by Jane Linfoot
‘Tea?’ I squirm away from his arm. Then as his warmth ebbs away, part of me wishes I hadn’t.
He grins. ‘Catch up, slow coach. Isn’t that where we’re heading?’
He has to be joking. The way my insides feel right now, I may never eat again.
Chapter 22
Tuesday, 25th April
In the attic kitchen at Brides by the Sea: Iced gems and other sprinkles
I might be flat out pulling together the flowers and the props for the short notice wedding at the Manor that’s only a week away now, but some appointments can’t be shuffled. Two days after my trip to Rock Quay, Immie’s finally coming to try on dresses this morning, and Poppy and I agree this is happening, regardless. And this time we’re filling our stomachs before we hit the showroom. Which is why Immie and Poppy are sitting at the tiny table in the attic kitchen, watching me as I conjure up breakfast. I’m peeping out of my porthole window, watching the cloud shadows move across the deep green sea. As I wait for my phone timer to buzz, I can see the people along the shoreline are wrapped up against the chill of the early morning.
‘Croissants and pain au chocolat don’t come any hotter than straight from the oven,’ I say as my handset vibrates across the work surface. Okay, I come clean, I got the dough out of a packet, but we can’t all cook like Poppy. ‘And here’s your hot chocolate.’ The milk in the two tall mugs I slide across to them has been frothed within an inch of its life.
‘Phwoar, squirty cream.’ Immie seizes the can and squeezes caterpillars on every finger, then sucks them in turn. Which is great. After our last trying on session, lining her stomach in advance of this one is a great move.
‘We’ve got all the fave toppings, plus Baileys, marshmallow fluff, coffee ice cream, and mini chocolate donuts.’ I drop them onto the table, along with some spoons. ‘Dig in.’
‘Bliss.’ Poppy sighs, as she zig zags golden dribbles of salted caramel on top of her whipped cream, and sprinkles on some grated dark chocolate. ‘For once it’s lovely to have breakfast without the noise of builders banging up and down the yard.’
I pull up a stool and wave my croissant in the air to cool it. ‘How’s the barn work coming on Pops?’ I deliberately don’t mention Fred, but I still throw ten times more marshmallows into my hot chocolate than I mean to.
‘You know the thing about it getting worse before it gets better?’ Poppy pulls a face. ‘That. And talking of Fred, is Barbara really serious about buying that penthouse of his?’
Damn. How did we get onto him? ‘When I asked her she went horribly quiet, so I’m still no wiser.’ I let out a long sigh. ‘What is she doing marrying a jerk like David? I keep hoping she’ll come to her senses.’
Immie frowns. ‘Love literally does make people blind. It’s the chemicals in the brain giving you time to build a family unit before reality catches up.’ She’s giving us the benefit of her part time psychology degree here. ‘Give her eighteen months, then she’ll see he’s a prize dickhead.’
My heart slides down as far as the toes of my sensible black pumps as I groan. ‘But the wedding’s in four.’
Immie blows out her cheeks. ‘Sorry Lils, being sensible by September is a physical impossibility for your mum.’ As if to prove the futility, she goes back to the donuts.
Poppy’s pursing her lips. ‘Cheer me up, Lily, tell me about your short-notice wedding instead.’
I dunk my croissant, and take a bite. As I chew, I try to wipe David and his spray-on jeans out of my brain. By the time I swallow, his Levis are barely a shadow on my mind’s eye retina. ‘The bride’s called Vee, short for Viola, and she’s marrying a gorgeous Spanish guy called Salvador. They’re having a small ceremony at the Manor, then everyone’s flying on to Madrid for the main party. And she’s taking her name as the theme.’ Not all brides will be as easy as Vee. But I’ve been amazed at how we’ve got so far fast-tracking with phone calls and emails.
Poppy’s talking excitedly through a mouthful of pain au chocolat. ‘Violas are so pretty.’
‘Vee wants to keep things natural. She’s having box planters for the tables with herbs, and violas and pansies. And tall pots by the entrance, with tumbling violas and daisies. And a posy of pansies rather than a bouquet.’ I send Immie a wink. ‘Best of all she’s having an extra large donut table. Scattered with pansy flowers, obviously.’
‘Talking of which …’ Immie scoops up another handful of mini donuts, and uses them to scrape up her cream. ‘Try one Pops, they’re delish.’
Poppy takes one from Immie. ‘Well done for nailing it, Lily. You’ve pulled something completely unique and fabulous together here. We all knew you’d be a natural at styling weddings.’
Now we’ve started, I can’t hold in my excitement. ‘She’s ordered lots of the signs I’ve had made up too. And she chose the dressing table I bought in for her cake display, along with some initials with light bulbs in.’
Immie’s eating marshmallow fluff straight from the spoon. ‘Yay! Light up initials? Chas and I must have those. What signs did she choose?’ She moves back to her pain au chocolat.
I know this without thinking. ‘And they lived happily ever after, So I can kiss you any time I want? and Te adoro, which is I adore you, in Spanish.’
‘How romantic.’ Poppy’s gone all dreamy, but I’m not sure if it’s down to the Spanish, or the Baileys slug. ‘Sounds like the work’s being done just in time.’
I’m confused. ‘What work?’
Poppy’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘The builders in the basement next to the flower prep area. That has to be for you. Let’s face it, when did Jess ever hold back on what she wants?’
I chew my thumb nail and wish I’d taken more notice. ‘No, they were definitely only jet washing the yard.’ My chest tightens so much, my voice turns to a squeak. ‘Weren’t they?’
Poppy laughs as she pops the last piece of pain au chocolat into her mouth. ‘Keep your petticoat on, Lily. If Jess has got plans for you, we all know there’s no point fighting her. And we’re all here to help.’ She scoops the froth out of the bottom of her cup. ‘Meanwhile, on to the job in hand. We’ve sorted some key dresses for you to try Immie, whenever you’re ready.’
I get that Poppy’s using distraction tactics, but it’s moved me on like a dream. There’s no point panicking about a rumour with no foundation whatsoever. So on to today’s strategy, we’ve made a shortlist from Immie’s very, very, long longlist. And we’ll take it from there.
Immie leans back on her chair, and rubs her stomach. ‘One more croissant, and I might be ready.’
‘Only one?’ As I grin at Immie and grab another myself, my phone beeps, and as I pick it up I can’t help smiling. ‘It’s only Nicole, she insists on tagging me in all her Instagram posts.’
Immie shoots upright. ‘She’s on Instagram?’
‘With bits of wedding news, that’s all.’ Given it’s several times an hour, I’ll play it down.
A second later, the stools are flying as Immie bolts around the table, and grabs my arm. ‘@TheFutureMrsForeverDiamonds? What kind of a ponced-up up-her-arse name is that?’ Her nose is two inches away from my screen. ‘Where’s her pictures?’
As I send Poppy a wild-eyed plea, the question of client confidentiality is racing through my head. ‘I’m not sure … what do you think, Poppy?’
Poppy bites her lip as she gets out her own phone. ‘Nothing interesting. Currently a thousand options for napkins.’ She flicks through a few pictures. ‘Lily’s tagged because she’s Nicole’s stylist.’
‘Pass it over.’ Immie grasps Poppy’s phone, pours over it, then flings it back a few seconds later. ‘Right, Lily. You’re hired.’ Immie’s jaw couldn’t be more rigid if she were a Staffy whose teeth were locked onto a bone.
‘To do what?’ From the expression on her face she might be looking for a hit woman.
‘Style the wedding for Chas and me.’ She’s blowing out her upper lip as if she’s playing the trumpet, prodding the a
ir with her finger. ‘And to set me up on Instagram. Like, now this minute.’
‘Fine.’ I say, blithely, because I’m not sure I’d risk doing anything other than agree with Immie in this mood. ‘Pass me your phone. What name would you like then?’
Poppy chimes in. ‘The eBay person who bought my wedding dress was called Glitter-knickers. If that’s any help?’
‘Not a lot.’ Immie sniffs. ‘This is Instagram, I don’t want to attract a load of pervs.’
‘Very true.’ I say the next thing that comes into my head. ‘A wing and a song?’
Immie rounds on me. ‘Hell Lily, I’ve heard better wimp farts. Good thing I’ve hired you for your styling not your snappy handles.’ She stops to sniff. ‘I want something spangly. Bright, but not diamonds. With a ton of irony.’
Poppy laughs. ‘Off the top of my head, sequins … sparkling … rubies …?’
Shucks. I’m being employed for this. ‘Er … sparkling … gems … Bride-to-be …?’
Immie scratches her head. ‘I’m liking sparkle. But it needs to sound way bigger than Nicole’s if I’m going to wipe the floor with her.’
This is what we’re doing here? How did I miss that before? I rack my brain for huge words. ‘Mahoosive … humungous … whopping … monstrous sparkle …’
‘Monster sparkle. That’s it! And this is why a stylist’s worth her weight, every time.’ Immie punches the air. ‘Fucking brilliant, Lily. Or even better @SparkleMonsterBridetobe. Suits me down to the ground.’ She’s the one who said it.
‘Woohoo, go Instagram Immie,’ I shout. ‘We’ll take lots of photos while you’re here, and you can post them later.’
Poppy’s grinning. ‘Breakfast before shopping for your dress is a great place to begin.’ Although given the crumbs and chocolate rings, it’s hardly going to be super-aspirational.
The stylist in me is frantically dabbing the table with kitchen roll. ‘Shouldn’t we clear up? Or prettify?’
Immie grabs a mug with one hand, and waves a croissant in the other. ‘Bollocks to that, stick some squirty cream on this, and we’re good to go.’
Double chins? No problem. Turning sideways to get her best side? Not worried. If I said muffin tops, I suspect Immie would salivate rather than grab her hips.
Poppy’s dashing round the kitchen as much as you can when it’s only five feet wide, waving Immie’s phone at all angles, snapping away. ‘Got you.’
We lean in, and pour over results that are less than flattering. Fifty takes of Immie, grinning behind a breakfast that looks like it was hit by a hurricane and a cream storm. ‘Do you want to go again, Immie?’
‘Hell no.’ Immie laughs, as she grabs her phone. ‘They’re a hundred times more interesting than Nicole simpering over a bloody napkin ring.’
I feel I have to point it out. ‘Instagram’s about making everything look extra fabulous and upmarket. Smoke and mirrors, filters and faking it. That kind of thing.’
‘Stuff that, I’m staying real.’ Immie’s staring from me to her phone, like I’ve lost my mind. ‘Right, tell me some hash tags.’
‘Try #weddings, #bridetobe, #bridesofinstagram, #weddingstyle –’ I have to say that one.
‘All done.’ Immie grins. ‘So what happens now?’
Poppy’s glance is apprehensive. ‘People who like your posts will start to follow you. Nicole’s already got forty people following her.’
At a guess, they’ll only be her mates from the singles club. With Immie as competitive as she is, I’m not sure I’d have advertised that, but it’s too late.
Immie looks aghast. ‘Holy crap. Forty’s a shitload.’ She knocks back the last of her hot chocolate, and wipes out the mug with her croissant stump, then slams it down on the table. ‘So what are we waiting for? There’s a whole bridal shop waiting downstairs. If I’m going to get more followers we need to pull our fingers out.’
Poppy and I are staring at each other in horror as we clatter down the stairs after Immie. What have we unleashed here?
Chapter 23
Tuesday, 25th April
At Brides by the Sea: Floor boards and flat beds
‘How about one of me here? I could caption it, Me waiting to try on the dresses.’
Immie’s standing, shoulder wedged against the hanging compartment in the Seraphina East Room. With her crossed legs and folded arms, she looks more as if she’s propping up the wall on a building site than shopping for her wedding. And considering up to an hour ago this woman refused point blank to have her picture taken, saying there’s been a sea change in her attitude would be an understatement. Let’s just say, when it comes to her big day, Jules’ job will be ten times easier than it once might have been. In fact, he might find her directions a complete nightmare.
‘Get on the chair, Pops, so you can take the photo looking down.’ Immie grins up at Poppy. ‘Got me?’
I’m not sure how pleased Jess would be about Poppy clambering over her best mother of the bride Louis Quatorze chairs. Or that we’ve been rampaging through groomswear, taking shots of everything from velvet lapels to Here comes the groom socks. And a million items between. As for the Bridesmaid’s Beach Hut, we’ll have a lot of tidying up to do in there too. The candy stripe decor was a perfect backdrop for in-front-of-mirror selfies. Poppy and I held up every dress, while Immie took up increasingly wild photo-bombing poses behind us. If Jess hears the screams, she’ll assume we’ve downed more Prosecco than at Immie’s last appointment. Whereas thanks to the breakfast, we haven’t even started yet.
‘We mustn’t forget the fizz.’ On the basis that we might as well make the most of every photo opportunity now we’ve come this far, I pop through to the kitchen, and grab some glasses and a bottle.
When I reappear, Immie’s over like a shot. ‘Would you like to take me popping the cork?’
I hand her the bottle. ‘Now you’re relaxed and stripped down to your T-shirt, you’re looking so good in the photos.’ Somehow before today it was hard to see beyond her oversized jeans and hoodie. ‘Truly, you’ve got the most fabulous cheekbones.’ Although I suppose there could be a lesson here for all us baggy clothes wearers.
Immie rolls her eyes. ‘They talked the same bollocks last time, when Jules had his camera out at the farm.’ She takes her phone back from Poppy. ‘I’ll just send something to Instagram then we’ll crack open the wine.’
As I take my first break since they arrived, I remember what I need to tell Poppy.
‘Pops, I found out Kip’s nabbed an advertising feature on Rose Hill Manor for the next Cornish Guardian supplement.’ Not that I want to tell Poppy, but it’s a massive spread at newbie concessionary rates. ‘We should try to get the farm in there too, but we need a hook to get them interested.’
Immie looks up from her phone. ‘Isn’t it a year since your first wedding there, Pops? Maybe they’d go for that?’
‘Brilliant idea. They could do a resume of some of your high points, Pops. Like when the bride gave birth on her wedding night.’ Given I’m flapping about a few signs and some seating hire, I can’t think how Poppy coped with that at one of her first weddings as manager, but she did. ‘I can ring the paper and pitch the idea? The features editor was in my class at school.’ With Kip grabbing coverage right, left and centre, Daisy Hill Farm needs all the press exposure it can get. Fight fire with fire, and all that.
‘Cool,’ Poppy says. She’s playing it down, but I can tell from the flush of her cheeks and the way her eyes have lit up that she’s thrilled. ‘Let me know when they’re coming to interview us, and I’ll have the cupcakes ready.’
As my phone beeps, I look at it and grin. ‘Hey, Immie, you tagged me in your post.’ When I click the link, the picture’s of her lounging on the chaise, re-enacting her drunken slumber from the first abortive appointment.
She lets out a gruff laugh. ‘Why wouldn’t I tag my stylist? I’ve got three followers already. Eat your heart out Future Mrs Diamanté Knickers.’
As my phone
gives another buzz, I frown and sigh. ‘Talk of the devil, it’s Nicole again.’ You can see why phones are banned in the workplace, this is a full-time job. As I open her link I come close to barfing. ‘Bleurgh. Yet another shot of her wedding shoes.’ As if we hadn’t seen enough of them. ‘This time she’s upside down, waving her feet against a sunrise.’ I know she’s my client, but the swaggering #sixhundred tag has me retching. As for three posts a day, every day, of the same old shoes, bleurgh to that too.
Immie, perching on the chaise edge, goes rigid. ‘Shoes?’ As she lets out the shout, she’s beating her head with her fists. ‘Hell’s teeth, I’ve been so busy covering random stuff like Property of the bride boxer shorts, I’ve missed the bleeding obvious.’
I scan the waiting rail of dresses Poppy and I spent so long picking out yesterday evening. ‘How about we do shoes at the very end?’
Immie’s hands are already on her hips. ‘Out of the question.’ As she takes in Poppy’s shocked expression, Immie mellows. ‘Humour me, Pops. Just one “feet in the air” shot. In the sparkliest, most extreme heels you’ve got.’
As I turn to Poppy for instructions, I’m thanking my lucky stars I’m not the senior assistant here.
Poppy’s pursing her lips again. ‘Bring the Jimmy Choo Crystal Crossovers. In a 7 please, Lily.’ As she turns to Immie I can hear the grit in her tone. ‘And then you’re straight into that fitting room, okay?’
I scamper up the flights of stairs, and belt across groomswear into shoes. By the time I get back panting and breathless, Immie’s shed her high heeled trainers, and rolled up her jeans.
I pass the box to Poppy. As she takes off the lid, and slides out the bootie, we all give a collective gasp.
‘So glittery.’ I grin. ‘These will give Mrs Bling Pants a run for her money.’
