by Jane Linfoot
‘Realistically, nothing gets going again until after Christmas.’ I’m bluffing here. ‘I decided it’s way more sensible to give myself a New Year deadline.’ I’m staring in the mirror over Jess’s head, exchanging OMG glances with myself. Praying that the word ‘sensible’ will be the one Jess hones in on.
‘I see…’ Jess says, sounding like she really doesn’t.
I’m dragging in a breath so huge it almost makes my eyes pop, waiting to see if I’ve got away with this when there’s a loud squawk at floor level.
‘Sera, what the hell have you got on your feet under here?’
Shit. I’ve been rumbled. Which is really bad luck, considering exactly how many layers of dress there are between Jess and my…
‘Biker boots?’ Jess’s voice rises to a scream that makes my hangover head reverberate horribly. ‘You have to be joking me. Where are the white bridesmaid’s boots Alice sent you, Sera?’
My feet in those pointy toes? It’s not happening. But I might as well come clean. ‘The kitten heels are upstairs in the studio.’ Buried under a week’s worth of completely useless sketches. Along with the white fur jacket and the wedding manual she also sent. ‘They totally kill my feet.’ I can tell excuses are falling flat. ‘The heels on these are pretty much the same height.’
Jess is staring up at me, her arm like a signpost, finger pointing at the door. ‘Go.’
‘Fine,’ I say, with a sniff.
‘And come back wearing the proper boots.’ Her shouting softens. ‘You’ll have to break them in some time. You might as well start now.’
I look down at the skirt the width of the bay and know there’s no way I’ll make it up the narrow stairs to the studio in the dress. There’s only one thing for it. I squirm, undo the zip, let the dress fall to the floor. As I leap across the bunched-up acres of skirt, being careful not to trample it with my biker boots, there’s another howl from Jess.
‘Sera, I don’t believe it! You’ve got all your clothes on under there!’
‘And?’ I stare down at my leopard-print leggings, shorts and shirt. ‘Good thing too, now I’ve had to strip off.’ Honestly, it’s December, there’s no point being colder than I have to be. And if the dress is the size of a snowstorm, no one’s going to notice a bit of underwear. Besides, Jess is the original inventor of the mantra, ‘No one’s looking at the bridesmaids’. So I sense she’s being a) a bit of a stickler and b) slightly hypocritical here.
Five minutes later, when we resume, I’m wearing the kitten heels – yes, they’re agony, in case you’re wondering – and I’ve compromised hugely by taking off my shorts. And Jess has gone in to attack the hem with her pins. My toes feeling like they’re dropping off is a small price to pay when the heat’s off my designs. Or the lack of them. Which Jess appears to have completely forgotten about now.
‘You’re lucky Alice hasn’t got you in six-inch stilettos,’ Jess says.
I don’t bother to tell her that’s really not Alice’s look. Instead I lock my knees, settle down to listen to the gentle sound of guys washing up two rooms away, as I stare out of the window. Although, with the explosion of Christmas sparkle on the glass, it’s hard to make out exactly what’s going on in the world beyond, other than a solitary figure pausing to look at the displays.
‘Jess…’ One of the helpers has stopped clattering glasses and is calling through. ‘There’s someone at the shop door, wanting to come in.’
‘Take a break, Sera, I won’t be long.’
In a second Jess pushes herself up, shoves her feet back into her loafers and marches out into the hallway. Although the shop is technically closed, so long as Jess is in the building, there is the potential for trade. She’s never one to let the opportunity of a sale slip by. Sure enough, next thing, I hear her opening the shop door.
‘Come in… it’s horribly cold outside… definitely no snow though… yes, we’re closed, but we always make exceptions…do tell me, what can I do to help?’
Call me cynical, but from the welcome, I already know it’s a guy. Thirty to forty, to judge by Jess’s pitch. A smile spreads across my face, because the supercharge of charm tells me he’s probably good looking too. And just because I’m nosey, and amused, and a little bit bored, I tilt my head to hear better.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry to bother you…’ Male, with a nudge of Scottish in the accent. And the kind of chocolate-fudge undertones that make you shiver. ‘But there’s something I spotted in the window…’
My back goes rigid. You know that thing when you instantly know a voice? Even though it’s from years ago, this particular voice is indelibly logged, deep in my unconscious brain. Five tiny words, from twenty feet away, and my heart is hammering so hard that the sequins on my bodice are jolting.
Shit.
You spend years furtively looking round corners, in case a particular person might be there. Even though you know there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of them being around. And then you go so long without it happening that eventually you relax. Get lazy. You forget to look out. There are even days you forget they ever existed. And then…BANG! They’re there.
The last person in the world I want to see.
I’ll spare you the worst details. Enough to say, his name was Johnny, it was back in uni days, and my humiliation was complete. End of.
Shrinking back against the line of hanging dresses, I try to make myself invisible as I creep forwards to hear better. I’m literally turning my ears inside out, but as the voices move through into The White Room the volume fades. Which is extremely annoying, because they seem to be chatting for ages. And whatever I said about this being the last person in the world I want to see, part of me is aching to catch a glimpse. Just the teensiest peep to see if I’m right. And despite my sensible head screaming ‘no, no, no’ it’s as if my bad-girl feet have a will of their own.
Before I know it, I’m through in the hallway. My bridesmaid’s dress might be expansive, but desperate times and all that… A second later, I’m swirling the skirt, winding tulle around my legs, like I’m folding an umbrella. Hauling it into some kind of diagonal surrender. By the end my ankles are clamped so tight under the twists of fabric, I have to jump to move. But the good news is I’m slender enough to squeeze in beside the Christmas tree and duck behind the mannequin that’s dressed in an Alexandra Pettigrew Sophia dress. And despite the occasional soft jingle from the sleigh bell Christmas deccies I disturbed, I’m enjoying an unrivalled, yet concealed, view of the shop door. What’s more, I’m pretty certain so long as I don’t move I won’t be spotted.
‘Cross my heart, promise I’ll literally only look for a nanosecond.’ I whisper to myself, making ridiculous bargains with whatever fates hurled Johnny across my path. I mean St Aidan is on the edge of Cornwall. No one comes here by accident.
So long as I remember not to breathe, and not to let my heart bang too loudly, that’s everything covered. Which is damn good timing, because the next thing I know, there’s the clatter of loafers on floor boards and they’re back.
‘Well thanks for the bears.’ That throaty lilt sailing over Jess’s shoulder has to be Johnny’s.
Even thinking his name makes me cringe. But bears? Everyone wants to buy the knitted bear wedding couple from the White Room window because they’re unbelievably cute and dinky. But no one’s allowed to because they’re our Brides by the Sea shop mascots. They’ve been here as long as we’ve been open.
‘My pleasure.’ Jess’s triple-volume croon says it all.
We all know Jess would sell her grandmother given half a chance, but surely not those particular six-inch-high, knitted bears?
Suddenly there’s no need to move because Jess takes one step sideways and leaves me a clear view. There’s that feeling where your whole stomach drops so fast you feel it’s left your body. And then it’s like there’s water rushing through your ears, and a whole flock of seagulls just got loose in your chest.
It’s him.
Except older.
And thinner. And ten years more worn. But still the same hollow cheekbones, still flipping that same piece of hair back off his forehead. For a second I think I’m going to die. But then Jess begins to talk again.
She’s got her hand on his arm as she reaches for the door handle. ‘So enjoy the wedding… and Christmas… and good luck with your best-man’s speech…’
Wedding? He’s here for a wedding? I gulp so hard at that I almost inhale the veil that’s dangling next to my cheek. As the shock of the word makes me lurch, there’s the softest tinkle of a bell. And even though it’s the tiniest sound, two heads whip round towards the tree. And just as my eyes lock with Johnny’s dark brown ones, and I see his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, Jess lets out a squawk.
‘Sera? What are you doing behind the Christmas tree?’
Just what I didn’t need. But I can still bluff it. My brain’s racing so fast it’s already reached the excuses pile. Nuts between floor boards. Loose mice. Lost bears. I’m wavering, weighing up the long-term pitfalls of each answer. I’ve pretty much decided to go with the pistachio, and I’m this close to getting away with it when one kitten heel gets jammed in a knot hole in the floorboards. Had my feet been free to move, I might very well have got away with it. Working with the tourniquet of my twisted skirt, I don’t stand a chance. Balance? I’ve completely lost it.
What begins as a tiny wobble, expands to a series of lurches. I’m aware I’m somehow in free fall, and from the hideously loud jangling beside me, I’m guessing I’m taking the Christmas tree with me. Before I know it, I’m in a nose dive, and the floor’s rushing towards me.
‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh…’ My scream has to be huge, because I can’t hear the sleigh bells any more.
In a last-minute effort to avoid a face plant, I hurl myself over onto my back. As the sequins on my dress splinter across the floorboards, and the tree comes crashing down, the face I’m looking up into is Johnny’s. On the up side, the thump of the impact has apparently culled the entire seagull flock. And even though my breathing has turned to gasps, there still isn’t enough force in my chest to make words.
Johnny’s pushing the tree back to the vertical with one hand, still holding his bag of bears in the other. Which pretty much sums up my life. The guy catches the tree, while I end up on the floor. Sprawled horizontal is never the best look, even if my legs are wrapped up like a mermaid’s tail. Especially when my beachy blonde hair and freckles look so bad with the colour of the dress. That’s why I concentrate on my career, every time.
And for once, that cool sardonic smile of Johnny’s is bursting into a laugh.
‘Seraphina East. All in pink.’ He rubs the back of his free hand across his forehead as he looks down at me. ‘I knew there could only be one of you in the world. We must stop meeting like this.’
And then he’s stooping, grasping my hand, and before I know it, a waft of delicious man scent whooshes past my nose, and he’s whisked me back onto my feet. What’s more, as I drag a stray pine cone out of my hair, my dress is unravelling as if it’s alive. In the time it takes to blink, I’m back to the shape of one of those doll birthday cakes, with a Barbie body, and a sponge made in a pudding basin. Except in my case, it’s without the boobs.
‘You see… he said “pink” too.’ I’m sticking my chin out at Jess. ‘And what about the bloody bears? Who said you could sell them?’
It’s not often that Jess is lost for words, but for some reason it must be catching, because she’s opening her mouth and closing it again, and no sound’s coming out. And we’re all standing staring at each other when there’s a warbling noise from The Seraphina East Room.
Johnny’s the first to react. He raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyone expecting a Skype call?’
Fate works in mysterious ways. Johnny disappearing at the speed of light? Or me? Either is good.
‘That one’s mine.’ I hurl myself towards the sanctuary of The Seraphina East Room.
Johnny’s voice echoes after me. ‘Sorry to have disturbed your Friday. I’ll let you get on, then.’ So like him to want the last word. Although that’s not exactly true. The last time I contacted him he didn’t get back to me. At all.
A second later I’m in front of the laptop, staring at an empty chair on the screen, wondering where the heck my Bridezilla sister has got to.
2
Friday, 16th December
Brides by the Sea: Red carpets and wild ideas
‘So is Alice online yet? I’m dying to see her.’
As Jess swoops in next to me on the chaise lounge, she almost knocks my laptop off my knee. With any luck, Alice will move her on from Johnny. Although I’m aching to find out if he mentioned where the wedding was he was going to. Not that he can possibly have any link to Alice’s wedding. Can he?
‘Alice will be along any second.’ I’m whispering to Jess in case Alice comes back on screen. ‘She’s in Brussels, with an army of builders.’ As planned, the ‘b’ words have Jess leaning in even more intently.
In case you’re wondering, Alice works in international interiors. We’re currently waiting for her to attend to urgent site business, which probably means she’s bringing her make-up up to speed before she comes on screen properly.
As Alice’s figure sweeps past the webcam, Jess’s voice shoots high with surprise. ‘Oh, she’s dark. And beautifully groomed. So you’re not alike at all, then?’
Despite the insult, I can’t help laughing, because it’s true. Alice rocks the ‘Audrey Hepburn, poised for the red carpet’ look. Whereas I’m more ‘Courtney Love, the morning after’.
‘Great, I’m here now…’ As Alice slides into view again, she’s got her professional voice on, although it’s less snippy than usual.
‘And she’s so glossy.’ Given Jess is murmuring at my elbow, I take it she’s set on joining in and making this a conference call.
As for the gloss, it’s the expensive sort, not the flashy kind. The prefix high-end applies to every item in Alice’s life. But despite ten minutes spent applying concealer, she’s still got tired-shadows under her eyes.
‘I’ve been trying to get you for hours, Sera…’ She’s exaggerating. Obviously. It’s barely eleven and I’ve been next to my laptop for ages.
But whatever, the tension between us is already crackling. And I’ve no idea why exactly. When we were kids she was the kind of older sister who bossed me about without mercy, but she always stuck up for me when the going got tough. Since we left home, we respect each other’s views and lifestyle choices. Although they’re not the ones we’d choose for ourselves, we care about each other from a safe distance. And like so many other siblings, when we get together, we revert to type.
As for the Skype call, if I know Alice this is my reminder to pick her up when she flies in tomorrow. So I’m getting in first.
‘Don’t worry Alice, I’ve set my alarm for six, I’ll be in Exeter when you land… promise…’
There’s a pause, as she rolls her eyes, not believing a word.
‘That’s why I’ve rung…’ Her second hesitation is long enough for her forehead to pucker under her fringe. ‘Actually I’m not going to be able to come tomorrow after all.’
‘But why not?’ My voice is shrill with shock. Alice never breaks appointments. And what about her wedding? There has to be shedloads of work left to do for that.
‘I’m overseeing a polished-concrete installation, and the frigging mix hasn’t set.’
It’s a rarefied world she lives in. Only Alice would polish concrete. And she doesn’t usually swear either.
‘I see,’ I say, even though I don’t at all. ‘Isn’t it all a bit last minute?’
Her cheeks blow out. ‘It’s a rush job for a diplomat. I pulled it in to help pay for all the wedding extras.’ The heartfelt groan she lets out is very unlike her. ‘I so want all our guests to have a white Christmas they’ll remember forever.’
There you go. I knew she was counting on snow. And with expectations like that, s
he’s setting herself up for a fall. I try to let her down gently. ‘I’m not completely sure it will be white.’ In fact I’m a hundred percent sure it won’t be.
‘It simply has to snow, Sera.’ She’s wringing her hands, and her wail is so loud my laptop vibrates. ‘What’s the point in getting married at Christmas otherwise?’
Between us, a lot of people get married in December because it’s cheaper. Not that I’m cynical, but Alice getting married in Cornwall has more to do with the fabulous venue they’ve got their hands on, than the location itself.
‘The sparkle will be seriously special with all your gorgeous touches,’ I say, feeling weird that I’m suddenly trying to sell this to her. ‘And the log fires.’ I’m trying my hardest to reassure her here. ‘And it’ll be great getting everyone together.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she says, calmer now. Although she can’t be completely herself, because she doesn’t usually go overboard with the gratitude. ‘And I promise I’ll be with you as soon as I can. But until I get there, please can you look after things for me? Be my stand-in project manager on the ground?’
I’m blinking, screwing up my face. ‘What… me…?’ She can’t be serious.
It’s no secret the rest of my family are all hugely brainy and successful. But where Alice surpassed all expectations, I’m the big let-down. From full-on public humiliation when I had to re-take GCSE maths, to going off to college to do fashion, I’ve been the family embarrassment my entire life. We both know I struggle to manage my own tiny life. Not to mention the designs I should be doing. Adding in more is asking for trouble.
