by Jane Linfoot
Sam swings her arms and there’s a grunt as she lets go of the flowers. Then the bouquet flies upwards towards the starry sky. In a split second it’s already soared way over Mrs K’s head. It’s a strange spectacle when you’re completely detached and disinterested. There’s a flurry of disappointed moans as out-stretched arms drop, and heads along the entire front row turn to watch. The bouquet rises, tracing an extraordinary arc through the air. If Sam had been a champion hammer thrower, it couldn’t be travelling any faster. It’s hurtling safely to our left, then at the last moment it veers off like some kind of guided missile. The next thing I know, there’s a thump in my solar plexus, and I’m looking down at a bloody bouquet in my stomach.
‘Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhh.’ Horrified doesn’t begin to cover it. I fend off the flowers, flapping my hands, as if I’m shooing away a dog. Bouncing them as if I’m playing beach volleyball. There’s the feeling that if I don’t actually grasp the bouquet, it doesn’t count. I stagger backwards, make a feeble two handed re-launch, and spin it to land on Jess’s chest.
‘For chrissakes, Lily …’ Jess snaps.
But it’s too late. She’s put two hands on it. So now it’s nothing to do with me – it’s hers.
Phew. For a moment, there I thought I might have to go through the whole damned wedding hell again. Talk about near misses.
‘There’s no denying, you did catch it.’ Jess is talking at me through gritted teeth. ‘Or more importantly, it chose you. It was really quite extraordinary the way it did that.’
‘Yeah right.’ I don’t give a damn, because she’s the one holding it now.
Her nostrils flare. ‘It’s only a bit of fun, Lily. It’s not real, you do know that?’ She runs a critical finger over the edge of a rose petal, reminding me she was the one who put it together this morning, although frankly it’s too dim to see much at all. ‘I’ll give it to Mrs K, she’ll be delighted with it.’
‘Great, good idea, whatever …’ My one step backwards, into the shadows, is meant to distance me. Metaphorically rather than physically. Like stepping over a line in the sand. Especially as the crowd is moving towards us en masse, all clamouring to see who got the bouquet.
One step, but it feels like I’ve stepped off the edge of the world. The grass isn’t there, and my foot plunges over one of those dratted pieces of timber edging. Platform heels are nothing like as stable as the name makes them sound. When I topple, it’s backwards, in a series of staggers. I’m preparing myself to end up flat on my back in a border, with everyone gawping at me. Bad enough, but I’ll have to handle it. Then something whacks me on the back of the calves, and tips me over. The toppling I was doing before is nothing compared to this. As I plummet into oblivion, instead of the thumping impact of my backbone on soil, there’s a huge splash.
‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh …’ Every bit of air leaves my lungs as I plunge into freezing liquid. Even my shriek dwindles to nothing. I’m not sure if my skin is burning hot or ice cold. What I am is wedged. Totally stuck. With my bum, head and body in sub-zero water and my knees hooked over some kind of wall.
Jess’s voice is a squawk. ‘Good heavens, Lily, Jules did mean real water. How could we miss an above-ground pond?’
‘Did someone call me?’ A second later, Jules’ telephoto lens is pointing down at me.
Spluttering through clenched teeth, I point at his camera. ‘Don’t you dare!’ Seeing a couple of open mouthed faces appearing, I let out a wail. ‘Don’t just stand there, get me out …’
Out of nowhere some broad shoulders are blocking the sky, and strong fingers close around my wrist. ‘Great attention-grabbing stunt you pulled there. But we’d better get you back on dry land.’
Just my luck to get an ironic one. Where was lovely Chas the fireman when I needed him? Although on second thoughts, as Immie’s spectacularly absent too, don’t answer that. There’s a sudden panic I’ll be too heavy for this guy to lift dry, let alone wet. But I needn’t have worried. One easy yank later, I’m upright, water sluicing down onto my shoes. Even if I’m giving mental groans at how an LK Bennett dry-clean-only suit will stand up to a soaking, the good news is that somehow my Kurt Geigers stayed out of the water.
Despite my convulsive gasps, and the dimness of the garden up-lighters, when I look up the eyes I meet are smoky grey. They’re also disarmingly familiar considering they belong to a stranger. From the way his lips are twitching there’s a laugh bursting to get out. And he’s right about the audience. Beyond the straggling curtain of my hair, I make out a circle of wedding guests, clapping.
As I scrape the pond weed out of my eyes, my other hand is still clasped in his.
‘We might as well get the introductions out of the way.’ He gives another tug on my hand, and lets his smile go. ‘I’m Kip Penryn. Happy to drag you out of the carp pond.’
Penryn. I’m half way to being dazzled by the charm of it all, when the filing system in my brain catches up, and my stomach sags. Then shrivels. Back in the day Penryn meant rough denim, hot skin, and more brothers you could comfortably count on one hand. A motherless hoard, who descended on their uncle’s second – or third – home every summer. They’d roar in to the big house, and disappear just as fast. Wildly unreliable, and between them they covered every kind of bad. Filed under ‘B’ for ‘best forgotten’. At least that explains my racing heartbeat. Sending female pulses soaring off the scale is programmed into the Penryn DNA.
I drag myself back to reality. ‘A carp pond? At the Goose and Duck? Aren’t carp huge? I could have been eaten.’ Bloody Alan Titchmarsh has a lot to answer for.
‘Probably only goldfish in there.’ He leans closer, examining the leaf he drags out of my hair. ‘And water lilies, by the looks of this.’ Now that super-smile of his has gone, he’s back to the kind of hollow cheeked chic we all know is best avoided.
‘So what are you doing here … Kip, is it?’ I’m ransacking my brain, trying to remember all the names. And work out if we’ve met before. That’s the other thing with Penryns. There’s no point backing off, you have to face them out.
‘Apart from rescuing drowning damsels?’ He gives another sardonic laugh. ‘I’m from the exclusive local wedding venue, Rose Hill Manor.’ Many more laughs like that could get annoying.
‘Right.’ Two out of ten for an answer that explains zilch. But the Manor’s where Sera-the-dress-designer’s sister got married at Christmas. They only have about two friends-and-family weddings a year there. Which is a bit of a strange thing to refer to, but whatever. There’s something about him that makes me push. ‘So how come you know Sam, whose wedding we’re at now?’
‘I don’t.’ His shrug is unrepentant. ‘I dropped in for supper at the pub, and had to settle for left over hog roast. That’s why it’s worth paying for an “exclusive use” wedding venue every time.’ He actually does the finger wiggle speech marks. And there’s that damned laugh again. ‘Exclusive use means you avoid random strangers like me looking for pasties and crashing your wedding party. As you’ve found out, it’s well worth paying for.’
What a disgusting attitude. As for him scoffing the hog roast, I’m so angry I’ve practically got steam coming out of my suit pockets. I’m opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish – or maybe a carp – because I’m in so much of a rage the words won’t come out. But then a knight in shining armour walks in to fill the gap with his smile.
I’m joking here, obviously. It’s Rafe’s friend who was waving at me earlier. Wearing a three-piece tweed and brogues, not chain mail. As he shoulders Kip out of the way, he’s whipped off his jacket. And he’s holding it out to me.
‘You’re shivering. Here, take this.’ His Cornish burr is soft after Kip’s clipped moneyed vowels. ‘We’d better get you inside.’
The jacket’s heavy as it wraps around me, but it immediately stops the wind. As for my knight, he’s all boy-next-door, and close up his smile is even easier than it was from across the room. Which is way less disconcerting than the P
enryn high-wattage version.
‘Here, take these …’
If I’d actually got around to shutting my mouth, I needn’t have bothered. The next moment, he’s handing me his waistcoat, and what the hell …? He’s pulled his shirt off over his head, and he’s handing me that too. I try to make my eyes less wide. Close them even. Not that I’m an expert, but as torsos go, this one’s ripped.
‘If you wanted a stripper, you only had to say …’ It’s Kip, laughing in my ear, before backing off across the grass. ‘Catch you later, Water Lily.’
What? I stamp on the shiver that rattles through me. The name thing has to be a coincidence. He can’t know me.
‘He’s right, we should go inside.’ It’s Jess, her hand on my arm. ‘Fabulous apps though.’ She’s not wrong. Apart from the obvious.
‘Abs, not apps.’ However many times I say it, it doesn’t go in. ‘Apps are on your phone, Jess, abs are …’ I stop short of drawing any more attention to what’s right in front of our noses. Despite the over-powering smell of wet pond, the scent coming up from the jacket wrapped around me is a lot like Jules. Only considerably more subtle.
Jess is steering me back towards the pub. ‘We’ll dry you off, and get a taxi back to town.’
But Rafe’s bare chested friend is on our heels, protesting. ‘You can’t leave now. There’s clearly enough clothes here for both of us.’
When I run my fingers through my sopping hair, it’s a mass of straggly curls. Worst case scenario. ‘I don’t know.’ What’s more, as we come back into the brightness of the pub, the only visible patch of my silk top is completely transparent.
There’s another waft of Jules’ scent, as Rafe’s bare-chested friend leans in close enough to nudge my elbow. ‘We all saw you looking gorgeous before. That’s what I’ll remember when I see the damp version.’
Excuse me while I faint. I can’t remember when anyone last paid me this kind of compliment. Although to be honest, I usually manage to fight off attention before it gets to the point of people saying nice stuff to me. Even Jules knows to keep his distance – or else – and he’s very huggy. Has someone sprinkled fairy dust on me? Is this the bouquet effect? Should I be shouting jeez, I’m not marrying anyone? And then it dawns on me. All that’s happened is I let my guard down. Who wouldn’t when they were dripping wet and had just been hauled out of a garden pond? So there’s no need to panic here. I mean, I really wasn’t the one who caught the bouquet anyway. If anyone needs to watch out here it’s Jess.
‘So what do you think? Stay and party or back to town for cocoa and an early night?’ Jess’s eyebrows are raised expectantly.
We both know she’s bluffing about going to bed. It would be a quick shower for me, then Jaggers until dawn. Jaggers, for those who aren’t local, is a cocktail bar in St Aidan, with red perspex tables, a teenage clientele, and a penchant for Sex on the Beach happy hours. And if it’s a choice between that or this, even if it means letting my wavy hair out in public, there’s only one way to go.
Which is how I come to spend the rest of the Sams’ wedding in the landlady’s Pilates leggings. Wearing an oversized white shirt that smells of algae and photographer, with a tie for a belt. Talking to a farmer wearing only a waistcoat over a bare chest. Who reminds me his name is Fred.
Chapter 3
Wednesday, 15th February
At Brides by the Sea: Beginning with flowers
‘Great, now we can get down to proper business.’ Jess puts down her coffee, and pulls up a chair at her table in the corner of the White Room.
Considering how late it was when we got back to St Aidan last night, we were up and out startlingly early. I swear I was still comatose as we hit the bakery and the dry cleaners. Not that there was anything dry about my poor suit as I handed it over. The assistant at Iron Maidens promised they’d do what they could. But given her groan as she peered at the sodden fabric in the Tesco bag, I’m not hopeful.
‘Right.’ As I stare at the stack of pastries towering next to the appointments book my stomach wilts. ‘Actually, I might save the pain au raisin for later, thanks.’ I have no idea how Jess is dashing around with so much enthusiasm, when I’ve barely woken up. Although now I come to think about it, her stamina is legendary. At parties and in the workplace, she’s always the last woman standing.
She runs her fingers through her hair. ‘When I said working breakfast, I wasn’t talking toast, Lily. I want to discuss your job. The one that’s disappearing in the company takeover?’
My mouth drops open. Was I talking in my sleep? That would be the lost job I didn’t mention to anyone at all last night. The one I’m not even thinking about. ‘You know?’
From the way Jess is pursing her lips and clenching her fists, she’s building up to something. ‘News travels fast in the business community. And I assume your accommodation’s going with it?’
Ouch. No messing. Straight for the jugular.
My mouth is so dry, my voice is a croak. ‘I’ve got two weeks to get out. But I get to keep the car.’ One tiny compensation in the whole mess of my imploding life. That’s the worst part of a live-in job. When they offered me a room in the staff quarters after Thom and I split up, I didn’t think it through to the point of takeovers, years down the line. I let out a long sigh, because although I’d meant to keep this secret, it’s a relief that Jess knows.
Jess narrows her eyes. ‘Did you enjoy the work?’
The question catches me unawares. Being fully responsible for a team, putting fresh flowers in every room in ten boutique hotels was a niche job. It began with flowers for the tables in one restaurant, expanded into front of house and bedrooms, and went exponential as they bought more properties. I’m unlikely to find another job like it. Certainly not in two weeks. But by the end, the job was so large, my assistants were the ones who got to do the fun parts, while I chewed my knuckles into the small hours, over orders and budgets.
‘The work was fine. Except I haven’t actually touched a flower for ages.’ Now I stop to think about it, I miss that. Without realising it, I’d given up the part of the job I loved most. The reason I first came to work with Jess was because I was crazy about flowers, and Jess’s tiny shop window showcased the most amazing bridal bouquets. Believe it or not, Brides by the Sea began as Jess selling flowers in one room before it expanded to four floors of loveliness. Every other flower shop I’d seen in Cornwall back then had the same old same old. And the florists where I found a job straight out of college were so old fashioned, the owner made me serve, while she took care of arrangement orders. Doing flowers for Jess was my dream job. And because she pushed me, and the shop expanded so fast, I learned so much about the whole wedding business along the way too.
Jess draws in a breath. ‘How would you feel about coming back to Brides by the Sea?’
I’m so surprised for a second I don’t reply. ‘To do what? You’ve already got all the florists you need.’ There’s a crack team, who work out of the lower ground floor of the shop.
She gives a knowing nod. ‘I’m thinking so much more for you than just flowers, this time, Lily. It’s going to be a super career move. I want you to grow the styling side of the business for us.’
‘Styling?’ It comes out like an echo.
Jess’s eyes are glistening with excitement. ‘Whereas planners deal with the nitty gritty bits of weddings, the stylists do the pretty parts. They’re the interior designers of the wedding world.’ She counts off her fingers. ‘Colours, decor, flowers, invitations, furnishings, the setting. A stylist will perfectly tailor the look of the wedding for each individual couple.’
I nod. ‘I know what you mean. Stylists, as used by celebrities and footballers’ wives, and seen in Hello magazine.’ Surely there can’t be enough of those in Cornwall to support a full-time position.
Jess’s face breaks into a smile. ‘That used to be the case. But not many couples today settle for a bunch of flowers at a local hotel, like you did. Stylists are a crucial part of
a lot of weddings now, and Brides by the Sea needs to keep up.’ Her significant stare flags up that Thom and I tied the knot long before the word tipi made it into the urban dictionary. ‘These days every couple wants a wedding that’s totally unique to them, that their friends and family will remember forever. Making that happen is a whole new growth area.’ Those last two words will be the key to Jess’s enthusiasm.
‘But where do I come in?’
Her eyes narrow. ‘A handful of brides are creative enough to know what they want, design their own wedding backdrop, and source every item to make their day spectacularly special. But most newly engaged brides won’t know their favours from their fairy lights, and even if they do, they won’t have time to organise everything. Which is where they’ll turn to you to pull everything together. You might be involved a little or a lot, the budget might be tiny or huge. But basically you’ll be here to guide brides towards choosing the right dreams for them. And then you’ll make them come true.’
‘I will?’ My eyes are growing wider with every question.
As she rubs her hands, she’s almost purring. ‘We’ll begin simply, by sourcing lovely items brides might like to buy or hire to accessorise and personalise their weddings. Then we’ll move on to creating a gorgeous department couples can visit for inspiration and guidance.’ She’s making it sound almost possible.
‘Right.’ I’m gnawing at the gel coat on my nail.
Her beam is widening. ‘It’s win win. We’ll be helping people get the polished events they want, without necessarily spending any more. You’ll get to design the flowers, and so much more too. And we’ll offer a set up, and tidy away option. You wait, we’ll have a fully-fledged wedding styling service up and running faster than you can say bunting and bouquets.’
That sends my voice high with panic. ‘I’ll be fine with the flower part. But what about the rest?’
