Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop

by Jane Linfoot

  ‘I’m fine with the edible ones.’ Let’s face it, given my day job, those should sparkle. ‘The rest, not so much.’

  Jess’s brow furrows. ‘Jules thinks you made your brides comfortable because you were a woman. But from the feedback I’ve had, it’s about you being able to reach out and connect with people. That shines through in your work too.’

  I let out a groan. ‘Feedback?’ It sounds like Trip Advisor.

  Jess gives a mysterious flutter of her eyelashes. ‘Believe me, when brides have fabulous days, they tell me. And between us, Jules wouldn’t be sending you hand-tied arrangements if he wasn’t delighted with you.’ She nods at the bunch of roses and frosted berries on the desk that were delivered to me yesterday. All the way from the flower department in the basement. ‘And it’s all great experience for your beach wedding. By the way, how’s that going to work with the wind?’

  My gulp’s so huge it sounds like it came from Gollum. I wasn’t expecting to leap from Interflora to my most dreaded day ever. As if an outdoor wedding isn’t bad enough. With Luc turning up on the same day, my heart feels like it’s being freeze dried in my chest. Let’s face it, though, if Marilyn can stride back into the wedding in a new hat, after getting bashed on the head by a drone, I can pick myself up here. I make sure my tone is suitably airy.

  ‘Wind’s what the beach is all about for Nate and Becky. Extreme surfers like a stiff breeze.’ From my porthole window in the bedroom this morning, the sea was slate gray with waves as high as mountains. When Jules’s thank you card got whooshed off the windowsill in the draught from the closed window, I missed the significance. If I hadn’t been obsessing about Luc, I’d have thought about tomorrow’s wedding.

  Jess shakes her head. ‘You do know it’s gale force out there? Our pilot said the wind was so strong, our plane almost ended up back in Switzerland.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Although this does mean your very own Luc will be winging his way across the Atlantic to you faster than ever.’ She lets out a low laugh. ‘I’m Luc, and I’m coming to get you …’

  As a bit of sick comes up into my mouth, I’m wishing I hadn’t had the seventh maple syrup pancake for breakfast. ‘It’s definitely not like that.’ There’s no need to ask how she knows he’s coming. When she hasn’t been busy with proposal outings, she’s been on the phone to anyone and everyone in St Aidan. She’s probably more tuned into the local grapevine than when she’s here at the shop.

  Jess beams and peers out beyond the fairy lights and glittery ivy that are trailing across the window. ‘Well, here’s someone who might put a different slant on Luc’s wedding appearance.’

  I’m so busy sticking my chin in the air, maintaining my position, I don’t get around to glancing at the window. ‘Poppy, Immie, Lily, Rafe and Rory are all very clear where I stand on this.’ I know my dreams are a bit of a giveaway. But I’m confident that apart from that one wobble with Poppy, my public face has been consistent. It’s bad enough Luc turning up, without everyone witnessing me falling flat on my face when he ignores me. Sadly my programme of personal upgrading hasn’t got beyond buffing my nails. And with so much wedding stress, my carb boycott lasted approximately five seconds. I’ve got the whole of this evening to dedicate to beautification. But as yet I have no idea what I’m going to achieve, or how.

  Jess looks puzzled. ‘What has Poppy got to do with anything? It’s Becky who’s waving at us from the Mews.’

  ‘Becky?’ When I finally swizzle my eyes past the Christmas display, the wild arm movements I catch as she heads for the door look like someone who’s drowning rather than waving.

  As I hurry out into the hallway, she’s already by the Christmas tree, so I go in for my hug and two kisses. ‘Lovely to see you. Is everything okay, Becks?’ As our cheeks squeeze together, the soaking I get has to be tears rather than sea.

  If nothing else, the last two and a half weeks in the wedding shop have sharpened my disaster- management skills. Arriving three hours early, when she’s supposed to be out sorting the marquee? Looking like she just surfed through a tidal wave, when she’s not even wearing her wet suit? My bride-in-distress alarm bells couldn’t be clanging any louder, so I’m keeping it positive here as I drag her into the White Room. ‘Sit down. Shall I get you some gin?’ I’m racking my brains to remember if there’s any cake left in the tins.

  Jess steers her onto the chaise. ‘Or you could try some schnapps? Raspberry, peach or chocolate? I’ve got miniatures in my bag. They’re great for resuscitating lost mountaineers.’

  Becky gives a groan. ‘I’m sorry. But alcohol’s not going to help here.’ For a woman who regularly braves the high seas, her voice is small and very pathetic. ‘Our wedding just got blown away.’

  ‘Crap.’ Way too major for a cupcake diversion, then. ‘What the hell happened?’

  She’s whimpering into the sleeve of her Pray for Surf hoodie. ‘We were at our spot down the coast, and the guys left off building the main tent, because the coastguard came to close the beach. And while they were talking, the whole marquee just took off over the sea.’ As she shakes her head her eyes are wide with disbelief. ‘All that’s left of our venue is a few broken poles. And the caterers think their vintage van will end up in the water. So they’re pulling out too.’

  There’s one tiny blissful moment when it feels like the day I’ve been dreading for the last week is about to melt away. But one look at Becky’s anguished face makes me forget that. ‘Okay, let’s look on the bright side. Your ceremony’s at the Town Hall, so that part’s still good.’

  Her nod escalates into a wail. ‘The guys have gone off to look for the canvas, but even if they find it, it’s hopeless. How did we ever think a beach wedding with camping would work at Christmas?’

  There’s no point admitting I’ve asked myself the same thing. For me, even sleeping in a tent in summer stretches my comfort envelope. Why anyone would want to do it in winter is beyond me. Add in a wedding, and I can’t get my head around it at all. ‘I know it’s all about the sea, Becks. But given the – er – gale difficulties, would you think about moving to a more sheltered location? Somewhere further inland?’ As Jess and I exchange glances, it’s obvious we’re thinking of the same place.

  Becky’s head shoots up. ‘You know somewhere that’s available at such short notice?’

  I’m treading carefully. ‘Daisy Hill Farm, where your parents are staying, has a barn, which I know is still set up from a very relaxed ski wedding on Monday. If you don’t mind that it’s not at the beach, we could ask about using that?’

  I’m expecting reservations. So when she almost knocks me over hugging me I’m not ready for her.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

  The only good thing about ending up in a heap halfway along the hall floor, is the view of the Jimmy Choos on the bottom shelf of the shoe cabinet. I’m lying having a quiet swoon at the silver strappy sandals when a close up of Jess’s furry snow boot brings me back to earth.

  Jess is beaming down at us. ‘Surfing and snowboarding are highly interchangeable. They’re both about hanging loose.’ She sounds like she’s the expert on both now. ‘Great work, Holly, you handled that like a true pro. In that case there’s no time to lose. I’ll ring Poppy right away.’

  As I see the smile of relief spreading across Becky’s face, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Jess hesitates as she turns to leave. ‘Just one other thing. While you’re down there, Becky, do settle the argument. Luc is coming back to see Holly, isn’t he?’

  Becky grins across at me. ‘Of course he is. Everyone knows that. Why else would he be coming?’

  For what it’s worth, if she’d said that before, I might have been less keen to resurrect her wedding party.

  Chapter 34

  Friday 22nd December

  The Barn at Daisy Hill Farm: My worst day ever

  The Snow Surf Board Wedding

  The funny thing about dreading something is, it rarely plays out the way it has in your head
. At any time in the last week I’d have billed this as the worst day of my life this decade, but it begins with Rory popping in to make his second breakfast, and my first. And I have to admit, smoked salmon and scrambled egg on wholemeal bagels is a great start to any day. Even if he is still making rude remarks about my jim-jams and calling me Champs-Élysées Holly across the little kitchen table, at least it distracts me. Because every time I remember I’ll be seeing Luc in barely two hours’ time, I shudder so hard I almost drop my coffee cup.

  The good news is that as soon as Kip and Rafe gave the go-ahead yesterday, Nate and Becky and their gang transferred their wedding operation seamlessly from the shore to the barn. The immediate clearing up after Monday’s wedding had been done, but most of the bigger props were still there to use. So the surfies moved in to festoon the walls with hanging wet suits and surfer t-shirts. The Christmas tree had a whole load of surfboard leashes added, to give a beachy twist to the festive cheer. With surfboards propped up against it, the plank bar was soon looking more surf shack than mountain hideaway. Everyone was so enthusiastic and supportive, that if there had been any more time, I’m sure Rafe would have gone out on his tractor and brought in a beach, like the ones you see in parks in the summer. And once the Gone Surfing signs and posters for Endless Summer and Beach Parties were in place, the transformation was complete.

  Immie’s found room in the holiday cottages for most of the wedding party, who should have been staying by the beach. A few of the die-hard guests are still pitching low tents in the field behind the wedding barn, sheltered in the lee of the hill. As for the more upmarket guests like Luc, who’ve booked into the lovely and rather swanky Harbourside Hotel in St Aidan. Well, all they’ll have to tweak is their taxi bookings.

  As we set off for the farm after breakfast and bump through the lanes to Rose Hill village, the beer-mobile is being buffeted by the gusts from the gale. Because Nate and Becky were never expecting the full ‘Jules photographic’ works, Rory skips his groomsmen visit and looks in on Gracie and Teddie instead. And I go and take all the girlie pics with Becky, who, unusually for a bride, is already looking relaxed rather than nervous.

  As I come back in after photographing her posy of sea holly and dusky blue anemones, she flings her arms around my neck. ‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for saving our wedding, Hols.’ For the first time this morning she’s teary rather than laughing. ‘I’ll definitely be sprinkling my own special cupid dust on you and Luc later. But if there’s anything else I can ever do for you, you only have to say.’

  It really isn’t like me to take people up on their offers. But her make-up looks stunning and her bestie bridesmaid who did it is all ready and sitting with nothing left to do. I peer into a make-up box that’s bursting with cosmetics. ‘If you really mean that, I’d love a bit of lippy?’ Not that I’d usually bother. But seeing I downed tools and came to help here yesterday, the only personal make- over I had time for was couple of coats of black nail varnish.

  Becky’s back to beaming. ‘We can do much better than a smudge of lippy. That’s the beauty of having a bridesmaid who works on the Benefit counter.’ She turns to the girl by the make-up, who’s already put on her bridesmaid’s H&M tropical-print maxi dress. ‘Bride’s request, please Carmel. Make Holly especially lovely. Whatever it takes, she’s not going to end the day single.’

  I love Becky. Seriously, though, I wish she wouldn’t do those winks. But after Carmel’s done her stuff, I do feel totally up for whatever’s going to be thrown at me.

  The rest of the morning is as frantic as any wedding, with the added complication of zooming to a very blustery St Aidan for the ceremony. Running across the Town Hall car park, the wind is so strong it’s practically tearing the dresses off the bridesmaids, which in the end leads to some pretty amazing pictures. Not many couples will have wedding albums that look as if they got married in a wind tunnel. And it’s so lucky that Becky chose a little boho cotton dress from Topshop. If she’d had pouffy petticoats, I think she might well have taken off.

  As we go up the wide steps between the tall columns of the Town Hall portico, the hotel guests file in to join us. Despite choosing upmarket accommodation, they’re mostly embracing the casual dress code, wearing shorts and hoodies. A lot of these people are Luc’s friends too, but I’m really not prepared for so many enthusiastic hugs and waves. This is the point where I’m literally having kittens. Forget any wedding-stress shutter quake, this is purely down to the thought of bumping into Luc. I’m desperately scanning the horizon, so he doesn’t creep up on me unexpectedly. Then just when I feel like I might explode with the toxic mix of fear and anticipation, Nate comes across to where I’m fiddling with my lens cap.

  He’s looking completely fab in his boarding shorts and Hawaiian shirt, as he leans in to my ear. ‘Just to tell you, Luc’s been delayed for a couple of hours. At least.’

  ‘Phew to that.’ I almost drop my camera with the relief.

  The first bars of the Beach Boys’ Good Vibrations are playing, but he beckons me back. ‘Don’t worry, Hols, he’ll definitely be here at some stage. You two are meant to be together.’

  ‘Great.’ As I give him a thumbs-up, I’m meaning anything but. ‘Good luck, anyway.’

  That’s my cue to relax and enjoy what I’m doing. There’s a short ceremony, where Nate and Becky look every bit as happy and fabulous as they deserve. Unsurprisingly their promises are full of watery jokes about falling off surfboards. Then we brave the wind and snatch a few shots of everyone with the bay in the background.

  As I shout at Rory across the bonnet of the beer-mobile as we run back to the car, my leopard jacket is almost getting carried out to sea and taking me with it. ‘I’m truly embracing the moment here, Rory Waves.’ And bizarre as it seems, I’m almost sad that I’m doing all these moves for the last time.

  ‘Me too.’ He’s laughing as he yells back at me.

  Somewhere down the line, he must have applied a double dose of Diesel when he was back at Home Brew Cottage, because for a second all I want to do is see how it feels to rub his face. But I slap myself back into line. I crush my fingers so hard under my legs that by the time we get back to Daisy Hill Farm, they’re numb. But at least I reckon I’m back in control again.

  In tune with the surfie aura, the rest of the day is pretty much a free-for-all party, but Rory and I still work our socks off. After hours of dodging shadows, I’m pretty confident that Luc’s a no- show. It’s the kind of anticlimax that undoes the knots in my stomach one by one, then leaves me feeling like a popped balloon. By half past nine, I’m also confident I’ve caught every move a surfer can make to every Beach Boys track and Christmas song in the world.

  When Rory comes over, I wave my camera at him. ‘I think that’s a wrap. Everything okay at the cottage?’ While I was capturing the disco jive, he’s been back home.

  For a second he looks doubtful. ‘Erin could be better.’ He phones the hospital every evening, but he usually spares us the details, then changes the subject, exactly as he’s doing now. His eyes light up again. ‘They’ve just cranked up the snow machine outside. It might be worth a last look.’ This is how he’s been all day. Steering me round to the action.

  I pick up my coat and we weave our way through the bales towards the door. ‘A few quick shots and then we’ll go.’ Despite the lure of snow against starlight, I’m factoring in my lift into town. ‘You need to get back to take over from Immie at the cottage.’ At this rate it’ll be after midnight.

  Half an hour later, I’ve got more blizzard-in-the-dark shots than any bride could wish for. We’re working our way back into the barn when it suddenly hits me. ‘Rory, why are you wearing my hat?’

  He’s grinning down as he holds the door open for me. ‘No, you’re wearing your hat. This is a matching one I bought yesterday.’ He has the decency to look slightly shamefaced.

  I pat my head and, sure enough, my hat’s there. ‘Thanks for pointing that out.’ As I no
tice his guilty shadow flashing across his face, I know I need to push more. ‘And why would you do that?’

  His smile is unrepentant. ‘Corporate identity?’ He knows I’m not buying that one. ‘Okay, I give in. There’s no better wind-up for Luc than us wearing matching hats.’

  ‘What?’ My voice is deep with horror. I can’t decide if I should be appalled, or very appalled.

  He’s looking exceptionally proud of himself. ‘Distracting the opposition’s a well-known sporting tactic. Seriously, you need all the help you can get with prick-head. You’re dealing with someone who doesn’t necessarily have your best interests at heart.’

  I’m within a whisker of saying, ‘And you do?’ But I’m really not going to go there.

  His eyebrows knit into a frown. ‘Did you once say he looked like the guy out of What Happens in Vegas? It’s just that I met a dead ringer for Ashton Kutcher going into the toilets earlier. Complete with American twang too. There can’t be many of those in Rose Hill.’

  The rope in my stomach snaps tight as a tourniquet. ‘You mean he’s here and you didn’t tell me?’ My voice is a squeak because I’m so indignant.

  Rory’s unconcerned. ‘It’s fine, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’

  I’m about to ask what the hell he thinks he’s playing at, when I feel a tap on my shoulder on the opposite side from Rory. At first I ignore it, thinking it’s Rory messing about. The fourth time it happens, I turn around and the face I’m staring into is familiar and strange all at the same time. I’d know that solid jaw and those deep-set eyes anywhere. It’s the smooth-shaven chin that’s throwing me.

  ‘Luc? You came after all?’ My throat’s so dry, it comes out as a croak. If I’m trying to sound attractive and alluring, I stuffed that up straight away. As for my insides, they seem to have disappeared entirely.