by Jane Linfoot
If Jess gets a sniff of the truth about where I’m heading she’ll go into overdrive. If she starts reeling off road numbers and asking if I’ve got life insurance, I’ll get so hot under the collar, I’ll melt into a pool of grease. Driving round St Aidan I’m fine. But dual carriageways and turning-right arrows in the road give me the willies. And somehow I have to get all the way to Exeter. And it’s no good saying ‘use your sat nav’, because that just confuses me even more. And half the time there’s no connection anyway.
A car horn beeps down below in the mews and makes me jump. Omigod, this is how nervous and wound up I am. That’ll be me in half an hour. Getting lost. Causing hold-ups because I don’t like driving over forty. Everyone beeping me because I’m in the wrong lane.
When I peer past my fabric samples and magazine piles to see out of the window at the car roofs three floors below, I seem to be looking down on a log jam. Except these are cars not logs. There are three or four horns blaring now, their discordant notes clashing. At first I think I’m having some weird fast-forward see-into-the-future vision of me, having a mid-road crisis, en route to Exeter. When I blink myself back to the present and force myself to calm down, even from above I can tell the car at the front is sleek and low. Even though it’s one of those cold, murky, December mornings, when the daylight never really takes a hold, the highly polished, metallic granite paintwork of that car sticks out a mile. Given that by rights Quinn should be miles away, I’m bracing myself for something. I’m just not quite sure what.
‘Sera…’ It’s the Sunday girl calling up. ‘There’s a guy waiting for you downstairs. I put him in the White Room.’
If this is Quinn, it’s an entirely unscheduled visit. Right now he should be at Rose Hill Manor, taking delivery of the starry ceilings for the ballroom. Thank goodness he didn’t do his usual trick of walking right on in like he owns the place, and make it all the way up to the studio. I hurl myself down the stairs, and thirty seconds later I’m skidding to a halt on the bleached floor of the White Room, gasping.
‘What the hell are you doing here? What about the heavenly ceilings?’
From the way Quinn’s holding back his smile, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh ‘Nice to see you too.’ His hands are deep in the pockets of a well-worn duffel coat. ‘Poppy told me I might find you here.’ He’s really rocking the laid-back thing this morning. Which is really damned annoying, when I’m in such a razz.
I pull out my phone and check the time. ‘Well I’m in a hurry, even if you’re not,’ I snap, and give him the most threatening stare I can drum up at short notice. ‘Some of us have to get to the airport.’ Between us, this is the kind of move I usually practise in front of a mirror for a few weeks before I let it loose on the outside world. But we all know there’s no time for that here. ‘If you miss the Celestial Ceilings people…’ Alice will go apoplectic/through the roof/ape – or maybe even all three.
But before I can get that far, he interrupts. ‘Okay, take a chill pill, Sera…’
If he knew how patronising he sounded, he really wouldn’t say that.
He carries on. ‘The flight’s not in until this afternoon, there’s no need to set off yet.’
I’ve done the calculations and I know better. ‘At forty miles an hour it takes…’
He cuts me off mid-sentence. ‘That’s what I came to say. Given you said yesterday how much you hate driving, maybe we should swap jobs. You stay at Rose Hill and I’ll do the airport run.’
‘Right…’ I’m not sure how he picked up on that, but I’m relieved enough to go momentarily floppy. ‘That would be so brill,’ I say weakly, propping myself up on the tilting mirror as my knees collapse with gratitude.
‘But then I got side-tracked by your flamingos.’
‘Flamingos?’ I really have no idea what he’s talking about here.
He lets his smile go. ‘On those very smart pyjamas you’re wearing…’
For a second I think he’s joking, then I look down. As I catch sight of my favourite Topshop shorts sleep set on top of my woolly winter-night tights, my tummy takes a nose dive. How the hell did I forget to get dressed before I came out?
As I squirm in embarrassment, my mouth is gaping, but no words are coming out.
Jess, who’s arrived without me noticing, swoops to my rescue. ‘Sera often wears leisure wear in the studio. Basically talented designers have to feel relaxed or they can’t come up with the goods.’ She’s beaming at Quinn, extending her hand. ‘We haven’t been introduced yet, lovely to meet you, I’m Jess.’
I wince at how horribly close Jess is to the truth there. She’d have a complete hissy fit if she knew about the state of my current non-collection of wedding dresses.
‘So this is your shop? What a fabulous place.’ Quinn’s turned all his attention onto Jess now. ‘I’m Quinn, by the way, Alice’s best man.’
‘Lovely.’ From the way Jess’s purr has switched on, she’s warming to Quinn. ‘Do come through and have a peep at Sera’s room, while you’re here.’ As Jess steers him through, the heat’s right off me, because, true to form, she’s pretty much taken him over.
In a last-minute move, she grabs my wrist and yanks me with them. Before you can say petticoat, there’s a flurry of tulle and lace and whispering voile and she’s whipping dresses off the rails right left and centre. In thirty seconds flat she’s whisked Quinn through the key pieces in the Seraphina East collection, and she’s onto the celebrity pictures.
‘And this is the couture dress designed by Sera, which Josie Redman wore for her celebrity wedding.’ She sounds like a cat that got double cream.
‘The Josie Redman?’ Just this once Quinn is gobsmacked enough to look shocked. ‘Impressive…When you said you made wedding dresses, Sera, I had no idea you meant real ones.’
Even though I hate being around when people see my dresses, I’m indignant enough to chime in here. ‘What other kind are there, Quinn?’
For a moment he’s chastened. ‘Okay, what I mean is, I had no idea they’d be this beautiful… or high end.’
‘Well thanks a bunch for that.’ Talk about wrapping a compliment up in an insult.
He frowns. ‘I can see I’m digging a hole for myself here. But even when you’re not in your jim jams, there’s a big gulf between Sera’s holey denims and Seraphina’s exquisite dresses.’
Even though I think he just said ‘exquisite’, he’s still coming over as pretty insulting, overall.
‘You’ll see.’ I stick out my chin in protest. ‘I scrub up.’ It’s complete bull. The furthest I go is black silk shorts rather than ripped denim. But I can’t let him talk down to me like this.
He laughs. ‘I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s a surprise, that’s all. In a good way.’
As a particularly long and loud blast on a horn in the street resonates around the room Jess hangs up the dress she’s holding and covers her ears. ‘Whatever’s going on out there, it’s playing havoc with my head.’ She pushes back a swathe of tulle and fairy lights and peers down the mews. ‘Looks like some kind of traffic jam…’
Quinn puts his hand to his mouth. ‘Ooops… I think that might be me…’
Jess is at the window in a flash. ‘No, it won’t be, it’s actually a sports car causing the trouble. Dark grey. There’s a traffic warden too.’
Dark grey? I groan. It’s the traffic warden that’s the real giveaway. ‘Quinn, what did I tell you yesterday?’
‘Sounds like my free parking’s over.’ He pulls a face. ‘Sorry to rush you, but we’d better run. Sera, I’ll take you home to get some clothes and drop you at Rose Hill…’
‘But why didn’t you tell me Quinn drove a Ferrari?’
Actually I told her as little as I could. Not that she needed my info, after she’d pumped Poppy dry. As if I noticed the car make. ‘Maybe I was too busy counting the parking tickets.’ As a reply it’s completely true. One blingy car is very much like another, after all. Let’s face it, they’re all t
otally impractical on the roads round here.
‘Sera’s not the only one full of surprises.’ Quinn’s laughing over his shoulder at Jess, as he heads towards the door.
As I hurtle off towards the stairs to grab my coat and satchel I can’t help hoping there won’t be any more surprises today.
10
Sunday, 18th December
At Rose Hill Manor: A cottage by the sea
It’s no surprise that Quinn drives at the speed of light, all the way to Daisy Hill Farm, where we show Poppy how Alice would like her cottages. Then we head over to Rose Hill Manor, which is quarter of a mile down the lane. Yesterday, in the van, we went around the back to the coach house, but today we roar all the way up to the front door.
‘The great thing about this house is it’s relaxed rather than starchy and grand.’ Quinn leaps out of the car and digs deep in his duffel coat pocket for a key. Seconds later he’s pushed open the wide oak door and his arm’s sliding around me, as he shows me into the hall.
It’s a shame he wasn’t this efficient with the cottage keys yesterday, but whatever.
Blinking as I spin away from Quinn’s grasp, I take in a tall white hallway, washed with pale light from high leaded windows. A staircase that’s wide, but definitely more ‘Sleeping Beauty in the country’ than ‘Cinderella at the ball’. Given he smells of something manly and expensive rather than salt, I’m guessing he hasn’t been for a dip in the sea today yet.
‘See what I mean?’ He leans a shoulder on the stair post as he gazes around. ‘Small, yet perfectly formed.’
I’m not sure where Quinn hangs out if that’s how he sums it up. There’s nothing small about the rooms I’m glimpsing behind the half-open doors. But despite the lofty ceiling and the expanses of white walls, the warm pine-drenched scent of the house immediately wraps itself around me. I feel welcomed rather than intimidated.
‘And what a whopper of a Christmas tree.’ I get a crick in my neck as I look up at the branches, tapering up the stair well. It has to be the largest I’ve seen outside Oxford Street. For a moment it spins me back to the last Christmas at uni when one of the guys from the upstairs flat hauled in a tree from someone’s garden that was so big and spiky we couldn’t get down the hallway.
‘And like the rest of the house, it’s still waiting for its decorations.’ Quinn raises one eyebrow. ‘How are you on step ladders?’
I don’t reply, because right now I’m remembering that somewhere upstairs there are bedrooms for the entire bridal party, and more, plus all the ground-floor rooms, where the wedding celebrations will take place on Christmas Eve and roll straight on into Christmas next day. With everything still to do, I can’t believe we’re hanging around in the hall. ‘Maybe we’d better hurry up.’ My voice rises as my chest tightens with the stress. That’s possibly the understatement of the year. ‘We haven’t got time to stand around chatting.’
‘Chill, Sera, you’ve done the most important thing for the morning. At least you’re dressed now.’ That same old smile is lilting around his lips. And no surprise he’s making a dig about the pyjama blunder. ‘As for the wedding, it’s all in the manual…’ He leans over and taps the file I’m clutching, then glances at his watch. ‘There’s time to whizz you round the rest of the ground floor before I leave for the airport.’
‘About that…’ I say, as we push through a door and I take in a series of simply furnished interconnecting rooms, which might have come straight out of an Elle Deco magazine. ‘How did you know I hated driving?’
‘The ceremony will be in what we call the winter garden, by the way.’ He pauses and points to a room with doors looking out onto the garden, then carries on where he left off. What begins as an elbow nudge, somehow ends up with his arm closing around my rib cage. ‘As for the driving, you’re neurotic about parking and a terrified passenger. I joined up the dots.’ The squeeze he gives me forces every bit of oxygen out of my lungs. ‘At a guess you’d rather fly to the moon than drive to Exeter? Which is why I’m going instead.’
Given I haven’t any air to form words, I nod and offer up a silent ‘thank you’ for what he’s saved me from.
‘You could always come too?’ he says, with a wistful look I can’t quite judge.
For a second the idea of racing across into the next county, even with Quinn driving like a crazy person, is quite appealing. Then reality hits. ‘Someone’s got to stay to let the ceiling guys in.’ How can he have forgotten that? Then another thought. ‘Plus, you’re driving a two-seater, and picking up Alice.’ Not to mention all the work there is to do.
‘Shit, so I am.’ He smacks himself on the forehead. ‘Maybe another time then.’
‘Great,’ I smile. Suddenly I don’t feel so bad about going out in my pjs.
He moves on through the house, talking as he goes. ‘My uncle calls this his “cottage by the sea”. He had it redone to look like a beach house a few years back.’ Quinn’s propelling me through the winter garden into an enormous room with sloping ceilings. ‘This was originally built as a ballroom. It’s perfect for the wedding breakfast and the party afterwards. This is where you’ll bring the guys to install the ceiling, okay?’
I screw up my face as I take in more white criss-crossing beams in the roof space.
Again Quinn reads my mind. ‘I don’t understand why Alice would want to hide this either.’ He gives a bemused shrug. ‘But she insists she wants a ceiling with stars that twinkle. They’re the current must-have. Can’t get married without one. It’s the same with the disco floor’.
‘What?’
‘Tut, tut, you really are behind on your wedding reading.’ His lips twitch into that grin again. ‘It’s a kind of electronic light-show dance floor that changes colour with the music. They’re very cool. It’s coming later in the week, once the sky is up.’
‘I suppose she’s only getting married once…’ I muse, wondering why the perfect uncluttered backdrops aren’t enough.
‘We are definitely doing this for one time only,’ Quinn echoes my thoughts as he whisks me through more rooms. As the white painted walls and floors give way to the polished stone and stainless steel of several interlinked kitchens, we come face to face with a wall of cardboard boxes.
The packaging is familiar. ‘Bedroom supplies, for here?’ I’m pointedly ignoring the tray of mistletoe.
‘I brought them in earlier. I thought you could put them out while you were waiting for the ceiling to arrive?’
‘Sure.’
Quinn must have had a very early start, then.
‘And not being sexist…’
I frown at him, because I’ve spotted an ironing board across the room, already erected. ‘But…?’
He nods at the boxes. ‘Somewhere in that lot there are a few hundred seat covers and bows that all need pressing. Don’t worry, the hire chairs have arrived, and they’re in the coach house.’
As it happened, I wasn’t worrying about chairs, because I don’t even know about them yet. I can’t believe he’s a) got so far ahead of me in the instructions, and b) is dishing out the jobs. Which actually is what I intended to do, but whatever.
‘Before you shoot me down, I can iron…’ he says. ‘I would iron… but I’m off to get Alice.’
Even though this arrangement couldn’t suit me better, I can’t resist staring at the creases on his shirt. ‘Yeah, I can really see how much you like ironing.’
‘Designer wrinkles.’ He laughs as he smoothes his hand over the cotton. ‘I prefer my clothes this way. Just like you obviously do with yours.’
Damn. Just my luck that the flowery silk cami I grabbed from the bedroom floor looks like the original crumple zone. Sometimes it’s best to back down gracefully.
‘Don’t worry, you get off, I’ll look after the ironing.’ I’m not going to tell him that I iron anything I can get my hands on. Apart from the clothes on my bedroom floor, obviously.
‘Okay.’ He sticks his hands in his pockets. ‘Help yourself to lunc
h, help yourself to the bedrooms, and remember…’ He flashes me the ‘hang loose’ hand sign. ‘Stay chilled. Alice is on her way and it’s all going to work out fine.’
With Alice here I’m not sure how much chilling there will be. But I’m giving silent cheers, because I’ve avoided an upstairs tour, complete with all the nudging and squeezing opportunities that offered. ‘And Quinn…’ I know he’s already had at least one parking ticket today. And possibly a whole load more I don’t know about. So I may as well give him the benefit of my local knowledge anyway. ‘If you park on the runway, they’ll tow you away. Every time.’
As he backs out of the kitchen, he drops the ‘hang loose’ sign and flashes the ‘birdie’ at me instead.
11
Sunday, 18th December
At Rose Hill Manor: Home alone
When I finally screw up my courage and dare to tiptoe upstairs, I find a dozen lovely bedrooms, all decorated in the same chic yet uncluttered style as down below. There are a couple of gorgeous master suites, with understated four-posters and French-style wardrobes practically the size of my cottage. Between us, if I had one of those at home, I’d put more effort in and the pile of clothes by my bed might be less chaotic. The rest of the bedrooms are still luxurious, in diminishing sizes, all with en suites. And then there are attic rooms too. Lingering by the window, I’m looking out over what could almost be a hidden kingdom nestling in the surrounding hills. Beyond the gardens, there’s parkland and fields, then the lake beyond, which is huge.
It’s much easier putting out goodies in the guest bedrooms here than in the holiday cottages. I zoom from room to room, being careful to keep an ear out for the delivery van, or vans.
By the time Quinn should have reached the airport, each bedroom has its own table-top tree, complete with burnished gold baubles and matching pine cones, and swags across the fireplaces. I’ve put out candles with the scent of angel’s wings, – yes, really – warming bath essences, hessian bows, cashmere throws, cinnamon-spiced pot pourri in hammered metal bowls, spring water in glass bottles with snowflakes on. Oh, and champagne truffles, Turkish delight and crystallised ginger. Everything’s there, except for the mistletoe. Let’s face it, when there’s a hunk like Quinn rampaging around the place, mistletoe is better left until the last possible moment.
