by Jane Linfoot
‘Great.’ I’m still hoarse, panting, and trying not to lose all my foundation on my tissue, as I blow my nose. ‘Change can be very positive.’
I’m just not sure why I’m so floored by it. If Rafe wants to help with his own weddings, it shouldn’t be a problem for me. I know I’ve taken to trying to avoid him lately, but I’ll have to get my grown up knickers on, and man up. It shouldn’t be that hard. If he can pull off spending time together, I’m damned sure I can. I stuff the last of my cob into my mouth, and slide my plate into the sink, crossing my fingers there’s no more nasty shocks on the way.
I rub my hands together, in a businesslike way. That’s the answer to this. So long as we stay professional, we’ll be fine.
‘Okay.’ I bolster myself with a deep breath. ‘Time for the cake.’ As I check the piles of boxes that are arranged at one end of the work surface, my heart misses a beat. I look up at Rafe. ‘Is this everything? There should be another box.’
‘That’s all you brought in.’ His shrug and his tone are laid back. ‘Did you leave any in the car?’
‘Good point.’ As I race across the yard, and hurl the car door open, I’m praying to the god of rustic sponges that he’s right. But he’s not. The boot and back seat are empty. Crap, crap, crap. If my hair wasn’t twisted into tiny Greek style braids and curls, I’d be tearing it out. I bolt back into the kitchen, slam the boxes around, and check them again, in case it’s bucks fizz confusion. ‘Oh my giddy aunt …’
‘Is something wrong?’ Rafe’s helpful smile partly makes up for his complete failure to realise this is a major crisis.
‘Somehow,’ and I can’t quite believe how, ‘I’ve lost the top tier of the effing wedding cake.’ My voice is trembling, as I thump my fist on the granite work surface.
‘Think about it calmly.’ Rafe frowns. ‘Cake’s don’t just disappear. If it’s not here, and it’s not in the car, where else might it be?’
I try to ignore how soothing and reassuring his voice is.
‘On my kitchen table.’ I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t go back up for one last check. Except I can, because I’d been up and down so many times, and my main worry was not forgetting my dress, or my shoes. Can I race back to town, and still be ready for eleven? There are so many thoughts buzzing through my head, it feels like it’s about to explode.
‘Give me your keys.’ He’s sticking his hand out.
‘What?’
‘You carry on with cake building, or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing, I’ll pick up the missing tier.’
For a moment I stare at his fingers. His broad thumb, roughened by the farm work. Something about the traces of veins on the inside of his wrist makes my tummy clench. And not in a good way. It’s going to be so damned hard being this close to him on a daily basis. Except now’s not the time. Shaking that thought away, I make a huge effort to drag myself together.
‘If you’re sure?’ Unclipping a key from the bunch I drop it into his hand. ‘This unlocks the door at the bottom of my stairs.’ The smallest brush as he closes his fingers around my key sends a seismic shiver up my arm.
‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he says, as he springs across the kitchen. ‘I’ll send one of the guys to run you and the cakes that are here down to the marquee. It’s looking pretty wet out there.’
‘Ahh, the rain.’ There are a hundred other problems to concentrate on. Stamping on a misplaced hormone rush comes low on the list, but I try to strangle it anyway. ‘Thanks, Rafe, I owe you.’
‘No problem.’ As he reaches the door, he turns. ‘By the way, I took your bag up to your room.’ His smile is lazy and unnervingly soft. ‘I take it you decided not to risk borrowing any of my spectacular T-shirts to sleep in. Make yourself at home, it’s straight ahead at the top of the stairs.’
63
In the wedding marquee at Daisy Hill Farm: Ready and waiting
There’s nothing quite like a marquee on the morning of the wedding day. The muted light, extra dim today due to the grey sky, the twinkle of fairy lights overhead, which, admittedly, are more like a galaxy this time around. Nothing less would have done for Cate. Ditto the crisscrossing bunting forest. And where Liam and his mates have worked wonders at high level, us women have worked our magic lower down. The round tables look amazing with their clusters of single flowers in bottles. The roses and daisies, in pinks and whites and reds and yellows are like the bridesmaid’s dresses come alive. And the top table is fab, with the Mr and Mrs signs at the ready.
After the frenzy of the bridesmaids’ cottage, and the panic in Rafe’s kitchen, the warm quiet of the tent is deliciously calming. Rafe even saw to it that I had my own team of muscle, to bring the cake boxes into the marquee. Heaving the hewn wooden platter onto the waiting cake table, I finally set to work to construct the wedding cake. Once I get going with my sponges, fruit, flowers and icing, the rest of the world melts into soft focus around me.
‘Could you do with another tier there?’
Rafe makes it as far as my shoulder before I notice he’s arrived.
‘Perfect timing, you’re such a star,’ I say. I feel like a huge weight has lifted as I take the container from him. A second later after a final dusting of icing sugar, the cake’s complete.
He stands back, nodding at the towering creation. ‘Amazing. That’s pretty damned spectacular. From a non-expert view, obviously.’
Grabbing my phone, I take a few snaps, just for the record. Then I dive into the bag to find serviettes, and the cake knife Cate’s had specially engraved. ‘Oops, mustn’t forget the Bride and Groom for the top.’
As I balance the figures on the cake, from the corner of my eye I see Rafe’s face splitting into a grin.
‘Good, aren’t they?’ I say.
As he slides closer to murmur in my ear, he gives a low laugh. ‘Remind you of anything?’
Let’s get this straight here. It’s disturbing enough for me to remember wrestling Rafe onto the bed, and seeing the awful similarity playing out on top of Cate and Liam’s cake. Rafe recognising it too is bad enough. But flagging it up to me? That’s plain mean. I’m thanking my lucky stars I’m wearing cover all foundation, because without it I’d be bright red to the tips of my ears.
From the way he’s biting his lip, and that slow half wink he does, he knows he’s pushing it.
I heave a huge mental sigh. ‘I thought we were …’
‘What?’
If he’s trying to look inscrutable, his dimples are getting in the way, big time.
Keeping it professional? ‘… it doesn’t matter.’ Dragging it up again will only make it more than it is. And given it’s nothing anyway, and is over and done with and left in the past, there’s really no point.
He glances at his watch. ‘I don’t want to rush you, but it might be time for us to scrub up?’
There he goes again. ‘Us’. It slides out unnervingly naturally, even if he’s only talking about his team. Hopefully when I get used to hearing him say it on an hourly basis, it’ll jar less.
‘Good thinking.’
Between us we pick up the bags and boxes, and wind our way between the chairs with their smart silk covers and chiffon bows, towards the entrance.
‘So what are you wearing then?’
It’s a casual enough, throwaway question from him. There’s no need to read anything into it.
‘Red flowery dresses, eight of us all the same, you’ll be hard pressed to tell us apart.’ I wince at my choice of words, although happily, he’s oblivious.
‘Easy enough, I’ll just look for the red hair then.’ He pushes back the entrance flap, holding it up as I bob through. A second later he’s opened an umbrella and is holding it over me, sounding perplexed. ‘Red, what happened to your hair? It’s not red any more.’
As the dark clouds part, and there’s a burst of sun, I squint into the light. My cropped hair has grown long enough for me to see it, and I pull at a strand no
w. ‘It hasn’t been red for months. Even the orange ends have gone now.’ But if that’s how much notice he’s taking, I might be off the hook after all. I’m crossing my fingers that when he’s done this scrubbing up he’s talking about, it doesn’t have the same end result it did last time.
64
In the wedding field at Daisy Hill Farm: Power drills and chocolate flakes
There are times when it stops raining, and you’re so pleased you don’t care that it’s still blowing a gale and chilly. As we make our way down to the open barn for Cate and Liam’s ceremony, the sun breaking through is like a gift. None of the rest matters. Rafe has transported the registrars to the field by Landy, to make sure they didn’t get stuck in the mud on the way, and the ceremony guests are all in position, sitting patiently in the open wedding barn.
We bridesmaids are squishing across the wet grass, and apart from swapping our Spanx horror stories, we’re mainly talking about how pleased we are Cate went for the floor length version of the dresses in the end, because they’re great for keeping our legs warm, and hiding our boots.
‘Remember my festival wellies?’ I give Immie a wink as I give her a flash of my purple flowery boots under my skirt. ‘I loved them so much, I kept them for best.’
‘I knew you’d thank me for raiding Brett’s flat in the end.’ She gives a grimace, as she rubs her forehead with her posy, and clears a swathe through her foundation. ‘Bloody ironic that my bridesmaid shoes are the first high heels I’ve ever owned, and I’ve had to take them off.’
I laugh as I lean across to blend her streaky make up. ‘Five inch wedges too. Don’t worry, you can put them on as soon as we go into the marquee.’ Poor Immie has no idea what agony heels can be. I guarantee she’ll be begging for her flats within minutes.
‘Lovely that Bolly and Brioche are here.’ I grin at Immie. ‘Dragging a groomsman towards the wedding barn as we speak. Rather him than me.’
Immie snorts. ‘When you and Rafe have kids, you’ll be able to tell them you met when he pulled you out of a ditch after being dragged in by those two hounds.’
‘What?’ Just because she’s met Mr Nearly Right, there’s no need for her to assume everyone else is heading for coupledom too.
‘Only joking.’ She says. ‘But seriously, you have to be close to argue the way you two do.’
‘We both care a lot about out work.’ I sniff.
‘Sure.’ She grins at me. ‘So why are you thinking about taking another job then?’ She turns on me with one of her power drill stares. ‘And before you go ape, Cate told me, but only because she’s worried about you.’
Immie certainly chooses her moments. ‘It won’t come to anything.’ Whatever you do when you try to shout under your breath, but only be heard by one person, that’s what I’m doing here.
‘It better bloody not come to anything.’ Immie’s half hissing, half growling between her teeth but I’m saved from anything worse by Cate arriving.
‘Wow, it’s the coolest idea of Cate’s to arrive in the ice cream van.’ The office bridesmaids are in their own cluster next to us, chirruping as we wait for Cate and her dad to be ready.
Immie gives me a sideways look. ‘Well done for that at least, Pops, you saved her a packet with that doubling up suggestion, especially as we were having the ice cream van all day anyway.’
‘Tight waistband or not, I could murder a ninety nine.’ I say, in an attempt to break the ice that just froze over between us because of the job. I thought I was still muttering, but the chorus of ‘me too’s suggests everyone heard me.
‘You’ll have to wait,’ Immie says, grudgingly. ‘But they’re here now, so it won’t be long. What’s that tune the ice cream van’s playing?’
‘Greensleeves?’ We wait as Cate and her dad clamber out of the van, and Jules leaps forward to take what seems like a whole album of photos. Immie’s eyes go dreamy. ‘That tune always makes me think of chocolate flakes, and now I’ll always think of weddings when I hear it.’ The fact she hasn’t lost her dreamy look says a lot for how her and Chas are getting on.
There’s another chorus of agreement, but we’re being bustled into a crocodile by a groomsman. There’s a sudden gasp as Cate appears from behind the van. Straight out of the cliché book I know, but with her lace billowing in the wind, and her blonde waves gently caught up in the simplest tiara, she looks like a princess. As she flutters along our line, we’re all dipping into our hanky pockets. Even Immie is blowing her nose.
Cate stands in front of me so I can check she’s perfect.
‘Ready?’ I ask, as I tweak a strand of hair into her tiara, and straighten a tiny twist in the lace of her strap. ‘You’re beautiful.’
‘Is George okay?’ she asks.
‘Fine, he’s with your mum and the boys.’ I say.
‘Thank you, Pops, for everything,’ she says, giving my hand a last squeeze, and then the rest of the bridesmaids are walking ahead, then I follow, and Cate and her dad walk behind.
* * *
The moment when Liam finally sees Cate in her dress is wonderful. The way his face simply lights up with love has me diving for my hanky pocket again. I bet Cate didn’t plan to have the noise of eight bridesmaids snivelling beside her as she got married. I’ve pretty much got my face in a tissue all the way through the repeat after me bits, and the I do part. By the time my emotion has subsided enough to put my hanky down, Liam’s getting the crumpled piece of paper out of his top pocket to make his special promises. He must have run them past Cate a dozen times, and she always batted them back, and wrote something better for him herself. But he really wanted to do his own. So in the aftermath of their argument, he told her to butt out. So who knows what he’s about to say, but for all our sakes, I just hope it hits the mark for Cate.
‘Ahem …’ As Liam clears his throat a gasp of nervous anticipation ripples through the guests. Running his fingers through his tousled curls in the silence, he shoots one more grimace at his best man, then he begins.
‘Cate, the first time we met. When I saw you running onto the rugby pitch … in your office shoes and tight skirt … waving your hand bag … yelling like a banshee … I knew you were the one for me.’ His voice is ringing out clear and strong, and then everyone laughs. Even Cate.
‘You were hot – in the best possible way …’ He pauses and gives Cate an extra grin. ‘You were passionate … it was obvious you’d move heaven and earth to defend your kids …’
There’s a lump in my throat as Liam’s voice cracks slightly. As I glance behind me, through the blur of my tears, I can see people dabbing their noses. Cate’s worst fear was that he was going to refer to her as Milf, but I think we’ve got over that one nicely.
‘I knew I had to make you mine, whatever it took … and every day since then, you’ve showed me a thousand different reasons to admire you … and to love you …’
Oh my god, straight from the heart. Even though my mouth is turning inside out from the effort of holding in my balling, I turn to share a grimace with Immie. But somehow I miss Immie, and instead, half a barn away, I lock eyes with Rafe.
‘But more than that, you’ve loved me back … and cared for me … and touched me in a way no one ever did before.’ Liam’s absolutely nailing it here.
Rafe’s leaning against the wall, smiling that soft smile of his with those crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and out of nowhere, I’m suddenly wishing he was saying these words to me.
‘You trusted me with your wonderful children, and it’s been my privilege to share their lives,’ Liam goes on.
When I finally wrench my gaze away from Rafe’s, it feels like there’s a hole in my chest the size of Dartmoor. And if my hand wasn’t clamped hard over my mouth, I think I might throw up.
‘And today you’re making me the happiest man in the world by marrying me.’ Liam’s face breaks into a beam. ‘Cate, if I said thank you a million times for being my wife, it still wouldn’t be enough … I promise to love you foreve
r.’
As the clapping erupts around the barn, Cate’s scraping the tears from under her lower lashes, frantically biting her lip. And I’m hugging my arms around myself, hanging on as hard as I can, as the aftershocks from Rafe’s smile thunder through my body.
Eventually, the applause dies down, and Cate collects herself. She pulls a perfectly folded paper from somewhere in her bra, draws herself up, and looks deep into Liam’s eyes. If I know Cate she’ll have no need for her paper, she’ll have memorised this weeks ago.
But I can’t tell you what she says, because I don’t hear a word of it. There’s only one phrase hammering round in my head, and it’s jangling loud enough to block out every other sound and thought.
I’m in big trouble here.
I’m in love with Rafe Barker.
65
In Rafe’s kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm: Empty glasses and office speak
The fab thing about working on weddings is that it really builds your stamina. By the time Rafe and I finally head for his kitchen sofas at three in the morning the rest of the farm is quiet.
‘So, my high points of the day.’ I’m listing them more for myself than for Rafe. ‘That the sun shone. And the dresses, obviously.’ Jess and Sera should be so proud. ‘Immie and Chas dancing a little salsa number.’ I’m ticking them off on my fingers as I go. Who’d have thought anyone would persuade Immie to go to dance classes? As if that wasn’t enough, Immie keeping her heels on all day was yet another mark of her dedication to Chas. ‘The animal area went down a storm, especially the tame chickens. The ninety nines were every bit as yummy as I’d anticipated. Was it too piggy of me to eat three?’
Rafe’s face breaks into a smile. ‘I know better than to answer that one. Wine?’ Twisting the cork, he pours out the fizz.
‘Please.’
‘One glass, to wind down.’