Summer at the Little Wedding Shop

by Jane Linfoot

  As I watch the pigs cross the field, at first I’m thinking their pen must be huge. It’s only as they break into a trot, and nip around the corner of the barn, that I remember the escaping sheep.

  ‘Shit. The pigs are out.’ I bash the nearest guest on the shoulder but they look at me blankly. ‘Tell Poppy,’ I add, wildly.

  I can’t hang around. I’m not a farmer, but if there are loose pigs, with two wedding parties going on, I have to go after them. By the time I’ve nipped round the side of the barn, the pigs are out in the courtyard, sniffing the air. I’m willing them to turn left, up towards the fields but they turn down hill instead. As they amble past the holiday cottages I stay close to the stone walls, stalking them. I watch as they stop by the front door of the last cottage, stick their snouts into a plant pot, and root.

  ‘Nice piggies, stay where you are.’ If I talk loud enough I’m hoping someone will hear me. Come to help. Anyone would do. So many people, and they’re all either in the barn, or out in the meadow.

  As the plant pot clatters over, spilling soil across the cobbles, the pigs skitter away, and I totter after them.

  ‘Shit. Wait for me. Please don’t go near the farmhouse.’ I’m wailing as we all pick up speed. As for these two rampaging through Nicole’s reception … ‘Stop. Please stop.’

  We whizz past the laundry, our store, the farm office. As we draw level with the door to Poppy’s kitchen, we’re breaking into a run. Running? Me? I avoid it for an entire lifetime, and end up doing it twice in one day. Hurtling along in heels, panting from sheer panic. Miss KG’s were never designed to travel at this speed. And neither was I.

  ‘Stop.’ It’s a random howl in case there’s anyone in Poppy’s part of the house. We’re belting on down the yard, and I catch a flash of my mum’s chartreuse plumage in the group of arriving guests milling in front of the farmhouse. And oh my god, the door to the farmhouse is wide open.

  ‘Waaaaaaaaa‌aaaaaaahhhhh!’ As I open my mouth and let out a scream, I catch sight of a familiar face. ‘Fred, stop the pigs, head them off …’

  As eight trotters clatter towards him, Fred leaps backwards, hits the wall, and as he disappears over it the pigs veer off, straight towards the open door.

  There’s no time to be gobsmacked at Fred’s total fail, because in my head I’m already seeing fifty chairs meticulously spaced around the tables, in the reception room with the grand piano. Each carefully chosen chair with a bow, tweaked to Nicole’s exact specification. Hand-tied rose posies secured a measured distance up from the seats. Not to mention dangling linen cloths at pig height, every table laid to silver service standards, with plates, cutlery, glasses and table centres. Worse still, there’s the wedding cake Poppy’s been slaving over all week. Five towering silver-leafed tiers, a cascade of roses and diamonds, and at least a sackful of edible glitter. All balanced on a narrow pedestal table. One push of a piggy snout would be enough to send it flying. In my head the cake’s already exploding into a million pieces as it crashes, and the pigs are snuffling up the crumbs from the polished oak floor.

  Then a bright green figure darts out of the crowd. It’s my mum, and she’s yelling like a banshee, clapping her hands. ‘Daviiiiiiiiiid … here … now … please …’

  What happens next is like something from a Bond film, over dubbed with me screaming in one long howl. As the action slips into slow motion the pigs are galloping, stiff legged, towards the house, scattering the startled guests as they charge. They’re a couple of metres from the building, when two guys in tuxes come storming out of the doorway, like secret agents without the guns. Jackets flying, they hurl themselves horizontally through the air, landing face down on top of a pig each. As they rugby tackle the porkers to the ground, Rafe comes rushing down the yard too. It’s only when the guys stand up, and begin to manhandle their captives across the cobbles that I realise they aren’t crack spies at all.

  ‘David?’ If I’m blinking wildly it’s because I’m gobsmacked. ‘And Kip?’ Somehow I’ve stopped howling, and we’ve flipped back to normal speed too.

  ‘We heard your mum calling.’ David says. ‘It’s always best to come when she asks.’

  Fred, back on the right side of the wall, runs up and makes a grab for a pig. ‘I’ve got this, I can take it from here.’

  Kip raises an eyebrow. ‘Leave it to the professionals, mate.’ He grins as he catches my eye. ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service or what?’

  ‘Nice work guys,’ I say. Even though that’s seriously understating what they just did, we all know I’m being ironic. Frigging genius wouldn’t begin to cover it.

  David’s shrug is diffident. ‘Barbara’s the one you need to thank. She gave us the alarm call.’ And other than a scuffed shoe, and a couple of mud marks on their shirts, they’re still box-fresh and Bond-cool as they push the pigs into a nearby stable, and saunter back to wait for the bride and groom.

  So much so that when Mr and Mrs Ferrara’s white Rolls purrs in a couple of minutes later, Nicole’s none the wiser. As the door opens there’s a huge waft of Lady Million, then as a familiar jewel-studded sandal appears, there’s a shriek.

  ‘Lileeeeeeeee!’

  A second later, my face is being rammed into a chestful of diamonds, as I’m engulfed in one of Nicole’s most massive hugs ever.

  ‘Haven’t things worked out perfectly? I always wanted to have my wedding here. Thank you sooooooo much. And have you seen my ring?’ A sparkling circle arrives next to my nose.

  ‘More diamonds? All the way round? Oooooooh, fabulous. How brilliant is that?’ By now I know to super-size my reaction.

  As she eases her grip her gaze falls on the spangly heart hanging on the farmhouse front door, and her fingers begin to flap. ‘Omigod, the heart wreath! It isn’t vertical! What were you thinking? I can’t arrive at my wedding breakfast with a wonky door decoration. Somebody sort it! Quick!’

  As she claps her hands Kip and I take a moment to exchange heartfelt grimaces. Then he dashes off to do as he’s told, and we both move on with our day.

  Chapter 41

  Saturday, 12th August

  At Daisy Hill Farm on the double wedding day: A moment in the dark

  ‘I can’t begin to thank you for today, Water Lily.’

  At midnight on Immie’s wedding day, after three days with no sleep, a chat with Kip is not top of my list of priorities. Especially not in the darkest corner of the courtyard. And he’s either dead on his feet, or been hitting the Prosecco, because his voice has gone so low and sincere, it’s almost emotional.

  ‘Maybe you could start by being less of a jerk?’ Hopefully my half-joke will brush away that he’s veering scarily close to sentimental. Although even as I say it, I know it’s unfair. I can’t quite put my finger on when it happened, but somewhere down the line his rich-kid get-right-up-your-nose arrogance melted away. And got replaced by … Shit. Please tell me I wasn’t about to think the words ‘something way more subtle and attractive’. ‘What are you doing up here anyway? Haven’t you got your own wedding to look after?’

  He wrinkles his nose. ‘Just checking you hadn’t got into difficulties catching any more bouquets.’

  A likely story. He’ll be scoping out the opposition’s new venue while he’s got the chance. ‘No danger today. Immie didn’t throw hers.’ No, I didn’t have her down as a softie either. But the rosebuds will dry beautifully. And she swears she’s going to keep them for her grandchildren. So watch this space on that one.

  ‘I wanted to see your flowers too. They look amazing, especially against the backdrop of the barn.’ Since when did Kip enthuse about flowers?

  My chest is pumping up with pride. ‘Those cottage garden varieties are perfect for a country setting,’ I say, even though I shouldn’t take all the credit, when someone else did the bulk of the watering on those borders.

  ‘Definitely worth the walk up from the house.’ Despite the shadows, Kip’s broad smile is visible. ‘And I also came to flag up that the award as
sessors dropped in earlier.’

  Now he tells me. I wince. ‘Of all the days.’ And if for a fleeting second the curve of his lips is making my stomach squish, it’s only because I’m entirely knackered, and my feet are killing me, okay?

  Kip gives a ‘nothing to do with me’ shrug. ‘The assessors should have seen the Ferraras at the Manor. Don’t worry, they loved it here, and I put in a good word for Rafe and Poppy.’

  ‘That was big of you.’ What I said earlier about him not being a knobhead? Forget it. ‘Although this double wedding has made me see how different your venues are.’

  ‘And?’ His eyes narrow. ‘When you do that frown, there’s usually something profound and brilliant on the way.’

  I sigh, because now’s really not the time for a marketing discussion. ‘This far you’ve both been competing for the same couples, and each getting half the bookings.’ Which is hopeless for everyone. ‘But the Manor’s so unique, I reckon you should be pitching it a lot further up the market. Charge way more, have fewer events. Less work for a better return.’ And give Poppy and Rafe their customers back. I can’t understand why a lazy-bum Penryn hasn’t worked this out already.

  Kip’s banging his hand on his head. ‘This is exactly why I need you as my stylist. Yet another one you’ve hit out of the ballpark. Why didn’t I think of that?’

  I laugh. ‘Probably because you’ve been too busy placating Nicole.’

  ‘I did have time out to pull Fred up the meadow, and settle an old score just now.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You had time to play tug of war?’ Seems like I sneaked into Poppy’s kitchen for a tea revival at exactly the wrong moment. Or maybe the right one.

  Kip’s sidestepping my question. ‘It’s ironic you missed it. Fred only challenged me to impress you. Turns out he’s all bulk, no strength.’ No need to ask who came out of that one best. Which might explain why Kip’s grin refuses to go away.

  I’m not going to rise to that any further. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, you’re in charge of a wedding party, Kip.’

  He smiles. ‘Which has moved back to the Manor, for champagne in the hot tub …’ He pauses to share his wide-eyed ‘what the hell’ head shake. ‘… as overseen by Bart, with help from Jess. Where no doubt I’ll catch up with them very soon. Meanwhile, I’m snatching my first breather of the day, which believe me, is exceedingly well earned.’

  I’m sounding stern. ‘Professional wedding coordinators only get a break once the guests leave for home.’ As for what Jess is doing there helping, well, shall I just say that Kip’s staffing arrangements are getting more and more unorthodox?

  He’s got his wheedling voice on. ‘You’re such a party pooper, Water Lily. That glitterball’s too good for us to miss. Come and dance. Just one track. Then I’ll leave.’

  Rolling my gaze upwards, I catch sight of the half moon, shining between the stars. ‘Totally not appropriate.’ He’s out of order, on every side. Although it’s a relief to know he hasn’t nailed the perfect venue manager act after all. As for the glitterball, that was a gigantic last-minute brainwave from Blue Watch. Strange I’m even considering dancing, let alone tempted. Gritting my teeth, I put my hands on my hips. Then point my finger firmly towards the farmhouse, and Rose Hill Manor beyond. ‘Go, Kipling. I mean it. Right now.’ Hopefully that’s convincing enough for both of us.

  As he hesitates, and narrows his eyes, my heart rate picks up. Then he swallows, and as he hitches his breath, my knees feel like they’re chocolate that melted. Then a play punch lands on my arm, pins me back to the wall, and knocks me back to reality.

  ‘Okay, you win, Lily flower. ’ He turns, puts his hands in his jacket pockets, and turns down the yard. ‘If you’re insisting I go, I’ll have to catch you in the morning then.’

  I watch his moon shadow bobbing on the cobbles until he disappears into the darkness. And when he’s completely gone, I’m disgusted to find the night feels horribly empty.

  Chapter 42

  Monday, 11th September

  In the garden at Rose Hill Manor: Clashing colours and cutting back

  ‘So, what’s popping?’

  It’s the Monday before Barbara and David’s wedding. It’s David – and the answer to his question is his head if I did what I’m tempted to do and slam it in the door to the walled garden at the Manor as he sticks it through. Even if he saved Nicole’s day, and her wedding cake, by wrestling half of the bacon brothers into submission, I’m still dying on his behalf every time he uses that phrase. Why the hell can’t he manage a plain and simple ‘hi’ like everyone else does?

  To bring you up to date, the Ferraras are honeymooning on a yacht in Monte Carlo. As boats go, apparently theirs is so big it barely fits into the harbour. Not that we’re jealous, but Nicole would like us to spread the word. More locally, Chas and Immie have almost recovered from their wedding party hangovers. And three weeks on from the flood, thanks to a workforce who’ve slaved non-stop, the Manor is almost back to how it was. Give or take a few sofas, currently in transit. Which is why my mum and David have dropped by to check on progress.

  ‘Dahling, at last … we’ve finally found you.’ As my mum skips past David, and down the grassy path, I can’t help but colour match her pedal pushers to the acid yellow African marigolds that came up in the border by mistake. ‘Kip gave us our tour, and assured us everything’s hunky dory back at the house, then he very kindly brought us on here.’

  I pick up my scissors and move my garden trug across to the cosmos border. ‘I knew you’d be fine with Kip. I’ve been catching up on some tidying.’ I don’t have to admit I was ducking out of their tour. With flowers bursting out in every corner, on sunny days it’s so idyllic here, I can’t stay away. I’m here whenever I can fit it in. And often when I can’t.

  ‘We barely see you these days, dahling.’ My mum consistently forgets the rest of the world doesn’t enjoy three six five days a year leisure time.

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘There’s a lot on at work.’ It’s true. Not only are there future bookings coming in, but lots of brides come down to the Style File for inspiration and one off orders. And since the double wedding day, we’ve also done a beach wedding party, a hipster wedding, and a Wild West reception in the fields at the farm.

  As I look up from my dead heading, I see Kip wandering in too, chatting to David. ‘Am I getting three for the price of two today?’

  ‘I thought your mum would like to see how her flowers are doing,’ Kip says. He’s got no idea she won’t.

  Given I was supposed to be meeting them all back at the house for coffee, it’s my guess he’s had enough of my mum for one morning, and is handing her on, A.S.A.P. But obviously no-one’s told him she avoids gardens like the plague due to the dirt, unless she’s visiting the washing line. Although lately, thanks to her fixation with Fred, I’ve noticed she’ll go out to check the wood store too.

  My mum frowns. ‘I’m not so much of a garden person. Seeing the flowers when they’re in the bouquet at the wedding will be absolutely soon enough for me. Although now I’m here, I do want to talk about your “plus one” for next weekend, Lily.’

  I’m so shocked I drop my scissors and they stab my foot as they land. Bending down to rub my toe gives me time to regroup. ‘There’s nothing to discuss. I’m coming as “me, myself and I”. Strictly speaking that’s me “plus two”.’

  She’s straight back at me. ‘Absolutely not. It’s all arranged. Fred’s agreed to go with you.’

  ‘What?’ I let out an indignant shriek. And not only because of her massive interference. I’m thinking back to suspicious log spills, falling carnations, non-scheduled muck deliveries, and escaping sheep. Not to mention hot tub floods. ‘I know he’s been very helpful in the garden, but that doesn’t mean I have to pair up with him.’ It’s completely unfair to send him the wrong messages too.

  Her expression changes. ‘I can’t see Fred gardening, dahling. He doesn’t know one end of a spade from another.
’ Which only shows how little she knows Fred.

  I shake my head in exasperation, then remember what Poppy and Jess told me. I need to stand up for myself here. ‘I refuse to go to your wedding paired up with Fred. End of. Okay?’ Calm and quiet. Easy as. Although from my mum’s thunderous eyes, it’s anything but.

  Her lips are like a pink zinnia as they pinch together tightly. ‘You’ve had six months to make yourself attractive enough to land a man. Anyone would do. Yet you’re happy to ruin my big day, just because you can’t damn well be bothered to put in the effort.’

  David’s suddenly at her shoulder. ‘That’s a bit strong, Barbs. Lily’s great as she is. Not everyone wants to be a couple.’

  My mouth’s open ready to tell him to butt out, but I shut it again. He’s only trying to help.

  Kip’s brow wrinkles. ‘Lily’s hot. But she doesn’t currently have room for a man in her life. For the record, Barbara, she’s turned me down more than once.’

  My mum’s jaw drops. ‘You offered?’ Her voice is squeaky with shock.

  Now it’s my turn to frown. ‘When exactly?’ I might be shooting myself in the foot here, but I suspect he’s bullshitting big time. On every front.

  Kip shrugs. ‘On the lane when you were taking selfies with the wedding venue sign. The night the assessors came. Again at Immie’s wedding.’ As his eyes light up with wickedness, I know there’s something worse coming. ‘We even spent a night together. You surely haven’t forgotten that already, Water Lily?’

  David’s beaming. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Barbs?’

  Kip goes on. ‘I’ll be more than happy to partner Lily at your wedding. No strings, for one day only, if she wants it in the small print. But that has to be her decision.’

  I narrow my eyes at Kip. ‘Thanks, I’ll get back to you on that. And the rest.’ I’m not sure if this has made it better or worse.

  My mum’s voice is a growl. ‘You’d better say “yes”, Lily. I refuse to let you unbalance my photos and be a single embarrassment in front of all my friends.’ Although seriously, with attitudes like this it’s a wonder she’s got any friends at all. ‘Ready to go, David?’