by Jane Linfoot
I warm up with a few shots of the jars spilling out of the make-up team’s boxes. I even dare to take a few reflections of the girls in the mirror. Then I walk across to where the dress is hanging and turn to Zoe. ‘Is it okay if I move this to where the light’s better?’ I’m feeling so guilty for being here, my apologetic plea couldn’t be further from Jules’s masterful orders.
Zoe peers past the hairdresser pulling rollers the size of drainpipes out of her hair. ‘Of course, help yourself.’
The champagne silk drifts as I move it across the room to a hook on the other side of the room. ‘Is this one of Sera’s designs?’ Even after only being in the shop for a couple of days, I can spot her trademarks. Fabulous flowing satin. The exquisite embroidery winding across the straps, the slight flare of skirt.
Zoe looks delighted that I’d know. ‘That’s right. It’s very light for December, but I fell in love with the way it moves. I’ve got a little fur jacket to go over it.’
‘I’ll try to capture how amazing the beading is.’ I hang on to the one useful thought Jules threw at me this morning. Never rush. Take your time for that perfect shot. A few minutes later, all thanks to Sera’s lovely work, I have some fabulous close ups.
Despite the hairdresser dragging her hair through the tongs, Zoe carries on, with a wistful look in her eyes. ‘We got engaged on Christmas Day last year, so we wanted to get married in winter too.’
I swallow my gulp at the coincidence and force my face into a smile. ‘Lovely.’ It comes out a lot too brightly. Although, truly, it’s good to know that someone’s festive proposal worked out well, even if mine crashed and burned. And if I’m silently groaning, this could have been me, I need to stop.
Zoe frowns at me as I put the dress back. ‘Are you sure you’re okay there?’ She dodges the hairdresser’s comb and nods at the ice bucket and champagne flutes. ‘Would you like some bubbly? You look even paler than I feel.’
And damn that it’s that obvious. ‘I’m fine.’ I’m lying. And dying of embarrassment too, because everyone knows the bride should have the monopoly on wobbles on her wedding day. I smother the shock waves and concentrate on how I was before. ‘Actually, I’m a bit nervous.’ It’s the ideal way to cover up that the moment I heard about her Christmas Day proposal I felt like passing out. ‘Whatever Jess told you about me, this is actually my first wedding.’ I can see the make-up girl’s eyebrows hitting the ceiling as I blurt out the truth. But I can’t help it. Now they’ve noticed, I have to come clean.
‘So what about the awards?’ The bridesmaid in the baby-pink Team Bride dressing gown is looking daggers.
I’m ready to take my camera and go. ‘I have won stuff, but for pictures of food, not brides. Things like …’ I rack my brain for anything to block out Luc and his engagement ring. ‘Country Living Food Campaign of 2016 for my sausage casserole shots?’ Sausages? That sounds worse than nothing now it’s out.
‘Right.’ Six faces are giving me bemused stares.
‘I’m really sorry. I started off in food design, but I moved across to photography after a massive roast beef and meringue debacle.’ I take in the bridesmaids’ expressions getting more horrified by the second. I know this isn’t the moment to babble my entire life story, but I can’t stop. If my feet weren’t welded to the spot, I’d already be out of here.
‘One moment.’ Zoe lifts up the hair tong wire. ‘It’s good you’re not on the catering team. Show me what you’ve got so far.’
As I move in and flick through the frames, she’s nodding. Then she pushes back a stray hair grip and grins up at me. ‘For an assistant, I’d say you’re acing it. Don’t forget, it’s my first wedding too.’
I can’t help but smile back at that. ‘So you don’t mind if I stay?’
Zoe laughs. ‘I’ll throw a bridezilla fit if you don’t. Jules is lovely, but it’s nice to have a woman around too. Especially if you’re taking pictures like those. How about you go and beg some leftover cupcakes from Poppy before you expire?’ From the way Zoe’s taken command from her hairdressing chair, I suspect she might be an army general in her day job. ‘We’ll all feel better after some of those. Better still, bring back some pictures of what’s going on outside.’ She nods beyond the door.
‘Brill, back soon, then.’ I don’t need to be asked twice to escape. As I yank my camera bag onto my shoulder and dash out into the hallway I can see Poppy amidst a sea of tables and chairs. She’s deep in discussion with Lily from the shop, who is here sorting the styling and the flowers.
Poppy grins as I skid to a halt on ancient floorboards, polished to a sheen. ‘How’s it going?’
I give a shrug. ‘Getting there.’ It’s not ideal to be this anxious to leave the wedding venue when I’ve barely been here half an hour. ‘What are you doing here anyway? I was coming to find you in the kitchen.’
Now her bump’s getting bigger, Bart’s nephew Kip, who is Lily’s new boyfriend, is supposed to be taking over Poppy’s wedding work here. And since Kip started work as wedding manager, and Poppy’s got more pregnant, she’s supposed to stay in the part of the farmhouse where she and Rafe live, for at least some of the time.
Poppy wrinkles her nose. ‘Kip and I are still in the hand-over phase. I’ve been working with Zoe all year to make today perfect. It’s hard to let go.’
Lily pulls a face. ‘We’d have to tether Poppy to the Aga to keep her away today.’
I sense I’m treading on proverbial eggshells here. ‘Zoe’s asking for spare cupcakes. Does that help at all?’
Poppy sighs and rubs her tummy. ‘Okay, we’ll have to go back to the kitchen for those. But remember, I’m not broken, I’m simply growing a small person.’ Poppy and Rafe have only known about their surprise baby for a couple of months, and it seems like they’re still catching up.
From the ease with which Lily chimes in, it’s an ongoing problem. ‘Eighteen hours on your feet at a wedding isn’t ideal when you’re this far pregnant, though.’
‘I’m fine. Most pregnant women these days go straight from work to the labour ward.’ Poppy brushes away Lily’s concern and nudges me towards the front door. ‘Come on, Holly, let’s get those cupcakes. The first rule of weddings – if the bride’s hungry, feed her. Otherwise she may explode.’
‘Great.’ I store that nugget for when Becky gets married. And make a mental note to forget it the day after.
As I follow Poppy outside and along to the part of the house she and Rafe live in, Immie is ahead of us in the courtyard, showing a group of early wedding guests towards the holiday cottages. It’s great to see so many of our friends all pulling together in such a brilliant team. The people where I work are more colleagues than friends, and we rarely go out after hours. I’m asking myself when Rose Hill became so buzzy? Or when my fabulous life in London became so quiet in comparison? Although even if it’s temporarily shrunk to nothing, I definitely wouldn’t swap it.
After the cold breeze that blasts us as we hurry up the cobbled yard, the farm kitchen is deliciously warm. Jules wasn’t joking about the cameras weighing a ton. As for me being a lightweight, I’m holding my hands up to that already.
I slide my bag onto the table, rub my cramping shoulder, push the kettle onto the Aga and reach for a mug. ‘I’ll make you some tea while I’m here, Pops.’ At least then she’ll have to stay to drink it.
Poppy shuffles a stack of cake containers. ‘I’ll give you vanilla ones. We can’t risk chocolate smudges before the ceremony.’ She frowns at me as she hands me a box. ‘You look like you could do with one now.’
I’m already regretting skipping breakfast. ‘Chocolate stains won’t show on leopard print, will they?’ It’s worth a try.
Poppy answers that with a beam. ‘That’s my girl. How many?’
‘No more than two.’ I’m feeling mean that I’m only passing her ginger tea in return. ‘I don’t want to spoil my appetite for the vanilla ones.’ Now I’m back in the normality of the kitchen, sinking my teeth into soft cho
colate butter cream, I’m reluctant to leave.
Poppy squeezes my arm as she sinks onto the bench. ‘It’s lovely to have you home, Hols. We’ve all been hoping we might tempt you into coming back here full time.’ By the time she drops that bombshell, she’s looking innocently out of the window. ‘To live, I mean.’
‘What, and leave London?’ If I sound shocked, it’s because a move back is in the wrong direction entirely. We spent all our time at school plotting how to get away. For Poppy, it was all about the lure of the bright lights. Whereas for me, I was desperate to get to a place where I could be anonymous. Where I wouldn’t always be the girl whose much more popular sister died.
She laughs. ‘I did it and I survived. It’s different when you get a bit older.’ From the way she bites her lip and looks guilty, she’s going to push it. ‘It isn’t as if London’s brilliant for you right now.’
I sigh and try to shut out that I just had the same fleeting thought. Then I make sure I get the right tone of bouncy. ‘I might be back in my old flat share, in a room the size of a shower cubicle. But I’m at the hub of the action. What’s not to like?’ The worst thing is that my social life dematerialised when Luc left. And a year on, it’s not looking up. All enrolling at woodwork classes and zumba did for me was give me splinters and a pulled hamstring. But coming back to live here isn’t an option. I try to sound jokey, yet firm. ‘Me moving in with the oldies and working in an ice- cream kiosk? That would go down a storm when my parents are doing their best to leave home themselves.’ So happily, it’s not a choice I’ll need to address.
Poppy leans towards me. ‘This is why we’ve all got our fingers crossed for you today, Hols. Strictly between us, now we’ve expanded, there are too many weddings at Daisy Hill for Jules to handle on his own.’
Originally Daisy Hill Farm held summer weddings in the fields, but they’ve now added in the main farmhouse and converted a barn. There are also the weddings at Bart’s Manor too. And it looks like I might have been completely set up here. As Poppy wiggles her eyebrows expectantly, my heart sinks.
I let out a sigh, because it’s all so impossible. ‘It’s really sweet of you to think of me.’ But leave London and become a wedding photographer? How the hell do I express that those are the two last things I’d do – in the world, ever – without sounding ungrateful? ‘I’ll do my best today. And get back to you on that one.’
‘There is another thing.’ The way Poppy’s screwing up her mouth tells me I may need to brace myself for bad news.
‘Yes?’ I’ve got no idea what’s coming, but it can’t be any worse than the last suggestion.
‘You’d be way more likely to find a new partner here than in London. Especially given who’s staying in the cottages.’ She wiggles her eyebrows madly.
What the hell is she hinting at? ‘Surely you can’t mean …?’
She grins. ‘Yes, I’m talking about Rory. Truly, once you get past the joking around he’s all heart, and way too nice to be on his own. You two always had the hots for each other. Twenty years on might be a good time to finally check that out?’
I let out a shriek. ‘We TOTALLY did not!’ However much I want to stamp on this, I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘hots’. ‘The guy drives me round the bend. If we were stranded on a desert island together, I swear I’d swim to get away from him. And you know how much I hate water.’
Poppy’s making no effort to hide her laughter as she looks down at her bump. ‘They don’t call me elephant memory just because I’m huge, you know. Deny it as much as you like, but I remember the way you two always had your heads together, back in the day. And he always looked out for you too. That time you got off your face on cider punch at Hannah Peveril’s birthday because you thought it was lemonade with colouring in, he was the one who insisted on walking you round until you sobered up, then driving you home.’
I stifle a shudder. ‘Trust you to rake that up. That night was so awful, it still makes me groan with embarrassment even now.’ And moving neatly on from Mr Sanderson … ‘My mum went ape about that, and Hannah’s dad never forgave me for throwing up all over his Gertrude Jekyll prize roses.’
But Poppy’s seen what I’ve done there and she’s not having it. ‘Better still, Rory delivered you home in one piece, without driving into any ditches or off any precipices. He might have been older, but he was wonderfully protective of you. Pretty besotted, if you ask me.’
I have to close this down. ‘Which I definitely didn’t.’ She’s sounding like she’s teasing, but we both know she’s not.
As her laughter fades, she gives me one of her stern stares. ‘You broke up with Luc almost a year ago now, though. It’s definitely time you moved on.’
‘That’s the problem, Pops. I haven’t even begun to think of myself as free.’ Saying it out loud now, I’m realising it’s totally true. My heart hasn’t actually let go yet. Although I’m not sure I can admit that to anyone.
Her smile is sympathetic. ‘What’s that old phrase? You’re still holding a candle for Luc, even though it’s over.’
My shrug is as noncommittal as I can make it. ‘Maybe.’ In truth it’s probably more like a bloody great beacon flare than a candle. Which is yet another reason why it’s best to push on here. ‘Anyway, I’d better get these cakes to Zoe. Before she spontaneously combusts. Or whatever it is brides do.’
If Poppy’s on the matchmaking warpath, I need to get the hell out of here. If I hang around with her in this mood, she’s so determined that I’m quite likely to get bumped into an arranged marriage before Zoe and Aidan even get to theirs. And if Poppy’s got Rory in her sights for me, all I can say is, her taste in other people’s men is appalling.
I hadn’t counted on bolting back down the yard so soon, or so fast. Although since I left the wedding venue a huge and fabulous winter wreath has appeared on the front door. The heavy twines of ivy and pale eucalyptus in a circle the size of a hoola hoop have me skidding to a halt on the flag path. How many ways are there to photograph a wreath this awesome? At least it takes my mind off Poppy’s shudderingly awful suggestion. It’s a perfect expression of winter against the warm sandstone, untinged by the negative overlay of Christmas. A broad hessian bow which trails to the floor. White frosted mistletoe berries against the dove grey paintwork. I admit I’m so lost in the prettiness of the moment I barely hear the car engine thrumming down the yard. And when I hear a shout, I jolt so hard I nearly drop my battery pack.
‘Holly Berry, what the hell? When did you join the paparazzi?’
Rory? I’ve been so busy worrying about being a wedding crasher and putting Poppy right, I’ve overlooked this particular pitfall in my day. And completely failed to have a contingency plan for it. Which is beyond stupid, given the guy’s staying in a holiday cottage barely a hundred yards away. I drag in a deep breath and repeat my mantra. Never rush. Take your time for that perfect shot.
‘Rory. And your beer-mobile. Great to see you too.’ I don’t need to look. Right now I can guarantee my cheeks are blazing red instead of deathly pale. ‘Haven’t you got some fizz to sell, or a brewery to go to?’
I don’t hang around to enjoy the moment my words hit his ears. Instead I fling open the front door, hurtle to the safety of the bustling venue interior and slam the door behind me. And even though the door is monumental, hand hewn from oak planks in the seventeen hundreds, when I lean my back against it, it’s still not thick enough to keep out the echo of Rory Sanderson’s laugh.
Chapter 7
Tuesday 5th December
At Daisy Hill Farm House: Miracles and bows
‘Awesome transformation or what?’ Lily’s beaming at me as I come back in from the hallway.
And it’s true. She and the catering team have been working miracles while I’ve been away. By the time I wind my way through the area where the wedding breakfast will be held, the tables have been laid with snowy linen cloths and decorated with an array of lanterns, with buckets of gypsophila, vintage lilac ro
ses and pheasant feathers, and hessian bows to match the outside wreath. Through the line of sash windows along one wall I can see across the garden, to where Kip and Rafe are walking across the back lawn. They’ve both swapped their jeans for dark suits. One note for fashion slaves, Rafe’s still wearing his Barbour too, for now. Although Poppy assured me earlier, it’s his best one. Definitely not the one he feeds the cows in then.
As I dip here and there clicking my shutter, the crystal ware and cutlery on the tables are sparkling in the light from the chandeliers above. Then I hurry through to the fabulous orangery, with its ancient black and white tiles and floor-to-ceiling windows, which is where the ceremony chairs are arranged. Each has its own hessian bow on the side, holding a bunch of gyp like a miniature snowstorm. There’s a fabulous grand piano in the room where the evening dancing will be, and that makes a lovely picture too. And for the sake of completion, I snap the Ladies, with its deep-blue painted walls and massive mirrors. Then I hurry along to the Dressing Room with my cake box, knock and tiptoe in.
I brace myself, then make the announcement. ‘I have cakes, ladies.’ I put down the box, and open the lid. ‘Obviously I need pictures first.’ Although, to be honest, any view of swirly icing, topped with silver balls was knocked out of the park by the sight of four bridesmaids in their ice cream-coloured robes, wrestling the cakes out of the box straight afterwards. I take it from the long line of empty fizz bottles in front of the mirror, which I also snap, that they’ve been binge drinking. Which might explain the no-holding-back cupcake rush. Then I whoosh in and deliver a cupcake to Zoe.
‘Thanks for bringing those, Holly. How’s my messy up-do?’ She points to her hair and pauses for my admiring glance. ‘It’s the only relaxed bit of the whole day I got past my mum.’ So that explains the string quartet tuning up outside. Also ridiculously photogenic. Jules doesn’t know what he’s missing here. But in addition to a chamber orchestra for later? From where I’m standing, still very much on the outside of the wedding scene, it all sounds like over-kill.
