Sequins and Snowflakes

by Jane Linfoot

  Quinn looks as gobsmacked as the rest of us as he picks up the jar. ‘Guaranteed party proof. What did I tell you?’

  ‘I know we wouldn’t be here without you, Quinn.’ Alice hisses. ‘But right now you are so full of shit.’ Alice, that would be Alice who has trained herself never to swear, is speaking through gritted teeth now. ‘Why are you all so damned incapable? My glasses are in pieces, the snow’s been and gone, and my bloody husband-to-be hasn’t even shown up yet. Where the hell is he?’

  She’s holding us all equally responsible for stuffing up here, but thus far she hasn’t mentioned my tree blunder. And obviously Quinn has pulled so many strings to make this wedding happen, he’s pretty much beyond reproach, whatever he does.

  ‘Actually there’s more. More not-so-good news… if that’s what we’re doing here.’ Quinn’s got a strange go-for-broke look about him. If this is his way of taking the heat out of the ‘where the hell is Dan’ question, I’m not sure it’s the best idea. Or the best time.

  ‘Well go on…?’

  ‘Celestial Skies are going bust as we speak. I’m sorry, but you can wave goodbye to your starry ceiling.’ And finally, Quinn comes in with an apology. For something he’s completely not responsible for. ‘And probably the disco floor too.’

  18

  Wednesday, 21st December

  In Poppy’s kitchen at Brides by the Sea: Hanging lanterns and chocolate input

  ‘Nothing picks me up like maple syrup pancakes for breakfast.’ I’m eating my fourth, and smiling gratefully at Poppy as I lick my fingers. ‘I was feeling so guilty for bailing on Alice.

  My big admission is that last night I left Alice in a full bath, loaded with as many relaxing bath oils as I could lay my hands on. I poured her a very large glass of wine I knew she wouldn’t drink. Topped up her crystallised ginger supply. Then ran. Back to my own bed. And now I’m sitting in Poppy’s kitchen, in the top-floor flat at Brides by the Sea, pouring out my troubles and comfort eating.

  Poppy puts down the pancake pan. ‘You talked Alice down before you left. And it made sense to sleep at home if you wanted to do some work in the studio this morning.’

  She’s doing a great job of making me feel better, on every level. Alice was calmer by the time she got into the bath, although for obvious reasons we skirted around controversial subjects. So I’m no wiser about what happened at the lunchtime drinks party it took her twenty-four hours to come back from. But I did squeeze in a long session in the studio earlier, experimenting with satin slips. And tulle and ribbon. And chiffon twists. Although I’m not really any wiser about that either.

  ‘It’s so great to have you back again, Pops.’ My voice is thick with syrup. It makes the whole shop feel more homely again, with Poppy running up and down the stairs, and clanking her baking tins. Just being back in Poppy’s tiny kitchen, with its bird’s-eye view of the sea, is making me feel better. With its blue-painted cupboards and the shelves crammed with mixing bowls and brightly coloured crockery, it could have come out of one of my gran’s pictures.

  She laughs. ‘I’m making marzipan stars and chocolate truffles for Christmas pressies. I’m doing it here so Rafe doesn’t wolf them all.’

  ‘Yum. Definitely the right morning for me to drop in to the shop, then.’

  ‘I might be able to help with your other stuff too,’ she says, patting my shoulder as she passes. ‘If Alice insists you wear something other than your shorts, you’re welcome to raid the hanging rail in the bedroom here.’ Poppy whisks out of the kitchen and comes back in with some pretty print dresses on hangers. ‘I’m bigger than you, but there’s a silk shift you might like and a couple of culottes mini dresses. Take them to try.’ She slides them into a carrier, then gets a bowl of chocolate-truffle mix out of the fridge and puts it on the table.

  ‘Alice’s friends will hate her if she’s this dictatorial about the wedding with them.’ I take the foil cases Poppy hands me and start to arrange them on the waiting tray. ‘I forgive her, but she’s my sister.’ That’s the unwritten rule. Your relations will put up with stuff no one else would.

  ‘Inside every bride, there’s always a Bridezilla hammering to be let out. And sometimes she escapes.’ Poppy takes a scoop of truffle mix, rolls it between her palms, then drops it into a cup of cocoa powder to coat it. ‘So hopefully that’s your dress problem solved. What else did you say?’ She delivers the first perfect truffle into its case and begins the next.

  I sigh, because it’s so hopeless. ‘Any ideas how we can recreate a twelve-thousand-pound starry sky? Alice thinks the exposed roof timbers in the ballroom make it feel too cold.’ This from a woman who, in the next breath, is demanding snow.

  Poppy scrunches up her mouth as she rolls the next truffle in a tray of crushed nuts. ‘People created amazing effects in the marquees at the weddings at Daisy Hill Farm last summer. I’m sure there are photos on the website.’ She wipes her hands on her apron and flips out her phone.

  A moment later I’m staring at the most amazing pictures. Twigs and branches, suspended and dotted with thousands of tiny fairy lights, lines of dangling lanterns, long tables with clusters of lighted candles along their centres. And all of them beautiful.

  ‘Wow.’

  Poppy smiles. ‘There’s no reason you couldn’t do something like this at the Manor.’

  There’s a flutter in my chest. ‘It might just work.’ My voice is high with excitement and relief, and I’m babbling as I think out loud. ‘We could use the beams to hang things from. We’d need shitloads of fairy lights and twigs. Omigod, what kind of trees are they from?’ Maybe Alice doesn’t have to be stuck with her stark roof after all.

  ‘Hang on.’ Poppy puts down her phone and dashes off down the stairs to the shop. A few minutes later there’s a clattering of footsteps and she’s back with Jess.

  ‘If you’d told me you were making truffles, I’d have been up hours ago.’ Jess is gasping after running up four flights of stairs.

  ‘Here.’ Poppy shoves a truffle into Jess’s hand.

  ‘Best man anywhere around, then?’ Jess takes a bite of her chocolate.

  ‘Not today.’ I haven’t actually broken it to her that there are two of them yet.

  She’s rubbing cocoa off her lips. ‘If I were you and he was my date, I swear, I would not let him out of my sight.’

  Who’d have thought she’d be so impressed by a flash car? But I have to smile at her direct approach. ‘Well a) you’re not me, and b) he’s not even close to being my date. So we’re all good.’

  Poppy’s holding a second truffle at the ready. ‘Actually we got you up here because we need your floristry expertise…’ She flashes her phone at Jess. ‘For twig identification. Are these any particular sort of twig or branch?’

  Jess takes a moment to unglue her eyes from the waiting truffle and focus on the screen. ‘I’d say they’re birch. Most birch varieties have delicate branches and lots of twiggy growth. They’re fairly common. Where do you want them for?’

  ‘Thanks, Jess, we need some for the ballroom at Rose Hill Manor.’ I say, slightly underplaying how many. That’s the thing about problems, they keep on coming. You solve one, then there’s another. Next up: where to find a birch forest.

  ‘Look in the grounds, there’ll probably be birches there you can take them from. If there aren’t any there, shout and I’ll help you find some.’ Claiming her nut-truffle prize from Poppy, she strides past me to look out of the tiny window as she eats it.

  Poppy might be here so Rafe doesn’t snaffle her chocolates, but so far she’s made two truffles and they’ve both been eaten. And I haven’t even had any yet. If my next job’s locating a forest, with the size of chocolate input I’ll need for that, Poppy’s going to have to make another batch.

  ‘The sea’s not very sparkly today. It’s so cold, can you believe there are actually people swimming out there?’

  ‘People?’ Why have my ears pricked up at the word swimming?

  ‘Actually o
nly one.’

  Before I can stop myself I’m at her elbow.

  She points. ‘See, wading out of the sea.’

  I zoom in on a figure in a wetsuit down by the shoreline. ‘It looks like Quinn.’ Something about the laid-back way he’s strolling, swiping the water off his face, as he strides up the beach, tells me there’s probably a parking warden not far away.

  ‘You can recognise him from up here?’ Poppy’s grinning. ‘I knew you two were close, but…’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Jess rounds on me. ‘Get on down there, see if he knows if there are birch trees at Rose Hill.’

  There’s a nanosecond of deliberation, when I weigh up whether I should wait for truffles or nail the birch twigs. But sadly for my sweet tooth, with the wedding so close, there isn’t a contest.

  The next thing I know, I’ve got my carrier bag of Poppy’s dresses in my hand and I’m hurtling down the stairs.

  19

  Wednesday, 21st December

  On the island at Rose Hill Manor: Highwaymen and toasted tea cakes

  ‘When I asked you for birch trees, I wasn’t counting on spending the rest of the morning in a rowing boat.’

  Quinn laughs as he pulls on the oars, battling into a head wind as he rows. ‘Pretty twigs don’t grow on any old trees you know. They have to be the right trees and the only place birches grow is on the island.’

  In case you haven’t got that yet, that’s the island in the middle of the lake. Although the wind is whipping up so hard today, the lake actually has waves on, like the sea. We’ve been chopping down branches from the wood on the island, and ferrying them back to the house. After working all morning, the pile in front of the ballroom doors is pretty huge.

  And, yes, I have run a twiggy ceiling past Alice, in a hurried conversation. I rang her from the shop and she checked out the Weddings at Daisy Hill Farm website. Either that website has fairy dust sprinkled on it or maybe Alice sensed she was stuck between a rock and a hard place. But whatever the reason, she’s said ‘yes’ – in principle – to the idea of twigs and lights.

  ‘It’s taking a lot more branches than I realised,’ I say. We’re on our fifth trip. On reflection it was rash to say twigs across the whole ceiling, without actually realising how humungous the ballroom is.

  Quinn laughs. ‘When I told you you’d get to great places if you hung out with me, I wasn’t joking.’ He nudges the boat up alongside the jetty, throws a rope around a short post and pulls us into the side. ‘We used to love hanging out here when we were kids. It’s why I’m a natural sailor now.’

  ‘I bet the summer house is lovely when it’s warmer.’ The building is like something out of Swallows and Amazons. It’s an idyllic hideaway, with a lovely wooden-plank building and a veranda overlooking the water. ‘I’ve always loved verandas ever since I saw one in the “Alfie” books when I was little.’

  ‘This’ll be the last load.’ Quinn leaps onto the jetty then gets hold of my hand and yanks me after him.

  ‘Ooops…’ As my foot hits the boards, I stumble, crashing against his padded gilet as he breaks my fall.

  Immediately his arm closes around me. ‘Whoa… watch it, we don’t want you in the water.’

  I’m with him on that one. The smell of sea salt and waxed cotton wafts straight up my nose, as his warmth spreads through me. For a moment I’m wedged under his armpit. As I close my eyes and lean into his body, suddenly in my head we’re running along the shoreline, hand in hand. Jeez. I can’t quite believe I’m thinking this. But the more I try to blank it, the worse it gets. We’re muffled against the cold, in matching scarfs, dodging the frothing breakers as they roll up the beach. Really? Then we’re in the Surf Shack Café, our foreheads touching, as we wait for our double order of large mochas and toasted teacakes, dripping with butter. And thankfully that’s where the dream breaks, because I always have hot chocolate not mocha, and the currants in teacakes are like dead insects. Bleughh. I give a shudder. Even if they’re hot and butter-drenched I couldn’t be tempted.

  ‘Cold?’ He’s grinning down at me and for some reason he’s still hanging on to me as if I’m about to dive into the water at any moment.

  If my heart is skittering, it’s only because I almost fell in. And nothing whatsoever to do with a certain pair of gorgeous blue eyes looking at me.

  Pulling away, I head towards the safe end of the jetty. ‘No worries, carrying twigs will soon make me warm.’

  I’m not wrong. We tramp backwards and forwards through the undergrowth, dragging branches behind us, piling them into the boat. I’m starting to wonder if Quinn ever heard of the Plimsoll line and the dangers of overloading vessels, when he finally says, ‘Okay, one more lot should do it.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Because those maple-syrup pancakes I had for breakfast are a distant memory.’ My stomach is literally growling with hunger. As the branches tucked under my arm swish along behind me, I’m already planning my raid on the fridge in the Manor kitchen. Then as we round the bend on the path and come to face the jetty, I realise there’s something significant missing. ‘Quinn, where’s the boat?’

  He blinks and scratches his head. ‘Did you see me tie it up?’

  Not exactly the line I’m expecting from the guy who twenty minutes ago was claiming to be a natural sailor. I give a shrug.

  ‘I’d swear I tied it in a highwayman’s hitch, so one tug on the rope would cast us off. As used by highwaymen back in the day when they wanted to undo their horses quickly. The wind must have tugged it free.’

  I’m not sure what horses have to do with anything when our damned boat is nowhere in sight. And I’m also surprised Quinn looks so unbothered. ‘So what do we do now?’ I ask. ‘Swim? I’m so damned hungry I might have to.’ That’s a joke, obviously. While I love the beach, I hate going out of my depth. Not that I broadcast this in a town where everyone except yours truly swims like a dolphin.

  There’s a strange lilt around Quinn’s lips. ‘I was going to suggest we stopped for a picnic anyway.’ He picks up his tool bag from the jetty. ‘We can build a fire and hunker down in the summer house for as long as it takes.’

  ‘What?’ I’m appalled on so many levels. Lack of lunch is only one.

  ‘If no one’s found us by morning, I promise I’ll swim for help.’ He’s got his bloody ‘hang loose and chill’ voice on.

  ‘Morning?’ I echo, weakly. Surely not? Everyone seems to have forgotten there’s a wedding rushing towards us at a million miles an hour. And we’re a million miles from being ready for it. Just when things seemed to be looking up too. As for getting marooned in a cabin alone with Quinn…

  ‘How about I cook you an island all-day breakfast of hot dogs?’ He’s grinning. ‘For starters.’

  My mouth is watering. I swallow loudly. ‘You’ve got food?’ The promise of lunch momentarily eclipses my doubts. Sad to say, at this exact moment the hole in my stomach is so huge, this is what I care about most.

  ‘Obviously. How does lunch by a log fire sound? And we can wash the hot dogs down with buck’s fizz.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ That seriously qualifies as a contender for understatement of the decade. I frown as he pulls a bottle of champagne out of the bag. ‘I thought you had your saws in there?’

  ‘Saws and a few of life’s other essentials.’ As he gives a low laugh, his eyes are locked on my face, as if he’s watching for a reaction. ‘So let’s take it from here, shall we?’

  If he’s talking about hot dogs, I’m in. As for the rest, I’ll worry about that later.

  20

  Wednesday, 21st December

  In the island cabin at Rose Hill Manor: Take it from the top

  Here’s another instance of Quinn being good with keys, even if he does have a tendency to lose boats. Along with the well-stocked bag and matches, he also has the key for the summer house in his pocket. There’s a stack of dry wood and kindling on the veranda and it turns out his fire-building and lamp-lighting skills a
re as impressive as his cooking. Okay, thus far I’ve only seen him cook sausages. Twice. There may be a bit of a theme going on there. And both times I was hungry enough to have eaten a proverbial horse.

  ‘More Bolly?’ Quinn holds up the bottle. He found a shelf of beautiful champagne flutes in the cabin kitchen, which seems ironic after all the smashed glass of the last couple of days. ‘There are some candles in the bag, if you’d like to light them. And I’ll get some more wood in.’ For a picnic, thrown in at the last minute, he’s pretty much thought of everything. As I hold out my glass, I’m sitting on the thick floor rug, toasting my toes in front of the roaring fire. With my back propped against the comfortably faded sofa, I can’t remember when I last felt this lazy and relaxed. The fistful of jam jars that he drops beside me for the candles makes me smile.

  ‘Thanks.’ As he pours, I can’t resist the tease. ‘Although I can’t think why you gave us flutes to drink out of when you had on-trend jam jars to hand.’

  He drops a box of matches next to me and I drag his bag towards me as he heads out to the veranda for logs. I pull out a pair of pruning shears and a couple of saws, so I can dig in better. As my hand closes around the box of candles, my heart misses a beat. Surely he hasn’t brought…? I squint closer, praying to the god of winter breaks in summer houses, that I’m mistaken. But, damn me, I’m not. Nestling between the spare matches and a sleek stainless steel cork screw, I can’t miss the dayglow pink-and-orange box. Of condoms. I peer in closer to read the label.

  ‘Surprise and Delight? Quinn, are these yours?’

  ‘Shit, you found them.’ By the time he’s back in the room and stacking the wood on the fireplace, his initial dismay has been displaced by a familiar unrepentant grin. ‘And?’

  ‘What the hell did you bring these for?’ And why the hell have I challenged him on it? If I hadn’t been so shocked I’d have been sensible and pretended not to see them.