by Jane Linfoot
Fred ignores my gardening tease, and pops a cherry into his mouth. ‘I might kick off with a dash of kirsch. And then I’ll head straight off and schmooze, Barbara’s just arrived.’
‘So early?’ My heart sinks as I catch a flash of emerald green parrot print silk by the door. As for Fred, he can lay off the persuasion, because my mum hasn’t mentioned Rock Quay for weeks. I reckon she’s come to her senses on that one.
Poppy sidles up. ‘Mini raspberry and vanilla cupcake? And your dress looks fab, Lily. I love the geometric pattern of the lace.’
‘Saving my life again, Pops.’ I sink my teeth into the soft icing and brush the crumbs off my new black and white shift as I watch my mum. She passes by the Country Terracotta table, with its plant pots and daisies, skirts the Boho Beautiful area with its random jars of cosmos, roses and larkspur, whips by the vintage blush roses and mismatched china. When she reaches the eucalyptus swags and white roses, she finally comes to a halt, and gazes at the flickering candles in straight sided jars.
Fred’s back at my elbow. ‘We’re filling up nicely now, I’ll take two fizzy waters with lime slices. David and Barbara are on a detox. And by the way, they both say “hi”.’
I can’t help pulling a face. ‘You’d think people who obsess about getting their ten thousand steps in would walk across the room to get their own drinks.’ What’s more, I seriously doubt that particular greeting came from David. Lately when he’s not saying ‘Watcha’ he’s developed a horrible ‘Namaste’ habit.
Fred leans in and hisses in my ear as he whisks up their glasses. ‘Just giving you space, sweets. They don’t want to get in the way of your big moment.’
‘Right.’ Not that it ever bothered my mum before, but whatever. My phone beeps, and as I have a peep I see Nicole’s upstairs and uploading to Instagram. Caption: Arriving for my big night with my stylist #happybride. The happy bit might be because she’s currently got three more followers than Immie. When I look up again, my mum’s bestie, Jenny, is heading straight towards me, with old Mrs Kernighan from the village hanging onto her arm.
Mrs K beams at me. ‘Aren’t you doing well, Lily? Your mum told us you were.’
It’s funny how whenever my mum’s involved, I can never quite believe what I’m hearing.
‘Wonderful, Lily. And you’re looking gorgeous. Sun kissed definitely suits you.’ Lovely Jenny gives my hand a squeeze, and comes in for a peck. ‘What would you like in your Prosecco, Mrs K?’
Mrs K studies the board on the easel. I’m glad about this, because Jess insisted on a cocktail list with some truly hideous names, and it took me the entire afternoon to master the chalk markers and the italic writing.
She wrinkles her nose, and points at the blackberries. ‘I’ll have Foragers Fizz, thanks but not too much sloe gin. But first you’ll have to tell me what that For Sale board’s doing up at your mum’s house. You’re not leaving us, are you?’
I know I’ve spent most of the afternoon dashing to the toilet, due to nerves. That was between bouts of triangular writing, obviously. But this sends my stomach into a new kind of free fall. I swear it comes to rest somewhere around my kneecaps.
‘Sorry?’ The rasp that comes out is like nails scraping down a blackboard. ‘Are you sure?’
Jenny’s agonised grimace beyond Mrs K’s ear should be all the confirmation I need, but somehow I need to hear the words.
‘I couldn’t believe it either. But it’s there all right, on the front lawn by all accounts. The whole village has seen it now. One of them dark blue Bradleys’ ones.’ Mrs K’s tapping my arm, urgently. ‘But why’d she want to go and move?’
Jenny shakes her head. ‘Sorry, Lily. Come on, Mrs K, Barbara’s the one you need to see about this.’ She’s propelling Mrs K across the room from behind, driving her towards my mother and the White White White table.
I’m just deciding if I’m going to cry or be sick, when someone grabs me from behind, and sweeps me into a bear hug.
‘Bloody hell, Lily, putting the house on the market and not telling you? What total toad bollocks is that?’
Somehow the tears win, and before I know it, I’m snivelling all down the shoulder of Immie’s I’m on fire T-shirt.
‘Bastards. Let’s get you outside.’ Her voice is gruff, as she shoves me towards the door to the terrace. Seconds later, the cool breeze from the sea is drying my tears to salt smears. Above our heads the suspended candle jars are swinging on their strings where they zig zag over the space.
I’m catching my breath as I collapse onto one of the heavy wrought iron chairs. ‘If I wasn’t so upset, I’d be … be … really angry.’
I might not live there anymore, but somehow everything that’s left of Dad is in that house. If it’s sold, it’ll be like losing the last part of him. And so much for Fred’s claiming they’re giving me space. My mother doing things behind my back is no surprise, given the way she got engaged. What’s way worse is Fred playing me too, just because he wants the sale.
Immie drops down beside me. ‘Classic avoidance tactics. They’re anxious about how you’ll react. And now they’ve ballsed it up completely, and the cow pats are hitting the fan and splattering everywhere.’
At least Immie’s gruff analysis and graphic imagery has me giving a watery smile as I sniff. ‘I’ll be okay in a moment.’
Immie pulls out her phone. ‘Meanwhile, Mrs Glitter Bum’s doing so many selfies en route, I doubt she’ll ever make it as far as the Prosecco.’ The picture she flashes is Nicole descending the basement stairs like royalty arriving at the Oscars. ‘And then there’s the sparkle monster alternative version …’
I bite my lip to hold in my laughter, as I take in Immie lying upside down on the stairs, arms flung outwards. Something tells me I shouldn’t be encouraging her. ‘Shit, Immie. So this is bride eat bride on Instagram?’
She’s straight back at me. ‘Too bloody right.’ Her laugh is low and very wicked for someone so straight forward. She squints at me. ‘You’re a better colour now. Back there you went so pale under your tan, I thought you were going to chuck up.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’ve got a tan?’ Jenny said so too.
She’s grinning. ‘You and Kip both. Suits you both too. It’s all the gardening.’
Both? I let out a grunt of disgust at being lumped in the same sentence as him. ‘Kip’s is nothing to do with Rose Hill, it’s one of those rich-guy year-round tans.’ As for the garden, I doubt he’d recognise a hoe if it hit him in the petunias.
Immie smirks. ‘Well we can examine it for ourselves now. Here comes the man himself.’ She gives a chortle. ‘On the war path, Kip? How’s the flower growing going?’
Given he’s had zero involvement since he flung the seed at me, I decide to answer this one. ‘There’s a massive area, so the watering takes ages. But luckily my spade-fairy Fred is also great with a garden hose, and thanks to him the seeds are doing brilliantly.’
Kip’s laugh is sarcastic. ‘You don’t say.’ It’s typical of him to belittle other people’s efforts.
Immie pulls a face. ‘This is the same Fred who’s pushed Barbara into selling her house without telling you?’
Hmm, am I sure that’s what’s happened? ‘But Fred’s been so helpful. Would he put pressure on my mum like that?’
As Immie stares straight at Kip and me, there’s a growl in her voice. ‘If you ask me, it’s time for some straight talking.’
‘Too damn right it is.’ Kip throws himself into the third seat, and tosses a newspaper down on the table. ‘What the hell’s going on with the Cornish Guardian? I shell out for four pages of coverage in the wedding section, and it’s totally eclipsed by a front-page spread about the venue next door.’
So much for talking Kip through the styling, which is what he’s meant to be here for. As for the article, I’m as shocked as he is. With the stakes as high as they are for him, I can kind of see why he’s jumping up and down here.
As I lean in to see the supplement, my
stomach disintegrates again. ‘Love grows with the weddings, in the meadows at Daisy Hill Farm. How Rafe and Poppy got together? Why the hell did they write that and put it in this bit? It was meant to be fizz for a first year, in the main paper.’ This is all my fault. When I suggested it, I had no idea it would pan out like this.
Immie’s laughing again. ‘Wow, great shot of Pops and Rafie.’ They’re practically life size, faces glued together on the front page. ‘The perils of letting a reporter loose on your farm. You never know what the angle will be.’
Oh shit. ‘Where’s Poppy? She needs to see this.’ And I need another cupcake. Or six. As I stare at Kip, part of me wants to tell him Poppy’s going to be as apoplectic as he is about this. But the words coming out are something else entirely. ‘You came to this party second, Kip, so grow some balls and stop bleating. As I said before, if you can’t take the heat, stay out of the goddamned kitchen.’ And oops to how venomous I sound. If Fred’s not being straight with me, I shouldn’t be taking it out on Kip. But if Kip hadn’t bumped me into looking after his whole garden while he sits back and reaps the benefit, I might have felt less snappy. I guess everyone’s getting what they deserve here. I also can’t pretend I’m not happy about who’s come out on top in the publicity race here, regardless of the content of the article. Kip knew about the opposition when he set up his business. Despite him giving me work, I know where my loyalties lie.
Kip picks up the paper, and pulls down the corners of his mouth as he gets up again. ‘Well lucky for me I’ve got a lake and a mansion. When it comes to the Wedding Venue of the Year Awards, that’ll count for way more than a loved-up farmer with a tent in a field.’
‘Did someone call me?’ Poppy appears in the doorway, and the good news is she’s carrying a tray. ‘What’s this about awards?’
Kip’s laugh is bitter. ‘The Cornish Guardian’s announcing them next week. I’d have thought you’d already know, given how pally you are with them. Front page on the supplement mean anything to you?’
Poppy’s face drops as she sees the headline. ‘Shit.’ To her credit she recovers fast. A nano second later, she’s wafting confectionery under Kip’s nose. ‘Cupcake anyone?’
Kip looks as if he’d rather eat his own head. ‘You have to be joking.’ He juts out his chin, and narrows his eyes to a scowl as he gets to his feet. ‘If you want to fight dirty, Poppy, bring it on. I’m here to stay, and if we’re competing head to head, I’ll make sure I take you down. Every time.’
He marches back into the basement, leaving Poppy, Immie and I staring at each other, our jaws sagging.
‘Holy fucking crap.’ Immie’s muttered curses speak for all of us.
‘Ouch.’ The cupcake I grab slides straight into my open mouth. I’m mumbling through the sponge. ‘What a night, and it’s barely begun.’ The vanilla buttercream melting onto my tongue delivers the surge of deliciousness I’m desperate for.
Poppy blows her fringe up. ‘On the up side, if it’s any consolation, your mum says she’s sorry. The sign only went up as they left the house today, a lot sooner than they expected.’ She scrunches up her face. ‘We all know what estate agents are like.’
Immie gives a rueful grunt. ‘The joys of living in Rose Hill village. Everyone knows what you’re doing before you’ve even done it.’ She sniffs. ‘Still a bastard though.’
‘It’s definitely a shock. But so long as my mum’s in lust with David and Rock Quay, there’s not a lot I can do.’
Poppy nods at the three bubbling glasses on the tray. ‘Down this, and you’ll feel better, Lily. Special recipe. I pimped the Prosecco with Jess’s Rescue Remedy.’
That makes me smile. ‘Like Jess ever needs rescuing.’
Poppy grins at me. ‘Shows how well it works then, doesn’t it? With Kip on the war path, we’re all going to need it.’ She gives me a hug, and hands me a glass. ‘Come on, sweetie, bottoms up. Then you’re going to go out there, and sparkle.’
‘And be awesomely stylish …’ Immie’s got an evil glint in her eye. ‘I just heard a noise like a donkey, so I take it Nicole’s here. Bags I get the first selfie with the stylist.’
So it’s wedding wars all round then.
Chapter 28
Thursday, 8th June
At Brides by the Sea: Quick changes and waves on the shore
My mum’s idea of making amends for the untimely appearance of the ‘For Sale’ sign at Heavenly Heights is a cream tea at the Happy Dolphin Garden Centre, followed by a dress trying session at the shop. Part one of the plan goes on the skids as soon as we hit the cafe, when my mum declines solids, and downgrades her skinny latte to a black tea in mid-order. Cream tea eating isn’t any kind of spectator sport, especially when the chief viewer is abstaining to the point of being nil by mouth, so I downsize to an espresso and Jaffa Cakes in cellophane faster than you can say tray bake. Which means instead of the planned two-hour heart-to-heart calorie-fest, we enjoy a full seven-minute silence before my mum finishes her drink and puts her teaspoon back on her saucer.
‘You know we’re not definitely selling, don’t you dahling?’ This is her latest line on the agent’s board. However often she says it, the only person she’s fooling here is herself.
I stop peeling the chocolate off my Jaffa Cake. ‘Like you said, you’re simply dipping your toe in the water, to see if the boat floats.’ You can tell from the mixed metaphors that I’m quoting her. And I’m despairing at the pretence. We both know the minute a buyer bites, she’ll be off to Fred’s penthouse faster than you can say Pickfords Removals.
She beams. ‘See, dahling, so you do listen sometimes.’ Half closing an eye, she leans across the table. ‘Fred’s only helping us to get in your good books. He’s a lovely boy, and so keen, I can’t understand why you haven’t snapped him up already.’
Not that I’m admitting it, but there’s actually something my mum and I agree on – I can’t understand my reluctance on this one either. And I also agree, at times, he’s practically edible too. I’ve been so close to leaning in to those flirty nudges of his, and not leaning out again. But for some inexplicable reason, I always pull back.
‘I’ve got a lot going on right now; there isn’t space to add a guy in too.’ It’s how I explain it to myself. The other biggie is I want to stay free to move on myself when the time comes. Once I’ve saved up enough to afford a flat. And found a new job. Which realistically, thanks to the extra wedding styling at the Manor, is a lot closer now at the end of May than it was back in February.
My mum purses her lips. ‘I know what Thom did was awful, but you can’t let it define you forever.’
‘Excuse me?’ Not that it’s any of her business. But when someone I trusted and built a life with turns round and says they don’t want to be with me anymore, I’m hardly going to risk a repeat. I’m better off on my own.
She wrinkles her forehead. ‘When tragedy strikes you have to pick yourself up and move on. Where would I be now if I hadn’t done that?’
Not that I’m going to say it, but I know she’d be in a better place. Not going out with a dickhead for one, and the house wouldn’t be on the market either. ‘You’d probably be having a lovely time with Jenny.’ I’m not being bitchy either. I’m only saying what’s true.
She conveniently ignores that. ‘We only want you to be happy, dahling.’ Back to that old mantra.
‘We?’ I hate it when she includes David as if they’re surgically attached, when he patently doesn’t give a damn. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her on her own for months. It’s taken a trip to a wedding shop fitting room to shake him off.
When I meet her eye again, she’s back to wiggling her eyebrows. ‘Fred’s very taken with your new image. It’s why he’s going the extra mile for us.’
Dammit. It’s obvious my mum’s blanking my side of the conversation entirely. Sometimes I have to resort to extremes to shut her up.
‘That’s total bollocks. And you know it.’ It comes out so loud the bright pink
gerbera vibrate in their vase next to the salt and the ketchup bottle. And if I were a look-at-me person, who wanted every eye in the cafe trained on her, I’d have done the job. But however snazzy it is, my mum can’t hang this one on my latest houndstooth shell top.
Her pink lips part in a mortified gasp. ‘Lily! That’s not Happy Dolphin appropriate language.’ If I’d emptied the water jug over her head she couldn’t look more horrified. She finishes the running repairs to her lippy, and jumps up onto her pink suede courts. ‘Come on. You might be losing your puppy fat, but you’ve still got a lot to learn in the manners department.’
She’s out of the cafe, and back into garden gnomes so fast, there’s no time to answer back. I scurry behind her as she stomps out to the car park. Then we head for the Brides by the Sea in silence.
As soon as we arrive at the shop Jess shepherds us into the Seraphina East Room. Then she sets about breaking the chill. Who’d have thought one teensy swear word could turn a fun afternoon so glacial?
‘Barbara, it’s so lovely of you to come. And we’ll definitely be able to redeem your Pirate Radio Bridal Bouquet prize against the dress, as well as offering you ten per cent off.’ When it comes to financial detail, Jess has the memory of an elephant. She turns on her purr. ‘And we’ll obviously do an additional close-family discount too.’
I’m not sure my mum wants to be reminded of any link to me right now, even if it does mean saving herself a fortune. As for finding a wedding dress, the hunt couldn’t feel less auspicious.
Poppy skips in behind us, drops a plate of pale pink home-made macaroons onto the table, and shoves me firmly down into the mother-of-the-bride chair. ‘Would you like Prosecco, Barbara?’
I eyeball Poppy. ‘Some special zero calorie Fentiman’s lemonade would be fab. All round.’ There’s no such thing, but I think we’d both benefit from a sneaky sugar hit here.
