by Jane Linfoot
By the time I step outside to take the empty boxes out to the old stable block, it’s way past lunchtime and a biting wind cuts through my cardi. Although there’s no sign of the elusive ceiling, there’s a white van parked by the coach house. I’m guessing, from the distant noise of grinding metal, that the handyman Quinn mentioned yesterday is working on Alice’s horse-drawn carriage. As I pass and peer in through the half-open door, I can see some kind of cart, which isn’t quite the Cinderella coach I’d imagined. In the yellow light beyond, there’s a figure in a welding mask leaning over a work bench.
If I were more like Poppy, I’d bounce over and say hello. If I were Jess I’d probably go and try to sell him a wedding suit, or at the very least, I’d invite him to Jaggers. As it is, I’m dithering, wondering if I should go and offer him a sandwich, or some tea. But then I spot a kettle and mugs, and if he’s busy he won’t want me to disturb him. So instead I pull my cardi more tightly around me and hurry back to the house. As I dive for the back door and the warmth of the kitchen, if I didn’t know better I’d have sworn there were specks of snow blowing. Which reminds me, we still haven’t collected the snow machines yet.
I know some people hate ironing, but pressing the fabric is so much a part of making dresses that I love it. When I unpack the chair covers, they are dreamy cotton voile and when they’re pressed they come up a treat. With the steam iron hissing, the repetition is so soothing that the afternoon whizzes by.
I was hoping that hours of ironing would provide the space for some design ideas to pop into my head. But it hasn’t happened. As the afternoon light fades and I finally stop for a coffee, I get the latest copy of Vogue out of my satchel to flick through as I drink.
When you’re a designer it’s a bit like being a sponge. You devour magazines, absorb the trends. Find out everything you can about styles and fabrics and celebrity fashions. When you’ve soaked it all up, you let your brain work on it, to give it your own individual spin. Then the designs come out pretty much on their own.
At least that’s what’s always happened in the past. But this time, something’s gone wrong. Because nothing’s coming out. And the more I’m worrying about it, the worse it’s getting.
I’ve moved onto Hello! when I finally hear the throb of an engine outside. This time I pull on my coat, shoot out of the kitchen door and rush around the front of the house, expecting to see a lorry. But instead it’s Quinn, climbing out of his car. Alone.
‘What have you done with Alice?’ I know for sure she won’t have missed her flight.
Quinn rolls his eyes and tugs at his hair. ‘Long story.’ For someone so chilled, he looks remarkably stressed. ‘Alice’s cases were too big for the boot of my car.’
‘Ouch.’ I can imagine how that went down.
‘First she hit the roof,’ he confirms. ‘Then she hired a car of her own. She said to tell you she’s going straight to the farm.’ He shakes his head. ‘Talking of roofs, give me some good news. How’s the ceiling coming on?’
‘It’s not,’ I say flatly. ‘It hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘Shit.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I seriously doubt it’ll be coming now. Probably best not tell Alice, unless she specifically asks.’ As he stares over my shoulder, his frown lines deepen and he mutters. ‘What the hell is he doing here still…?’
As I turn to discover exactly what Quinn is so pissed off about, I see the guy from the coach house coming towards us in the dusk, welding mask in hand.
‘Hey, I thought I heard voices…’
Those six words are enough to send a seismic shiver down my spine. I try to ignore the fact that my heart is pounding so hard that all three of us will be able to hear it. If my feet weren’t rooted to the spot, I might just run. As for what Johnny’s doing here…
Quinn cuts in. ‘Actually, we’re just leaving.’
If I hold my breath Quinn might just pull off his second fairy godmother trick of the day and magic me out of here.
‘We?’ There’s a mocking antagonism in Johnny’s voice. ‘Anyone I should be introduced to before you rush off?’
Right now I can’t dwell on why the guy who was doing his PhD on car engines in Bristol back in the day, should have popped up here of all places, doing something as ridiculous as welding Alice’s Cinderella coach. As if coming face to face with Johnny all over again isn’t bad enough, doing it all in front of Quinn makes it ten times more embarrassing.
Between us, I’m the last person in the world to think on my feet. Whatever I’ve done, for the last eight years, fast-thinking Jess has always been there to leap in and save me. But suddenly it’s all down to me. And just this once I astonish myself so much, I’m surprised my mouth doesn’t lock into a wide-open ‘O’.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m smiling a very broad, very rigid smile. Next thing, I’ve whipped around to face Johnny, head on. And even though my voice is hoarse and I sound as breathy as Marilyn Monroe, at least the words are coming out.
‘Hi Johnny… again. Alice is my sister, by the way… and I’m her bridesmaid.’ And then his words from two days ago pop into my head and straight out of my mouth. ‘We must stop meeting like this…’ I hurl out my hand towards Johnny, daring him to grasp it.
‘Sera…?’ He’s blinking at me in the half light.
At least this way I have the unexpected advantage of seeing smooth-talking Johnny being the one who’s struggling to find words.
Quinn’s staggering backwards. ‘You two know each other?’
I make it as airy and throw-away as I can. ‘Our paths crossed at uni. Briefly.’ That should make it even less significant. ‘And the other day in the shop.’
I’m so busy basking in my own glorious moment, I entirely miss Johnny getting his act together. When his hand comes towards mine, I jump.
‘Great to meet you again too, Sera – or is it Seraphina now?’ His narrowed eyes are glittering with irony. ‘And vertical not horizontal this time. It must be my lucky day.’
There’s a second when my hand is lurching wildly in space and then he grasps it, and anchors me. And then he lets go again.
It only seems right to turn back to Quinn and involve him in the conversation. ‘And Johnny is here because…?’ Somehow Johnny’s not acting like the lowly handyman he’s been billed as.
Before Quinn can reply, Johnny’s in there. ‘I’m Dan’s best man.’
‘Sorry? Is there something I’m missing here?’ I look at Quinn. ‘But aren’t you…?’
Johnny’s back in there, looking like he’s laughing at some private joke. ‘He’s best man’s assistant.’
Quinn quashes that in an instant. ‘We’re both best men. Best man one – me – and he’s best man two.’
‘There are two of you?’ Excuse me for being incredulous, but…
Johnny gives a shrug. ‘Actually it’s the other way around. Dan and I go way back. I sat next to him on my first day at junior school in Suffolk, when my parents flew south from Edinburgh. Whereas Quinn’s known Dan since uni. And J comes before Q in the alphabet. Just saying.’
So that explains it. Strange we never made the connection before. But Alice and Dan never visited me at uni and Johnny rarely spoke about home. So how could we?
And there’s another question I have to ask. ‘Does Alice know she’s doubled up on her best man?’ Because somehow I can’t see her being happy about an arrangement this unorthodox.
Johnny’s doing all the talking here. ‘She got her head around it eventually. In the end she put us down in her book as our generic title, without names.’ Ahh, the book. He’s got one too, of course.
At least it explains why I couldn’t find who the best man was when I looked. And funny how Quinn didn’t admit to this earlier, because it was sure to come out eventually. But maybe that might explain why he’s looking particularly pissed off as he turns to me.
‘Come on, Sera we really should go and get those snow machines. They should have been picked up yesterday.’
‘Probably not that urgent.’ Johnny’s low laugh sounds as if he’s mocking again. ‘Given there’s snow coming in on the forecast.’ All these years and he still hasn’t lost that Ewan McGregor lilt. It killed me then and it’s killing me now. But this time I really don’t want to hear it.
‘It won’t snow,’ I say quickly. Not that I’m taking sides, but I’ve hung out with Quinn for the last thirty hours. And I’m eternally grateful he did my airport run. What’s more, this is the perfect excuse to be air-lifted away from Johnny. I wrack my brains to remember why it isn’t going to snow. ‘It doesn’t snow here because the climate is… err… Pacific.’
There’s a second of silence while the guys momentarily suspend hostilities and stare at each other with puzzled frowns.
Then Quinn jumps to the rescue. ‘I think “oceanic” is the word you’re looking for,’ he says, helpfully.
‘Thank you, Quinn, that’s the one.’ I knew it had something to do with the sea. In fact I was pretty damned close for someone who doesn’t have the first clue. ‘So we’ll be off then,’ I say, as I dive towards Quinn’s car. ‘Catch you later, Johnny.’
This is where we make our quick getaway. A squeal of tyres on the gravel and we’ll be away. I fling open the car door. And that’s where the fast part ends. By the time I’ve managed to contort myself enough to squeeze into the seat, Johnny is standing right next to me. Staring down at the tangle of my legs like I’m some comedy show.
‘Catch you later then, Fi.’ The interior light illuminates his sardonic smile. And that last word makes my chest implode. He’s the only person I ever knew who shortened Seraphina to Fi.
We’re half a mile down the road by the time I remember I’ve left my bag in the kitchen and the house unlocked.
12
Monday, 19th December
In Alice’s cottage at Daisy Hill Farm: Fingers and toes
‘When you’ve got your coffee, come and talk to me in the bathroom.’
As I push down the plunger in the cafetière, I’m literally gagging for a caffeine hit. And Alice is calling me through for a chat, like it isn’t ten in the morning, with a thousand things we should be getting on with. I already seem to have been dashing around for hours and yet here she is, luxuriating in the bath.
Welcome to Alice’s world. Where everything is perfect. The bride has finally arrived, a couple of days late, but hey ho. And even though she just flew in from abroad, her pre-planned outfit for the day is hanging, clean, pressed and waiting on the bathroom door. I know without asking that she hasn’t had to scrabble through the clothes pile to find a clean thong, and dig under the bed to find some shorts that aren’t covered in hot-chocolate slurps. The upside of being super-scheduled is that Alice can factor in time for home spa treatments. Whereas with a super-chaotic life like mine, when I add in a whole heap of extra bridesmaid duties, there’s barely time to brush my teeth.
‘It’s lovely to see you,’ I say, as I wander across the huge bathroom to the Lloyd Loom chair, being very careful not to wreck the chances of a good start by spilling my coffee on the floor. As bride, Alice has claimed the star holiday cottage for both of us to stay in, at least until we move up to Rose Hill for the night before the wedding. Which is why I’m here with my car and a beach bag stuffed with any clean clothes I could lay my hands on. Meanwhile, she’s enjoying the ‘whistles and bells’ gargantuan bath tub as we speak. Actually, there’s barely six inches of Alice showing above the bubbles. And that glossy dark-brown hair of hers I wish was mine is safely stowed inside her shower cap. But we all know what I mean, because I am pleased to see her. If I sound as if I’m gushing, it’s because I’m having that immediate rush of sisterly love that happens every time we meet. Super-sized with wedding emotion.
‘You too,’ she smiles. ‘And you’ve been so busy already – I’m so sorry I’m so late, but I knew you’d be fine without me – thank you so much, Sera, you’re such a star.’
Given she’s not the world’s biggest praiser, and she hardly ever apologises, I suspect she’s feeling the wedding warmth too.
‘Any time,’ I beam. I’m riding the wave, because with Alice the love fest doesn’t usually last long, simply because her standards are so much higher than mine. ‘And what about the snow? Isn’t it beautiful?’
Seeing the view from the window, with the hills dusted powder-white makes me momentarily forget that I came the whole length of the lane from the village in a sideways skid. And it also rubbishes the fact that Quinn and I were running around until eleven last night, collecting and delivering snow machines, with only a drive-thru Big Mac for dinner. But whatever.
‘If only it had come later. I was hoping for snow on the day.’ The sigh that seeps over the bath edge is straight from the heart. ‘Can it possibly last until Saturday?’
Oh my. So she has set her heart on a white wedding. That’s just crazy. I mean, how often is there a white Christmas? And I can see that snow coming a few days early and disappearing again is more disappointing than it never coming at all. What’s worse, she’s looking at me as if I’m personally responsible for the weather.
Of course it won’t last. It’s a miracle it’s here at all. It’ll probably be gone by lunchtime. All of which I ignore. ‘Fingers crossed it’ll stay,’ I say. Hoping that’s positive enough to give her temporary hope, but non-committal enough to avoid a shitload of recriminations when it melts in two hours’ time.
‘Yes.’ There’s a few seconds of reflective silence, when she closes her eyes, and she might actually be praying. But when she opens her eyes again and goes on, her voice is sterner. ‘About the cottages…’
Here we go. I take a deep breath and make my smile bright.
‘You might need a pen… or your tablet?’ The sad thing is, she isn’t joking.
When I come back I’m armed with sketch book and pencil. The next ten minutes are filled with listening to a never-ending list from Alice. Hampers in the kitchens not the living rooms. Scented candles on the fireplaces, not in the bedrooms. Turkish delight on the coffee tables, not in the kitchen. Times twenty. How could we have got this so wrong?
At the same time, Poppy, Immie, Quinn and I have busted a gut on those cottages. And Alice is being a total bitch queen, with her nit-picking. Even if she does wrap it up in fancy packing by calling it ‘attention to detail’ she’s still being a grade-one arse. She seems to be forgetting – she’s not ‘woman in charge on a building site’ here. There isn’t a client waiting to come down on her like a ton of bricks. We’re doing this for her friends and approximate should be completely good enough.
But everyone knows the first rule for a bridesmaid is to avoid challenging the bride. Even when they’re bang out of order. It’s a bridesmaid’s job to take every outrageous wish the bride has and turn it into reality. And unfortunately, weddings can bring out the worst in the mildest brides. But sometimes when Quinn is making snide comments about Alice, however treacherous it makes me feel, I find myself silently agreeing.
Although her reaction is no surprise, given how Alice was even before the wedding came along. She can’t help that she’s naturally one of life’s bossy people, who has no margin for error. When we were kids, she was the one who ran the show. And I was the one who did as I was told. All made worse by our mother, who thought she was a stay-at-home mum. Whereas, in fact, she worked all hours, doing translation work in the summer house in the garden, while we were in the house being looked after by a string of dodgy au pairs.
And whereas my childhood memories are of hunkering down under the kitchen table, being told stories about far-flung places by a series of teenage girls who smelled of Gauloises and had exotic foreign accents, Alice had a very different time. She was older. Old enough to step in and try to bring order to a home where our mum had all but given up. Alice was the one who made sure I had clean clothes to put
on every morning and socks that matched. And when those socks went to sleep in my shoes on the walk to school – my all-time childhood hate – Alice was the one who was kneeling down on the pavement, making things alright. While I was having fun hanging with the au pairs, honing my fashion sense, dreaming of travelling and learning to blow smoke rings, Alice was running around emptying the ashtrays.
‘So what about the rest of the year’s most perfect wedding?’ I say, when she runs out of steam on the criticism four pages later. As I’m learning fast, perfect doesn’t happen all on its own.
‘All coming along brilliantly.’ She brings her hands out of the bath so she can count off the points on her fingers.
‘Hetty’s in charge of the food.’ Finger one. ‘She’s flying her entire team in from New York, arriving Thursday. The food’s coming in refrigerated lorries.’
And this is how Alice has pulled off this mega-wedding. Because her friends love her enough to pull the biggest favours for her. Bridesmaid Hetty’s day job is catering for rock stars on world tours and she’s bringing almost as many hand-picked helpers as there are guests.
‘Flowers were a nightmare so close to Christmas.’ Finger two. ‘But I’m using a London florist and making it affordable by getting them couriered down myself.’
This is Alice for you. She ducks and dives and gets what she wants every time.
‘Jo’s sorted the cake and Dan’s bringing it down from London.’ Finger three.
Bridesmaid three happens to own a patisserie. Yum to that one. Which also reminds me I haven’t had breakfast yet.
