Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop

by Jane Linfoot

  She’s already passing it to me. ‘Right answer. Jess said she wanted a word too.’ Dipping into her own bag, she takes long enough to wave her mascara wand at her reflection in the kettle. Then she’s hurrying me towards the landing. ‘Great, there’s champagne cocktails down there, we don’t want to be late. Mine will be a virgin one, of course, but I like to pretend.’

  Considering the size of Poppy’s bump, we clatter down the stairs alarmingly fast. As we arrive in the ground-floor hallway the tree we pass is on the large side of stonking, but the all-white colour scheme means it blends perfectly into the background, and doesn’t set my Christmas alarm bells jangling too loudly.

  Bracing myself for my first evening out in ages, I peer gingerly into the White Room, with its rails of white and cream dresses, and drifts of tulle and chiffon. The shop windows beyond are studded with a thousand tiny fairy lights that spark off the beading, where white-glittered ivy falls in cascades behind slinky satin skirts. I turn to Poppy. ‘It’s very quiet. Where is everyone?’

  Poppy wiggles her eyebrows. ‘We’re going all the way down to Lily’s new department in the basement. It’s way more practical when you don’t have to worry about spilling drinks on the dresses.’ Lily is another friend from Rose Hill who we grew up with. She was always flower-crazy and worked here when we were all younger. Now, thanks to one of Jess’s career-building schemes, she’s extended her florist’s skills and moved onto styling.

  As we get to the bottom of the next flight of stairs and edge our way into the white-painted brick rooms of the lowest floor of the shop, the crowd of people in sparkly clothes waving cocktail glasses around is the first clue. The table groaning under the weight of champagne bottles and ice buckets, which Poppy steers me towards is the final giveaway.

  ‘Right, Hols, I give in, it is a party. But it’s only small, and I promise it’ll look better through an alcoholic haze.’ She’s looking very guilty as she rams a fruit-filled glass at me. ‘Kick off with a Christmosa, which is grape juice and Champagne. Here’s a Tickled Pink, which is pomegranate and Prosecco.’ A glass of pink liquid lands in my other hand. ‘And try not to miss the Christmas Margaritas.’

  I shiver as the Champagne bubbles prick my nose. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ It’s so long since I last went out, it won’t take much.

  She picks up a tumbler for herself. ‘Not at all. But I’m stuck on pomegranate juice and fizzy water, so think of it as drinking for me.’ The grin she flashes at me is triumphant. ‘Cheers, Hols, and well done for coming. Truly, it’s time you learned how to have fun again. Come on, let’s see who’s here.’

  But before we move off Jess comes towards us, her chiffon blouse billowing. ‘Holly, lovely you’ve made it. First, I must apologise for our local Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They might be St Aidan’s answer to Boy George and the late, great Pete Burns, but Gary and Ken get well out of hand at times.’

  ‘No worries.’ I’m smiling because my ride in Santa’s cart seems so long ago. Then I scan the room hurriedly to check no one else from this afternoon is about to creep up on me unexpectedly. When I was doing my best to avoid the non-party, the waking nightmare of Rory Sanderson being here hadn’t actually crossed my mind. But then neither had Ken and Gary.

  Poppy sees my head swiveling. ‘Don’t worry. There’s Lip Sync Karaoke at the Hungry Shark. Ken and Gary won’t miss a second of that. They’ll probably catch us up when we move on to Jaggers’ Warm up for Christmas night later.’

  I let out a silent groan. Jaggers is the local bar dedicated to happy hours and teenage drinkers. I can’t personally think of many things worse than necking cocktails by the jugful and falling into bed at three a.m. so that’s one after-party I’ll be wriggling out of. But once I’ve gazed round the whole room without anyone giving me heart failure, I give Sera and Lily from the shop a little wave. Then I turn back to find Jess is staring at me hard.

  ‘So, Holly, we’re both about to hurl ourselves off cliffs. Do you have any tips to offer me?’

  ‘Tips?’ I’m blinking at her blankly, because Jess doesn’t usually ask for advice. Being that bit older and having built up her empire from one room in the basement selling flowers, she’s pretty much seen it all. Let’s face it, this fabulous department is only a fraction of the shop, especially now she’s bought next door too.

  Even after another sip of Christmosa, and one more slug of Tickled Pink I’m still confused. ‘Which cliffs are you talking about, exactly?’

  That makes her smile. ‘The cliffs are proverbial, Holly. The unnerving bit is I’m about to go on holiday with a man I barely know and you’re here to be a wedding photographer when you haven’t got the first clue how to be one.’ She pauses long enough for that to sink in. ‘I always tell people to feel the fear and do it anyway but now it comes to me, it’s not that easy.’

  As party talk goes this is a bit deep. And whereas my little surfie wedding isn’t quite the big deal for me she’s making out, it’s true Jess is about to dive out of her comfort zone. After years of being defiantly single, she’s taken everyone by surprise and got together with a guy called Bart, who she first met as a teenager. Bart’s main claims to fame are an all-year-round tan and being loaded. As well as owning the fabulous Rose Hill Manor just outside the village where I grew up, he’s got places in the Caribbean and Switzerland. He lets out the Manor for occasional weddings, which are now run by Poppy and Rafe’s wedding team, from nearby Daisy Hill Farm. With a couple of December bookings coming up, he’s decided to go away, and has persuaded Jess to go with him. But as Jess hasn’t had a day away from the shop in ten years, being whisked off to the Alps by Bart is a huge deal for her. So I can completely see why she’s feeling less in control than usual.

  ‘To be honest, Jess, I’m hoping we’ll iron out any problems for the wedding when we do our practice shoot tomorrow.’

  She gives a disbelieving sniff. ‘Well, I’m glad you feel so chipper. But that still leaves me with two weeks at Bart’s mountain hideaway in Klosters. I’ll be going mad worrying about the shop. And all that time alone with Bart, too.’ The corners of her mouth couldn’t be pulled any further down. ‘I don’t even like snow.’

  The note of panic in her voice sweeps me back to my first time away with Luc. That was when I saw his passport said Luke, and found out he’d swapped the ‘ke’ for a ‘c’ in a bid to look less geeky. We went for two weeks in Madeira with his parents, because that’s what he’d done every year before he met me. Although holidaying with his mum wasn’t a great idea for someone trying to look cool. I swear I only stayed sane getting sloshed on cane rum cocktails and eating my own weight in honey cake. Then the ticking time bomb of all-inclusive caught up with me. By the second week the only holiday clothes I could get into were my travel leggings. You wouldn’t believe how badly fleecy joggers chafe at thirty degrees. Not that Jess will have that problem, with her wide-leg linen trousers in sub-zero Klosters.

  ‘Some time apart every day might help?’ I’m remembering how burying myself in a book got me through. ‘And take thermal leggings.’

  Jess knocks back her Margarita in one go and reaches for another. ‘Good thinking. My trouble is, Bart can be such a wind-up merchant.’

  Poppy laughs as she joins in. ‘You know we’ll be fine here, Jess. And even though Bart loves to tease you, you always give as good as you get. Don’t forget, you two love birds have been pretty much joined at the hip since September.’

  That was when Jess and Bart finally went public, after a summer of secret assignations on a secluded island at the Manor. Although, if they really are as close as Poppy says, it hits me that maybe there is a piece of valuable advice I can pass onto Jess, after all. If they’re trying to make up for lost time, it’s completely possible that in a backdrop as picturesque as Klosters, Bart might pop the question. In which case, it will pay Jess to be prepared.

  I take a deep breath, and given what I’m about to throw into the mix, I drop my voice. ‘There is one very im
portant tip – if Bart does happen to get out a ring and ask you to marry him, for goodness sake ram your finger into it and nod madly. Then decide how you really feel about it later.’ This one’s right from the heart. My downfall last Christmas is a well shared secret among our friends in St Aidan. I’m completely resigned to people knowing every last detail. ‘If you panic, like I did, and go skiing off into the distance, there’s a chance you’ll blow it forever.’ I’ve spent the last year pining for my lost life. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  For a second Jess looks as if she’s going to explode. ‘Me ski? I’m not a bloody snow bunny.’ As her voice rises to a shriek, everyone turns to listen. ‘Bart knows, I will not be going anywhere near any slopes, kindergarten or otherwise. And salopettes are completely out of the question.’ As her tone softens, a smile spreads across her face. ‘Although I’ll make an exception for the après ski, obviously.’ That thought puts the purr back into her voice. As tonight proves, no one loves a party like Jess does.

  ‘Good point, Hols.’ Poppy and I exchange glances over our three glasses. It’s significant that Jess has chosen to go ape at the mention of skiing, not the proposal.

  ‘Thank you, Holly. I had a feeling you’d set me straight. It’s exactly why I asked the question.’ Jess’s nostrils flare and her smile warms. ‘When our resident wedding photographer, Jules, gets here I’ll introduce you. He’ll be delighted to help you, in return for the absolute gems you’ve given me.’

  I get in fast to jump on that idea. ‘Thanks, but there’s really no need.’ Super pro Jules is someone else I was hoping to avoid. I definitely don’t want him thinking I’m treading on his toes here.

  ‘I absolutely insist.’ Jess is beaming now. ‘And the forecast for tomorrow is abysmal. You’ve heard we’ve taken over the building next door and the first floor’s still empty. It will be perfect for you to use for indoor shots with your lovely couple.’

  Over the years Poppy’s told me about Jess’s legendary rail-roading. I just wasn’t expecting to be flattened by the runaway train myself. ‘Nate and Becky want us to go to the beach, whatever the weather.’ Even though I say it in my firmest voice, I get the feeling no one’s listening.

  ‘So where were we?’ As far as Jess is concerned, I haven’t said a thing. ‘Ah yes, waiting for Jules to arrive. Meanwhile, Lily’s over there, she’ll be looking after the shop with you, Poppy and Sera while I’m away. Hasn’t she done wonders down here?’

  ‘It’s brilliant.’ As I check the room again, this time I’m taking in the decor and the beautifully arranged stock too. Even if the silver stars-all-over theme is way too Christmassy for me this time around, it’s obvious Lily’s a natural with the styling. The space is bursting with everything from vintage cake tables, to signs, to place settings to four-foot-high illuminated letters spelling LOVE.

  That’s the funny thing. A snap shot of any corner of this showroom might have come from my food photographs at work, because the props we use are exactly like the pretty things here. The cleverest people at our company, like Poppy in her previous career, develop the tasty new food products. Then it’s my job to photograph them so they look so delicious that people rush to buy them.

  The first time someone put a camera in my hand it was for a student project, photographing a bread range. We were all collapsing with giggles as the lecturer kept telling us to arrange our baps so there was a spiral in the picture. None of us could see any spirals at all, but apparently all my pictures had them anyway. Which was lucky in a way, because when it came to taste innovation, I turned out to be hopeless. My spinach and toffee pudding scored the lowest mark in the history of the course. But once I’d accidentally hit on those invisible spirals, everyone overlooked my strawberry and cauliflower tart disasters. So what began with those seeded buns ended up for me as a career taking food pictures.

  Jess’s eyes are shining with pride as she beams at the fabulous place settings and the fairy lights overhead. ‘Every couple needs to make their wedding unique to them, and Lily brings those dreams to life. And talking of making dreams come true, I can’t wait for you to see the studio space next door.’ Note that in two minutes, Jess has changed an empty floor into a studio. But that’s Jess all over, from what Poppy’s told me. ‘Oh, and here’s Jules now. Ju-u-ules!’ As she yells and practically knocks us over with her wave, a guy who could have strolled straight off the pages of GQ magazine is heading our way. With his trademark pink, blue and green-striped scarf muffled around his stubble, he’s exactly as Poppy has described him.

  Jess couldn’t be looking more pleased with herself. ‘Holly, meet Jules, our very own photographic wizard. You two are going to have so much to talk about. I’m hoping you’ll be able to give Holly some pointers, Jules.’

  I’m wanting the ground to open up and swallow me. ‘Lovely to meet you, Jules, but forget the pointers. My wedding’s so low key it’s almost not happening.’ I force out a smile and, thankfully, I’m saved having to shake hands, because his are buried deep in his pockets.

  As he turns to scrutinise me, his eyes are so blue and startling they could have been painted in on Photoshop. ‘I take it you’ve brought a camera with you. What do you use?’

  From what Poppy says, Jules is as legendary for his ecstatic hugs as he is for his fantastic pictures and extravagant wardrobe. But his famously floppy fringe is suddenly stationary. And in place of the gush, I’m sensing an ice flow.

  I push on, ignoring how awkward this is. ‘Most of my stuff is Nikon.’ You’ve no idea how many arms and legs it’s cost me to get the best there is. Although my memory cards are tiny rather then the true pro ones. And how many clothes I haven’t bought over the years, to save up so I can afford it. Some of the lenses alone cost a month’s salary. Which is why I’m wearing a New Look top from four seasons ago rather than designer cashmere, and a four figure price tag jacket like Jules.

  Jules’s nose pinches and he flips back his hair with what almost could be a head toss. ‘You do realise it’s not the camera that makes good pictures. It’s actually down to the person behind the lens.’ He says it like it’s going to come as news.

  I nod. ‘Right.’

  He’s straight back at me. ‘A successful wedding photographer needs to be a great communicator.’ The slight curl of his lip has nothing to do with a smile. ‘Ordering a hundred guests around takes skill. Not to mention bucket loads of charisma.’

  I’m letting this wash over me, exchanging ‘what the hell’ glances with Poppy, because it’s got so little to do with a few friends having an informal beach party.

  Jess is swishing the ice round in her glass, looking slightly bemused. ‘So am I sensing there’s a problem, Jules?’

  Jules draws himself up looks at a spot four feet to my left. ‘From where I’m standing, I’m just not feeling it with Holly. Not one iota.’

  I force my cheeks into a smile. ‘Well, thanks for sharing, that’s very …’ I can’t bring myself to say helpful, ‘… illuminating. Always fab to have insight from an expert.’ Although now he’s mentioned it, he’s probably spot on. At work I always hide behind my camera. In a crowd I’m actually a bit of a mouse. In our family Freya was the ‘out there’ one, with enough pazazz to grab the spotlight for both of us. Meanwhile I made the most of her shadow, and hid in it. And even though I lost her, that’s how I always stayed. At least it’s good to realise that to handle a proper wedding I’d actually need a personality transplant.

  Jules flips his scarf and turns his gaze onto Jess. ‘And while we’re here talking pictures, my answer is “yes”.’ Tight lipped doesn’t begin to cover it.

  Jess’s eyes widen. ‘Answer? Was there a question?’

  Jules sniffs. ‘Thanks for giving me first refusal. I’ll definitely take the first floor space next door. Congratulations, Jess, you’ve just added a fully in-house photographer to your Brides by the Sea portfolio.’

  Jess shakes her head. ‘You’re spectacularly missing every point, Jules. We’re talking
camaraderie here, not contracts.’ She pauses to roll her eyes at Poppy and me. ‘As for that first floor, I’m leaving my options open for the moment.’

  ‘Great.’ Jules’s snap says it’s anything but. ‘Let me know the minute you come to your senses. My offer won’t be here forever. And now I’ve got somewhere else to be.’ There’s a draught from his well-cut jacket as he whirls round and pushes past people towards the door.

  Poppy pulls a face. ‘Someone’s in a rush to get to Lip Syncing.’

  Jess shakes her head. ‘Sorry, Holly, I don’t know what got into him there.’

  Even if Jess is mystified, I can see why Jules hasn’t put me straight on his air-kiss list. So I’m happy to leap in with an excuse for him. ‘Maybe he’s not in a party mood?’ I can sympathise with him on that one. Although, seriously, I don’t blame Jules for being appalled to be forced to give tips to someone who could be here to nick his clients. He doesn’t know that’s the last thing on my mind.

  ‘Poor boy.’ Jess sounds more sympathetic than cross. ‘He’s an only child, living at home. If he doesn’t get his own way, he get his tripod in a twist every time. Apart from that, he’s usually second to none.’

  He might have sounded objectionable, but at least he reminded me why I work with objects not people. What’s more, I’m secretly glad there’s someone else my age who hasn’t got their independent accommodation a hundred per cent sorted. And I’m inwardly cheering that he’s left so fast. All in all, if I had to meet Jules at all, it couldn’t have gone better.

  I knock back both my drinks to celebrate, and beam at Poppy. ‘Time for a Festive Margarita, then?’

  She grins at me. ‘That’s more like it. Rafe and Bart and Immie will be here soon. Let’s see who we can find to introduce you to in the meantime.’