someone who reads your mind before you do. What’s more, there’s something so absurd about being offered Red Bull by a farmer that I can’t help smiling. ‘A coke would be fab please, it’s thirsty work.’ That’s the biggest caffeine input I can risk in my hyped-up state.
Rafe disappears into the house, comes back with two ice cold cans, and sits down on the wall as he hands me mine. ‘Note, I’m only perching here while we consider the next move.’
‘Red Velvet.’ I begin, as I join him on the warm stone, then realise how random I sound. ‘That’s one of the cakes I did. Dark red sponge, vanilla cream cheese icing, and burgundy sugar roses. This high …’ I take a swig of coke, and estimate three feet six tall with my hand. ‘Then there was a four tier, covered in edible gold leaf.’ I watch Rafe’s eyes grow round over the top of his coke can. ‘And then there was a diamond anniversary, where I had to make an exact copy of the original cake from the photos in the wedding album … to name a few …’ I spare him the pictures. The poor guy was only making conversation. He doesn’t want to sit through my entire back catalogue.
‘Blimey.’ He rolls his can round in his hands. ‘You’ve been busy.’
Given that good managers shouldn’t stint on praise when it’s due, I need to dish some out myself. ‘I’m not the only one. If the garden and terrace are anything to go by, you guys have been blasting through my list.’
He gives a low laugh. ‘The guys pretty much nailed it. All your fault, once the playlist was going, there was no stopping them.’
‘They went for Breaking My Heart (the loud way) then?’ I’m amazed, but pleased at the same time.
‘Not exactly.’ Rafe pulls a face. ‘It’s been wall to wall heavy metal and Jeremy Clarkson’s Driving Rock. If I hear one more Iron Maiden track, I may hide in a haystack and never come out again. But if the work’s finished, who cares?’
‘What, you’ve done everything on my list?’ This isn’t what I was expecting at all, hence my voice shooting up by two octaves.
Rafe’s shrug is nonchalant. ‘Pretty much.’
Rafe motivated, Rafe driving the work forward, Rafe focussed on making the house wedding-ready? This I have to see. ‘Shall we go in then?’
The tingle of excitement that ripples through me is dulled by an inexplicable after taste of disappointment, because I had no idea they were going to get on so fast and finish without any more of my help. Although as soon as the thought pops into my head, I toss it away as ridiculous. Scraping walls and scrubbing floors and polishing windows can be satisfying. But add in doing it with Rafe hanging round, and it loses all its attraction. Obviously. So why I’m feeling like I lost a tenner and found ten pence, I have no idea.
As for the way my stomach flips when I follow him into the orangerie and he turns to me with a grin wider than I’ve seen, all stubbly jaw and cheekbones with the teensiest flash of tanned abs under his T-shirt hem as he stretches, well that’s inexplicable too. When I’ve heard people use the term panty wetting, I’ve always cringed. Right now, I’m entirely ashamed to say I now know exactly what they mean. Too much information? Very sorry. I’m completely with you on that, and no-one could be more disgusted than me.
If this is happening because my grief for my lost relationship is waning, let me say, for the record, I’m definitely not a) happy about it, or b) up for acting on it. And, what’s more, it’s totally perturbing. I feel like I’ve been turned upside down and shaken. I’m single and staying that way. End of.
Back in the orangerie, my tummy’s gone into free fall all over again. But this time it’s because the place is looking so spectacular – so long as shabby chic’s your thing. Somehow the guys have made it exactly the right amount of spotless. It’s clean enough not to rub dirt on your clothes, yet there’s still enough of that most elusive of things, patina.
‘The tiles have come up beautifully,’ I say, running my toe over the black and blue and white chequerboard pattern. ‘And the colours of the garden look wonderful through those wobbly panes of glass.’
‘Morgan helped in here,’ Rafe says, his smile reigniting all over again. ‘That lad’s a grafter, just like his mum.’
It’s the same story as we move on to check out the bride’s changing room. This has been transformed simply with a wash of vintage blue paint. But if the other spaces were impressive the drawing room is breathtaking. The walls have been scraped back to reveal a mixture of muted lime washes and scuffs, which complement the bare scrubbed floorboards, and the tall, small paned sash windows splash light across the room. At one end of the room, there’s the huge fireplace, which is balanced at the other by the enormous grand piano.
‘You’ve done so well to finish,’ I say. If anything deserves a congratulatory pat on the shoulder, it’s this, even if I have to get too close for comfort to give it. If I let my hand linger for a second too long, it’s only because I’m taken aback by the heat of the muscle beneath the soft cotton.
From the way his grin widens, I reckon he couldn’t be more pleased or proud. ‘Most fun I’ve had in years.’ So damned typical of Rafe to go all ironic.
‘Yeah, right,’ I say. Sometimes the only way to deal with his sarcastic comments is to join in.
‘Really. I’m not joking.’
For
a moment our eyes lock, and he catches hold of my fingers and squeezes so tight all the breath leaks out of me. For a minute the room is spinning, but then I snatch my hand away, and take refuge in my notebook.
‘Oh my days, so many ticks. Two weeks from now Tia and Sam are going to have the most perfect day.’ I say, in a fluttery way that sounds nothing like me. ‘Once their marquee’s up, it’s going to be dreamy.’ At least that got over that awkward moment. Sometimes it’s hard to handle Rafe taking the piss. Okay, and to change the subject to something more concrete, I’ll also admit to a twinge of sadness that this wedding isn’t mine. Although there would have been no chance of a country wedding with Brett. He’d have been set on the Yacht Club, or, on his more ambitious days, some seriously formal civic venue. End of discussion. This garden is special because it reminds me of my mum. It’s true, the tent alongside the gorgeous summer flowers, mixed with the vintage interiors, are going to be amazing.
Rafe’s arms are folded, as if he’s making damned sure his hands don’t get accidentally tangled up with mine again. ‘So long as weddings keep the bank at bay, I’m not grumbling.’ He gives a half shake of his head, then carries on. ‘Anyway, all that’s left to take away are the smaller pictures you thought we should take down. Remember page eight, instruction fourteen, remove all family paintings?’ He nods at the large pile of frames by the hall door. ‘They’ll be fine in the bedroom at the top of the stairs, it’s full of junk anyway.’
‘I’ll take those.’ I jump forwards and pick up the first two. It’s the least I can do, after all the work I’ve missed out on. Then it hits me. Do I want to look this desperate to dash into a bedroom at Rafe’s place? I feel my cheeks warming.
Rafe’s low laugh is husky. ‘Okay Red, there’s no rush, we’ll do it together.’
That offer turns the heat up enough to make me feel like Jess in a full blown midlife flush. He’s taken to using that nickname more and more since we’ve been cleaning, but right now it has to be because I’m scarlet. I’m dying here, aching for the floor to open up and swallow me, when Rafe’s phone rings, and saves me in another way.
As Rafe puts his phone to his ear, he mouths at me, waving me through the wide door out into the hall. ‘Carry on up, I’ll be with you in a second.’
A second? I don’t think so. That’s the thing with these farm guys. Once they start nattering about corn and cows and cogs etcetera, they can talk for England.
The hall is dim, and the staircase wide and creaky, as I tiptoe my way to the top. When I reach the landing, I’m faced with two doors, so I go for the one that’s slightly ajar. Sure enough, when I shoulder my way through, I find a room full of boxes and dismantled furniture. With a flood of relief that I got it right first time and don’t have to open the other door, I prop the pictures against the wall, and skip down for some more. Five trips on, Rafe’s still deep in conversation about gear boxes of all things, and I’m running out of floor space to stack pictures. Stepping back, I scan the jumble to see if I can make any minor adjustments to gain more room. By putting a box on top of a chest, and swinging round a loose bed head and a cardboard box, I should be able to fit in the rest. I’m just congratulating myself on my three dimensional vision, and swinging round the large flat box, when I hear the stairs groan. ‘Just making a bit more space,’ I call.
To say the door flew open would be an understatement. It was more like Rafe ripping the door of its hinges, and bursting into the room like a bloody tornado, face dark as a storm cloud about to burst.
‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’ He couldn’t have been yelling any louder if he’d been at a World Cup footie match, and England had scored.
The sheer force of his roar makes my insides wither. There’s no point even trying to stammer that I’m putting pictures away, because that should be pretty damned obvious, and my voice has gone entirely A.W.O.L.
‘And who gave you permission to touch that?’
The violence of his entry has left the lampshade swinging over our heads. As I stare down at the box I’m balancing, I screw round my eyes to read the vertical writing.
Drop Side Nursery Cot.
I’m no wiser. Rafe’s miserable, he’s grouchy, he can be the ultimate downer. But I’ve never seen him blow before. On balance it’s probably best to get the hell out of here. I push the box at Rafe, but as I take a blind step backwards to make my escape, my hip bangs on the corner of the chest. The pain jabs through me and as I whirl round to make a run for the door, my elbow catches on a box. For a minute Rafe and I both watch helpless as it teeters on the edge. Then, as it tumbles down to the floor, it tips onto its side, and carefully folded garments spill out in a heap. Tiny garments.
Even though my mouth is dry I try to swallow. I’m blinking as I stare down at the pile, but still I can’t make sense of it. ‘Baby clothes?’ The words are out before I know I can even speak. Even though it’s only a whisper, if my voice was going to reappear, it couldn’t have kicked back in at a worse moment. When my eyes roll upwards to search Rafe’s face for some clue, his anguished scowl says it all.
‘Just get out.’ He’s rigid, glaring at me. ‘Now.’ His fury has given way to an eerie flatness.
Good thinking. I was actually on my way already. My heart is doing bird wing flaps in my chest, as I flatten myself against the wall to get past him. Somehow, as I reach the door, I wring out a murmur. ‘Sorry … I didn’t …’
His arctic stare propels me out of the room, chilling my blood so fast I shiver.
As I pad past Jet, hovering on the landing, and steal down the stairs, my rings rattle on the bannister because my hand is shaking so much. I hurry back through the drawing room, run across the orangerie, burst into the bright sun, and come to a halt, gasping on the terrace by the wall. However deeply I breathe in, there doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen. If I’d known this was coming I’d definitely have gone for the Red Bull earlier. As I grab my abandoned coke can, I’m throwing back my head to drain the dregs, when I hear a string of gruff expletives coming over the garden wall.
‘Immie?’
She’s the only person I know who says ‘ass hat’ and ‘toad bollocks’. And I’m guessing from the Mr Muscle bathroom spray she’s clutching, as much as from her third best holey shirt, that she’s been disturbed whilst cottage cleaning.
‘Crap, Pops, am I glad you’re here.’ She grabs at the spikes of hair sticking up beyond her sweat band, then she breaks off midsentence, and leans forward to scrutinise me. ‘What the hell happened, you look green enough to have morning sickness … you haven’t … you’re not … are you?’
At least that thought is random enough to takes my mind off what just happened. ‘How exactly would I be pregnant?’ I ask indignantly. ‘Immaculate conception with Cornish fairies?’ I shake my head and lower my voice. ‘It’s nothing, I had a bit of a run in with Rafe, that’s all.’ If I’m playing it down it’s because I’m not up for a post mortem right here, right now, when the man himself might walk out of the house at any moment.
‘Fuck, thank jeez it’s not the other. It must be a day for meltdowns.’ Immie’s hopping from foot to foot. ‘You’ve got to come, Chas is here saying he needs to see you. Immediately.’ She makes her eyes big for emphasis.
‘Great.’ I let out a long, low whistle. Right now I feel wobbly enough to collapse into a deckchair. Or to crawl under the duvet and hide for a fortnight. As for fielding more of Nicole’s unending demands? Not so much.
‘It’s urgent and confidential.’ Immie’s voice drops to a hoarse whisper, as she gives an omigod grimace. ‘He’s in the office, I told him we’ll see him straight away.’
‘We? Both of us?’ I query, knowing I’m too weary to object.
‘Believe me.’ She purses her lips, and waggles her Mr Muscle at me. ‘Something tells me you’re going to need back up with this one.’
46
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: One-off hugs
‘Lovely to see you again, Chas,’ I
say, as I hurry behind the desk, and make a hopeless attempt to steady my shakes with a bright smile. I decide to ignore that there are three chickens pecking at Chas’s trainer, as he obviously has. ‘How can I help?’
Constructing a replica of Buckingham Palace in the farmyard for Nicole’s exclusive use perhaps? Booking The Ritz to serve Royal Appointment burgers from the back of a vintage Rolls? Persuading Jimmy Choo to do personal pedicures in a Spa Tent? Any of the above would be completely in line with Nicole’s recent requests.
I ignore that Immie is doing a kind of soft close thing with the door behind Chas’s back. The way she charged up the yard to get to him and left me trailing miles behind was a bit blatant, even for Immie. As for being so desperate she’s locking the guy in the room, someone needs to remind her that in two weeks Chas will be married. And no-one on Daisy Hill Farm staff is going to be responsible for trying to persuade Chas otherwise. If Immie is hoping to snog some sense into him, as I suspect she’d like to, she can damn well forget it.
‘I’m not sure anyone can help,’ Chas says, absently brushing a chicken off his cargo shorts.
If I needed an explanation for why Immie’s stopped to perch on Chas’s side of the desk, I get it as he extends one tanned leg. I send a silent prayer to the god of swooning women, asking that Immie isn’t perving on his muscly calves. Given that the opportunity has cropped up right under my nose, in the interests of my own personal single-thirty-something research, I focus on his foot, and check for fizzing hormones. Despite his ankle being particularly attractive, my pulse doesn’t start to race at all. So I put that result down as inconclusive.