by Jane Linfoot
Poppy’s smile is proud. ‘It’s been a lot of work, but it’s even better than we imagined. And our first wedding here is six weeks from now, so we’ve plenty of breathing space.’ As we look out across the field, there’s a crash, as Immie staggers into view through a door at the end.
She drops her clipboard and pen, and swipes the sweat off her forehead with her T-shirt sleeve. ‘You do know Fred only stripped off when he saw you coming up the yard, Lily. Classic peacock behaviour. Talk about a dominant male doing a come-and-get-me mating display.’ As she stamps towards us her high heeled Doc Martens are clomping on the rough-hewn floor boards. She grins, and thumps me on the shoulder. ‘Recovered from your hen party hang over?’
It’s great she’s brought the subject up. ‘Actually there’s one more hen party surprise for you.’ I whip a silk scarf out of my pocket, and hand it to Poppy.
Poppy takes the baton. ‘But for this bit we need to pop a blindfold on you.’
‘What the eff? You can’t hijack me when I’m sorting out my sparkle clean.’ Immie’s protesting loudly as Poppy pulls the scarf around her eyes, and ties a knot behind her head.
I catch a glimpse of Sera outside the barn doors, dress covers draped over her arms, and wave her in. ‘We’re not going anywhere. But we are going to have a little game.’
‘We’re going to try out the Bride’s Dressing Room.’ Poppy leads Immie gently to the end of the barn, and through into a lovely room with a mirror and make-up shelf all along one wall, and velvet chairs as comfy as the mother-of-the-bride ones at the shop, softened by a pile of patchwork cushions.
Sera hooks the dresses onto the folding screen, next to a full-length mirror in a chunky wood frame. Then she hitches up her shorts, pushes back her mass of blonde hair, and touches Immie’s hand. ‘Hi Immie, Sera here. If you’d just slip off your jeans and top, we’re going to play “try on the wedding dress”.’
‘You’re what?’ Immie’s voice is close to a howl.
Poppy’s patting her shoulder. ‘Calm down. We’ve brought three dresses from the shop. You don’t have to look. All you have to do is to let us put you into them, okay?’
Immie’s sputtering. ‘But I can’t afford a dress from Brides by the Sea …’
Sera’s smiling. ‘Remember that ceiling Chas and his friends put up at the Manor for Alice’s wedding? Without your help that day, I seriously doubt she’d ever have managed to get married. I’ll owe you forever for that. So I’ve brought some of my special designs for you to try, Immie. I’m more than happy for you to get married in any of them.’ As soon as Sera heard about Immie’s problems, she chose two dresses from her studio, and worked up a third from scratch.
Immie’s almost wailing as her Doc Martens go flying and she pulls off her jeans. ‘That’s so great, Sera. But wedding dresses are meant for skinny chips, not big round potatoes.’
‘Where do fries come in?’ Poppy’s frowning, even though we all know Immie would have them for every meal.
Immie stops for a breath. ‘Those sodding vegetable body shapes. I hoped I might be an apple, or even a carrot, but I Googled it last week, and I’m definitely a spud. I can’t possibly look at dresses.’ Poor Immie. She’s got such a block about this.
Sera smiles. ‘As I see it, you’ve got fabulous shoulders, great boobs, and hips so narrow, most women would swap you in a heartbeat.’
‘That’s the whole idea of the blindfold.’ I jump in to explain. ‘We’ll do the choosing, and you’ll only see yourself when you’re completely beautiful.’ It’s not ideal, but it’s our only chance of getting her into a dress this side of the registrars arriving.
Poppy dips into a box. ‘And we have shoes. Try these for size Cinderella.’
Immie gives a grunt as she feels the shoe Poppy hands her. ‘You’re putting me in Doccie heels like the ones I just took off?’
She’s right of course. What she can’t see is that these are the cream version. A last-minute compromise of style, comfort, and health and safety.
I laugh. ‘On balance we decided you mightn’t make it through the day alive if you wore Christian Louboutins.’
Sera’s already slipped off the first cover, and she’s holding out a slinky satin slip. ‘Slide into this, then there’s a chiffon overdress, and we can mix and match on the sash.’
‘No peeping.’ Poppy’s beside Immie, tweaking the fabric into place, pulling a narrow ribbon under her boobs. ‘Right, stay still.’
The three of us stand back, and take in the transformation. If we don’t speak straight away, it’s because we’re stunned.
I nod at Sera. ‘Fabulous. I’d be happy to get married looking like that.’ Momentarily forgetting that I wouldn’t be doing the marrying bit, but whatever. Not that we’re saying this out loud, but the simple lines of the sheer fabric falling over the satin, from the high waist are wonderfully flattering.
Poppy chimes in. ‘Me too.’
Sera chews her nail. ‘The over dress is reversible. Shall we try it the other way around, with the plunge at the back?’
Immie makes a loud groan. ‘Stuff that. Seriously, I can’t get married in a dress that could be back to front. That’s non-negotiable.’
So much for thinking out loud. ‘Okay, moving on,’ we chorus.
By the time Poppy’s pulled the first dress off over Immie’s head, Sera’s ready with the next. This one is more tailored and sophisticated, and fits like it was made for Immie, with a pencil skirt, and a Bardot neckline.
‘Lovely.’ When Poppy eases up the zip, and murmurs the word, she’s speaking for all of us.
‘Even better than the last.’ I say. ‘Isn’t that oyster satin beautiful?’
‘Ahem.’ Immie clears her throat and slides her hands over her seemingly non-existent hips. ‘Excuse me butting in here, but isn’t satin a nightmare for messy pups like me? Like I’m already worrying about marks. And one other small point – I can’t move my legs.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’d happily stay in one spot for a day to look that pretty.’ But Immie’s right. She has to feel comfortable.
‘Okay, last one …’ As Sera takes it down Poppy and I exchange defeated glances. With two flat rejections in as many minutes, why did we think this could ever work? I don’t hold out any hope, given the last dress was still on the fabric rolls in the studio yesterday, and Sera’s rushed it together overnight. Sera must think it’s hopeless too, because she’s switched on a running commentary as Immie wiggles into it.
‘So this one’s got a fitted satin bodice but there’s floaty lace over the top, so you don’t need to worry about the marks.’
‘Yay, I can actually walk.’ The slinky lace-covered skirt falls from the low waistline that sits on Immie’s neat hips, gently flaring at the floor for walking room. Immie gives a kick, just to prove the point, then puts her hands on her waist. ‘Well, how is it?’
Poppy’s got her fist on her mouth. ‘It couldn’t be more perfect. How on earth did you do that, Sera?’
I’m staring, open mouthed. ‘It’s so clever, Sera. I love the way those tiny beads around the waist catch the light.’
Sera’s mouth has stretched into a grin. ‘It’s made for you, Immie. But it’s only beautiful because you are.’
Immie’s grabbing at the scarf.
Poppy grasps her hand. ‘No, Immie, the plan is you only see this on the wedding day.’ We can’t risk her getting cold feet and backing out of this. It’s not like we have a back-up option.
‘Toad bollocks to that, I can’t wait until next week.’ A second later the scarf is off, and Immie’s staring down at herself.
I grab Sera’s hand, because I know how much she hates the part where the bride reacts to the dress. Having her work under scrutiny. The risk of rejection, even if it’s not personal. I’m squeezing her fingers harder and harder. And the longer the silence goes on, the worse it gets.
Poppy’s encouraging Immie. ‘Here, you’ll get the effect better in the long mirror.’ Immie’s got
her hands over her face now, and she’s peering through the cracks between her fingers.
Still no reaction. She must hate it. I’m starting to kick myself, for putting not just Immie through this, but Sera too. For all the fruitless work Sera has done. The shadows under her eyes from sewing late into the night are getting darker as our hearts sink lower with every moment we don’t hear anything. I’m almost ready to run and bundle the dresses into the car, when there’s a noise like a blocked drain emptying. Surely it can’t be Immie’s infamous vomit noise? Then there’s a huge gasp. Then a gulp and a moan as Immie bends forwards. It’s only when I hear another snort and a splutter that I look down, and see the drips on the floor that the penny drops. She’s crying.
‘Tissues, quick. Anyone got any?’ Our wonderful hard-boiled, tough-guy Immie is bawling her heart out, and the tears are spurting out in all directions like a tap that’s lost its washer. I’m slapping my jeans, but every pocket is empty. ‘Don’t get tears on the satin, Immie.’
Sera’s turned out her pockets too, and she’s diving into her bag, throwing the contents over the floor.
Poppy hurls herself at the door, and when she hurtles back she’s thrusting a Jay cloth into Immie’s hand. ‘Sweetie, I’m sorry, we should never have started this without Kleenex. How silly am I bringing you to the brand-new Bride’s Room and forgetting the tissues?’
‘S’alright.’ Immie mops her face with the cloth, and as she blows her nose loudly, her voice is a croak. ‘I’ll be okay in a bit.’ There’s another snort. ‘So long as I don’t look too hard at myself. I just never knew I could feel this good. In a flipping dress, too …’
‘Oh Immie.’ Poppy and I are either side of her hugging an arm each. ‘You look like yourself. And you look truly amazing.’
Immie rams her fists into her eyes, then stares back in the mirror. ‘Unbelievable. Totally un-frigging-believable.’ She blows out her cheeks. ‘You know, I’ve always felt bad about my body. And me landing Chas was such a fluke, I always worried that I couldn’t measure up.’ The sniff she gives has to be because she’s thinking of Nicole. ‘But for the first time ever, this dress makes me feel good enough. Good enough for Chas. Good enough to be his bride. For the first time in my entire life I feel beautiful. And you’ve no idea how wonderful that is.’
She puts her arms round Sera first, then drags Poppy and me into a group hug that’s horribly damp.
As Immie eases her grip, she lets out a growl. ‘And you finally got me into effing lace. Who’d have thought I’d damn well love the stuff?’ She runs her fingers across the delicate fabric. ‘Jeez, are those diamonds down there?’
Poppy grins. ‘We thought you’d like one or two …’ Meaning ‘eat your heart out Nicole’. And let’s pray she doesn’t decide to reject them.
I’m rubbing my eyes with my T-shirt sleeve, and laughing, from sheer relief. ‘It’s official. You’re Brides by the Sea’s most difficult bride yet.’ But somehow she’s my best bride ever.
Sera chimes in. ‘It’s the hard ones that are so worth the work, every time. Look at you …’
‘As I’ve said before, all our brides are beautiful. But it’ll be a long time before a bride makes me prouder than you, Immie.’ Just because of the challenge. And the protest. And her total transformation into a woman who finally believes in her own worth. And listen to me, talking like I’m staying forever, when I’ll be moving on before I know it.
Sometimes once you crack the toughest problems, afterwards it’s hard to see why it was ever difficult. That’s what it’s like as Immie swishes around, grinning at herself in the mirror, lifting her skirts to nod happily at her cream Doccie’s. So now it’s full steam ahead to this weekend’s vintage wedding. Then we’ll be flat out getting ready for Immie’s and Nicole’s the weekend after, then on to my mum’s after that.
And now we’ve sorted this dress, we’re pretty much invincible. The rest should be easy-peasy in comparison.
Chapter 38
Thursday, 10th August
At Daisy Hill Farm: Be careful what you wish for
‘So I hear Nicole’s getting her hot tub at the Manor after all, then?’
With my hood up and two days to go to Immie and Nicole’s weddings, the first clue I have that Poppy’s come up behind me in the courtyard at the farm, is when she taps me on the shoulder as I’m opening the store door.
Months ago, when Nicole stole the wedding date from under my mum’s nose, and I wished it would rain for Nicole’s wedding day, it was a mean, throwaway thought. Now I’m so involved, and with Immie’s wedding on the same day, wet weather is the last thing I want. So when the long, hot, scorching summer finally breaks in a clattering thunderstorm soon after the vintage tea dance wedding, and it’s still raining what seems like weeks later, we’re all wandering round with faces as long as wet weddings inside our cagoules. As for me, it’s not just the agonising guilt and the drips running off my nose that are depressing. With sluicing rain and a whipping wind, however long I spend with the hair straighteners, my hair resorts to its natural state. Within seconds of stepping outside, it’s ‘goodbye smooth gloss, hello crazy curls’. Although before seven in the morning, at Daisy Hill Farm, the Thursday before the double wedding, I wasn’t exactly expecting to be seen. I’m here to meet a man in a van, because there’s a barn full of props that need to be taken over to the Manor.
‘It’s the first I’ve heard of a hot tub lately,’ I say to Poppy. ‘Kip finally gave in then?’
Poppy laughs. ‘No, Nicole bullied Fred into loaning her one. Here he comes now, no doubt he’ll give you all the gory details.’ She wiggles her eyebrows, which is totally unnecessary.
‘Details? About what?’ Immie’s head pops out of the laundry with an expectant gleam in her eye. As for me thinking I’d be here on my own, how wrong was that?
Fred is coming down from the wedding barn, hands in his Barbour pockets. From the swagger in his step, he’s particularly pleased with his installation. ‘Someone asking about hot tubs? We certainly did pop a super-deluxe version onto the terrace at the Manor late last night. Just for the weekend.’ He grins and holds his hands out to catch the falling drops. ‘Perfect weather for it too. There’s nothing like a warm soak in the rain.’ Somehow his puppy-dog optimism is infectious.
I smile. ‘At least the rain means you get a few days off from the garden.’ With the heat the last week, the flowers have been wilting.
He frowns at me. ‘What have gardens got to do with anything?’
‘Nice try, Fred. I’m talking about the non-stop watering … with the hose … at the Manor …’ I give him a teasing stare.
Immie’s leaning on the door post. ‘For frigg’s sake, Fred, when are you going to come clean about …’
As a bashed up Landrover screeches to a halt lower down the yard, Fred literally leaps on the spot. ‘Another time, Immie. Right now, I’m off. Laters, guys.’ The second after, he’s dashed away up the cobbles, and dodged out of view.
In the country, there are so many scrubby four by fours they’re interchangeable. But as I squint at the figure leaping down from this latest one, the scuffed paintwork is strangely familiar. ‘Is that … Kip?’ This is the last place in the world he should be.
‘Looks like he’s in a hurry too.’ Immie chortles. ‘He’s hurtling towards us like he’s an Olympic sprinter.’
‘If he’s hoping for more of Poppy’s cupcakes he can forget it.’ Just saying. There’s nothing else round here worth running that fast for.
As he skids to a halt, he’s pale and breathless. ‘Lily, thank jeez you’re here.’
Funny, I didn’t have Kip down as a drama queen. But given their history, and that I’ll be on my way to the Manor the minute van man arrives, he’s bang out of order rampaging round on Rafe and Poppy’s territory. ‘This better be important, Kip.’
He blinks away his disgust as he rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘There’s a flood at the Manor, Lily. Most of the ground floor’s under w
ater.’ He must be shaken, or he’d have jumped on me for my ‘important’ crack.
‘Crap. What happened?’ As my insides turn to jelly, I’m ashamed for doubting him. My mind races. ‘Rain? Shit, has the lake overflowed?’
He drags in a breath. ‘Nope. The guys who installed the hot tub late yesterday accidentally opened a valve to a dead pipe, and I went to bed without noticing. It ran all night until I got up at six, which is a hell of a lot of water. And this one’s down to me.’
Flipping out his phone, he flicks through some pictures.
‘Oh my.’ I groan as I take in the sodden sofas, with water lapping round the legs, papers floating by the fireplace. I resist the urge to comment about the floating gnome, but only because the ballroom looks like an extension of the lake, with watermarks leaching up the plasterwork. There are more pictures of antique tables under plastic by the front door, and I do a double take as I see what they’re next to.
‘What’s Jess’s car doing there?’ Okay, given the scale of the disaster, it’s totally not important. But it’s too weird not to ask.
Kip blows out his cheeks. ‘Bart’s back.’
‘Not more of those damned Caribbean shirts?’ Why Jess is so set on pursuing this particular line is a mystery.
A flicker crosses Kip’s face before he scrunches it up. ‘Something like that. She went back to the shop to see an early bride, and left Bart with the insurance guys.’
No doubt when you have a stately home, the loss adjusters will zoom out straight away.
Now the immediate shock has subsided, my mind’s buzzing with a thousand and one practical questions. ‘So what are the chances of Nicole’s wedding going ahead?’ As I wait for the answer I hardly dare move. I’ve got half a hectare of white hydrangeas arriving from the wholesalers, and that’s just the start.
‘Honestly?’ Kip raises his eyebrows. ‘Absolutely zero. But given it’s clean water, your mum might be luckier.’
