by Jane Linfoot
He takes another drink of wine. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Maybe because you’re a busy farmer, always dashing round looking after your animals.’ I say. ‘Whereas I only have myself to look after, and hours to think about things when I’m doing fiddly bits of cake icing.’
He shakes his head at me. ‘There you go again … making what you do sound trivial, talking yourself down.’
‘You were the one who pointed out I was a lightweight.’ I remember distinctly, that day on Daisy Hill.
‘These are all great ideas of yours, but aren’t you overlooking something?’ The corners of his eyes wrinkle as a smile lilts around his lips. ‘If you take over the whole of the house for weddings, where will I put all the children I’m going to have?’
That came out of nowhere, and for a second I blink, swallowing down the bitter taste that fills my mouth. Rafe wanting kids and a relationship had never occurred to me. That I’m biting back the jealousy for some, as yet, faceless woman is bizarre. But right now, the idea of anyone getting their hands on Rafe makes me gnash my teeth.
‘Kids?’ The word comes out as a high pitched croak, so I down most of my wine before I carry on. No idea why it came out like that. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were planning a big family.’ Hopefully that comes out as less panicked.
His cheeks crease. ‘Gotcha. Joking about that, obviously.’ His low laugh ends in a grimace. ‘At least for the time being, anyway.’ He tips the last dribble of wine into my glass.
That’s the trouble with fizzy wine, sometimes it goes down without touching the sides. And it’s gone straight to my bladder.
‘Fancy another bottle?’ he asks, getting to his feet. ‘There’s plenty more to discuss. Unless you’re too tired?’
‘I’m not tired.’ Actually I couldn’t be more wide awake. As for another bottle, I know I shouldn’t, but what the hell. I ease myself up, and head for the hall. ‘I’ll just nip to the loo.’
‘Fine.’
If my reflection looks vaguely bleary in the cloakroom mirror, it’s probably down to the long day. There’s something unreal about it just being Rafe and me, in his kitchen, in the heavy quiet of the night. It’s highly unlikely this will ever happen again. And it’s strange that I’m aching for it not to end. Part of me wants to spin it out, and sit there with Rafe until the morning, just because it feels so comfortable.
As I pad back into the kitchen, I steady myself on the doorframe as I catch sight of him by the fridge. I walk over, and rest my hip against the granite work surface. And you know those times when all the alcohol heads for one place? Mine has gone straight to the triangle at the top of my legs, and it’s sending waves of hot ripples, radiating outwards.
The bottle Rafe holds up is damp with condensation. ‘So, shall I open this? Or would you rather come to bed?’
The double flip of my tummy almost makes me sick on the spot. As I sink against the hewn wood of the kitchen unit, the warm pulse in my panties becomes an ache. The way I’m arching my back, and pushing my boobs at Rafe, I have to look like I’m desperate.
‘Come here.’ As the bottle clanks onto the granite, his hot mouth connects with mine, sweet and velvety. As his stubble grazes my chin, his body presses into me. Fuck. Two things flash through my brain.
‘It’s so long since I did this.’ I murmur out loud. That aching need driving me on never felt this big before.
His laugh reverberates in my ear. ‘Me too.’ He brushes my hair off my forehead, then gently drives me wild as he casually grazes my nipple with his finger, where it’s poking through the cotton of my dress. ‘Though I’ve been wanting to for a while …’
And as he leads me by the hand, and the stripey carpet on the stairs scrunches under my toes, I realise I’m finally about to see inside Rafe’s bedroom.
52.
Upstairs at Daisy Hill Farm: Waking up in Rafe’s room
‘Oh shit.’ I groan and roll over, as I feel the bed lurch. As I open my eyes a crack I take in the sunlight seeping across the white painted floorboards. ‘It can’t be morning already, we only just went to sleep.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’ Rafe is dragging a T-shirt over his head, sounding as croaky as I feel. ‘It’s six, and Sunday, which means I’m milking.’ His eye roll turns into a grimace as he pulls on his jeans. Then he leans over me, and rubs his thumb down my cheek. ‘And you’re right, you’ve been properly asleep for all of half an hour.’
When his mouth finds mine, he tastes just as delicious as before. The deep snog he gives me practically spins me off the bed, and leaves me wanting a lot more of what I’ve already had three lots of already. However many times I’ve imagined this room, the bed was never this comfy. As for the rest, what can I say? I’m struggling to find words. Think symphony orchestras, exploding rainbows, and erupting volcanos, and you still won’t be close. I need to go and Google sex after abstinence to check if this is a phenomenon. I suspect it’s something Immie might know, but there’s no way I can share this with her to ask. All I know is, it’s galaxies away from anything I ever experienced before, and there has to be an explanation. Why would two strangers set each other on fire like this? And when was I ever a one night stand person? What’s worse, from what I remember, even if Rafe was very willing, I was the one who practically knocked him into bed, and took what I had to have. The shudder of shame that runs through me as I think of it shakes the bed.
‘So if you’re feeling guilty, there’s no need.’ He’s smiling down at me, reading my mind. ‘There’s no way this counts as sleeping together.’
In case you’re wondering – don’t lie, I know you are – the sheets are petrol blue Egyptian cotton, with grey cashmere throws. And from the light dreamy warmth, I’m guessing the duvet has to be goose down. Rafe tugs it back into place, then leans over me, to reach for his phone from the bedside table.
‘So what was it then?’ I snuggle into the pillows.
‘Fucking phenomenal,’ he says, his face breaking into a grin, ‘for me anyway.’
I can’t let this pass without admitting it. ‘And me too.’ Although I’m suddenly worried that given my enthusiasm, he might get the wrong impression. ‘Actually, I don’t do this very often.’ I never do it, but I don’t want to sound like a prude. ‘And definitely not with random people.’ I’m panicking at my lack of morning-after etiquette. ‘And I definitely won’t be doing it again.’
‘Don’t go beating yourself up about it.’
Knowing I’m blabbering, I make a super-human effort to put the brakes on. ‘I’m just not sure how this fits in with my plans to be single forever.’ I really should have thought this through before. Before I drank all that wine and threw myself at him.
‘It’s no big deal.’ He rubs a thumb over his jaw. ‘You’re fresh from your break-up. If it makes you feel better, look upon it as a one-off. A happy accident. End of.’
It’s sweet that Rafe picked up my wobbles, and I should be punching the air because he’s putting this in context so sensibly, in a way that totally lets me off the hook. So why my tummy is deflating with disappointment, I have no idea.
I glance at my watch, which is stupid, because I know exactly what time it is. ‘So by the time you get back from the cows,’ I say, ‘I’ll probably be gone.’ There’s a busy morning ahead. Dismantling a wedding is almost as much work as putting one together. What’s more, he’s made it perfectly clear I need to get the hell out of the bedroom part of his life, a.s.a.p.
He gives a shrug. ‘I can cook you breakfast later if you like?’
Staring at the guy who just delivered the orgasms of my life, over grilled tomatoes and sausages might not be the best thing, especially when he’s assured me it won’t be happening again. ‘Thanks, but I’ll probably have eaten by then.’ Not that I’d want it to happen again, obviously.
‘I could make you hash browns?’ He’s really going the extra mile here, hopping as he pulls on his boots.
I shake my head
. ‘Thanks, but it’s still a no.’ Even if his hash browns are to die for, I need to quit while I’m ahead here. It’s hard enough to turn my back on it as it is.
We both have every reason in the book to steer clear here. I might not be a country girl, but I can spot a metaphorical dead horse when it stares me in the face. And it doesn’t need a fried field mushroom garnish.
‘In that case, I’ll catch you later then.’ Rafe hesitates, leaning his back on the wardrobe.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was reluctant to leave. As for the T-shirt he’s wearing, it’s so torn there’s little point him wearing it.
I squint at the faded lettering. ‘So what’s your slogan for today?’
He looks down to check. ‘Young Farmer on the Pull …’ He gives it the grimace it deserves. ‘Let me put that into context.’ With a rueful grin, he spins around.
‘Tug of War, 1995?’ As I prop myself up on my pillows, I do the maths. ‘Crap Rafe, that T-shirt’s over twenty one years old.’ I’m surprised his mother didn’t take it for dusters a decade ago.
‘As for this farmer …’ Rafe turns, and heads for the door. ‘I’m definitely not young any more either, but apparently I can still pull.’ His laugh is low, and I’m almost certain that’s a slow wink he sends me. ‘Thanks for that Red, see you soon.’
But I don’t get a second chance to check, because he’s already gone and closed the door.
53
Outside at Daisy Hill Farm: The morning after
‘Where the hell have you been Immie?’
Given she’s walking out of Buttercup Cottage, doing up her shirt, at seven in the morning, I already know the answer.
‘I just spent the non-wedding night in the bridal suite with Chas. Is there a problem?’
I’m guessing by the way she’s chosen the word problem that she’s picking up my disbelieving head shakes. On the plus side, it’s taken my mind right off confessions about where I slept – or didn’t.
‘For fuck’s sake Immie, shagging the poor guy on what should have been his wedding night? That’s a bit much, even for you.’ If I’m going in strongly here, it’s because I’m shocked. Even as my words are bouncing back off the cobbles, I’m cringing at how hypocritical I sound.
‘Who said anything about shagging?’ The hard stare she gives me is a double reminder that I’m the one who’s out of line here.
‘You didn’t?’ This has to be a first.
‘Pops, the guy is heartbroken, he’s light years away from having sex. Yes, we went to bed in the four poster together, but we kept our tops and pants on, and mainly we laughed. And he cried quite a bit too. That’s all.’
‘Really?’ It never occurred to me that Immie would hold back if she ever got her hands on Chas.
‘It was great for Chas, and his ego, to leave the party with a woman, especially someone like me. Everyone will assume he got his nooky. I just hope word gets back to Nicole, because she’s left the poor guy in bits. It’ll be months before he recovers.’ She’s dropped her predator act, and come over all protective.
She turns to me. ‘So what are you doing here anyway?’
I’m not ready for Immie to flip the interrogation onto me. It’s ironic that we’ve swapped places. For once, Immie’s the chaste one, breezing around fresh as a daffodil, and I’m the one creeping away from the one night stand with a thumping head and what feels like the hangover to end all hangovers. But it’s probably down to lack of sleep.
I decide to brazen it out. ‘It was very late when we finished, I blagged Rafe’s spare room for the night.’ If I do a Jules, say it like it couldn’t be any other way, I might get away with it. I look at my watch pointedly. ‘I wanted to make an early start.’ Hopefully that’s reason enough.
‘Great.’
I give a huge sigh of relief, as Immie takes it on board without question. ‘So given you could be lazing around the wedding suite until lunch time, why are you out and about this early?’ Even as I ask, I see her crumple.
Her voice drops to a hiss. ‘If you must know, Cate’s coming to do me some emergency make-up, in the office.’ She inclines her head in the direction of the courtyard. ‘She’s on her way up now.’
And with one wave of a mascara brush, the heat’s right off me staying at Rafe’s. I’m torn between falling about laughing at the absurdity of Immie having secret make-up assignments, and the realisation that if she’s going to these lengths, she must be beyond desperate to make an impression on Chas. Luckily Cate and Immie are concentrating so hard on the task in hand, they have no time at all to think about me. Turning possibly the least groomed woman in Cornwall, into … Well, basically, when push comes to shove, and Immie’s tilted back in my office chair, eyes closed, face to the ceiling, firing out instructions along with emphatic arm waves, it’s plain to us all. She wants to become Nicole. End of.
I’m not sure how to begin, but I’m sure I need to make some kind of intervention. ‘You do know Immie, when you’re going into any relationship, it’s best to be yourself?’ If anyone knows this, it’s me. Thinking back, since Morgan was born, Immie hasn’t actually had anything resembling a relationship. And I’m not sure she had many before that.
Cate is currently dusting Immie’s cheeks with bronzer
‘What do you mean by that Pops?’ Immie’s grunt comes past the powder brush.
‘It’s dangerous to pretend you’re something you’re not, especially when you first meet someone.’ I only have to look back to Brett and me to find a thousand examples. ‘I regret letting Brett think I enjoyed sailing. If I’d come clean, and told him how much I hated it the first time we went out on a yacht, I’d have saved myself years of miserable weekends and holidays.’ Not to mention the pain when our relationship finally fell apart. I suspect he’d have dropped me faster than a hot banana if he’d realised the truth about me and boats, which might have been no bad thing. We really weren’t suited, but it was me pretending that kept those differences hidden. I take responsibility for that now. Having realised how wrong I was, I’d hate to see Immie make the same mistakes I did. She’s wonderful as she is, and she needs a guy who appreciates her for herself. Not one who’d rather she was buffed and polished and in six inch stilettos. I suppose we should be thankful Immie isn’t trying to totter round in high heels too.
Cate gently begins to work on Immie’s eye-liner. ‘It’s true, it’s important to be honest,’ she says. ‘If you begin something as someone you’re not, it’ll only unravel later.’ She flashes the mascara over Immie’s lashes. ‘There, your eyes are popping now. So what colour shall we go for on your lips?’
As I watch, I can’t help remembering Immie the day of the photo shoot. The way she was literally batting the make-up lady away. That was the first day Rafe began to loosen up. It was the first time I saw him properly laughing. That was before he’d even come round to the idea of weddings. When I stop to think about it, he’s come so far since then. And now I’ve wrecked everything we’d built up, by letting lust get the better of me, and jumping into his bed. I mean what was I thinking? He’s the boss. I have to work with him on a daily basis. I don’t want a relationship. He doesn’t want a relationship. How am I going to face him in the office now, when the last time I saw him he was …
‘Maybe bright red again?’ Immie says. ‘That ruby whatsit you gave me yesterday was pretty close.’ That would be close to a Nicole look-alike.
Cate and I exchange glances. Immie hasn’t taken in any of what we’ve been saying.
‘First rule of make-up – it’s lips or eyes,’ I say, hoping to help. ‘Not both.’
Cate follows my lead. ‘And you’re eyes are looking stunning.’
‘What?’ Immie gives a squawk of distress. ‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘Maybe something natural for your lips would work better than scarlet. Nicole always looked very expensive, so you don’t want to look cheap. ’ Cate twists up a lippy. ‘I’ve got Just Nothing, or Crème de Beige.’
‘I have to say, what the hell’s the point of putting on lippy the same colour as your lips, but what do I know?’ Immie snorts.
I chip in. ‘On the up side, it won’t disappear every time you put your lips round a bottle.’
‘Now that is good news. What’s that one?’ As Immie makes a grab for a lipstick, it rolls onto the floor.
Cate picks it up. ‘Nude hero. How about that?’
‘Whoa, now you’re talking.’ Immie says. ‘Slap it on, and make it quick. Don’t forget why we’re here. I’ve got a man to catch.’
As she dashes across to Buttercup Cottage moments later, I decide there’s only one way forward for me. I need to avoid Rafe, at least for a few days anyway. Let things blow over. And then maybe we can pick up at the point last night, before we left the kitchen. And pretend the rest never happened.
54
In the wedding field at Daisy Hill Farm: Dismantling Tipi City
Whereas some Daisy Hill weddings are gone without trace in hours, thanks to the summer holidays and the fire service shift pattern, the wedding that didn’t happen is still hanging round three days later. Down in the field, as the main tipi is being dismantled, there’s still a knot of die-hard revellers, relaxing under a gazebo by the last cluster of tents. As I get closer to the huddle round the Smokey Joe, Immie gives a wave.
‘Fancy a sausage sarnie, Pops?’ She’s shouting through a mouthful. From the stains on the bread she’s waving about, she’s ignored all our advice about the importance of looking natural, and reverted to her Ruby Rush. What’s more, I’m guessing from the haphazard edges, she’s ditched her personal make-up artist, and is applying it herself. Possibly without help of a mirror. Of course I’m not surprised to see her, given she’s practically taken up residence down here since the bridal suite rental ran out. What’s more, red pout aside, she fits in like one of the guys. Seems that she and Blue Watch get on like a house on fire.