by Jane Linfoot
‘Great.’ This should be easy, so why is he making it sound hard?
‘One condition –’ this time he does look at me, and it’s almost a glare. ‘– don’t bother me with it, because I don’t want to know.’
‘Right.’ So what about the other hundred items on my list that all need answers?
‘If that’s clear, when you can bear to drag yourself away, I’ll take you to see the wedding field.’
I’m strangely reluctant to detach myself from the snuffly noses, but I do. Slowly.
After a long goodbye, he hands me a towel, which is good because I’ve never known slime like it. I’m still wiping my hands on the back of my jeans as the barn door clangs shut behind us.
‘As for your contract, Wedding Coordinator doesn’t adequately describe the responsibility you’ll be taking here. You won’t just be planning, you’ll be the one everyone turns to on the day. The one in total charge. In other words, it’s your head on the block.’ He’s ushering me towards the tractor, and shouting over the roar of the wind. ‘You’d better change your job title to Events Manager.’
Immie was so right when she said this guy has no idea.
8
A Tour of Daisy Hill Farm Continued: Red boots and spring rain
‘So if you were having a birthday cake, I think either a tractor, or a cow would suit you.’ I’m musing here. Allocating cake designs to people? It’s a thing I like to do as soon as I get to know a little about someone. Even if they are blowing hot and cold.
We’re bowling along rutted tracks back to the main farm, and to be honest there’s simply no space left in my head for another fact about cows or sheep or fertilizer or slurry. Slurry? It’s the most disgusting thing out. Take it from me, you DO NOT want to know details. And don’t write me off as an air head, but my brain is officially rammed. There’s enough agricultural information in there to last at least two lifetimes, which is why I decided I have to fill the space as we drive back to the farm with a conversation about normal stuff.
‘Why the hell would I want a birthday cake?’ Rafe sends me another of his disbelieving sideways glances. I’ve noticed he resorts to these a lot when it’s me doing the talking not him.
I’m torn between frustration at him being so unreceptive, and a horrible pang of sympathy for someone who obviously hasn’t blown out any candles in a very long time. How can a guy be so out of touch with the fun side of life?
‘When did you last have one?’ This is less rude than it sounds, I’m only trying to keep the conversation on topic. And asking questions will save me from what Immie calls my nervous splurging.
‘How do I know? Probably when I was about five.’
Probably not true at all. Isn’t it a typical guy thing to dismiss what doesn’t interest them?
‘My mum made the most awesome birthday cakes,’ I say. It’s out before I can stop myself, because usually I’d rather not talk about my mum, especially not with strangers, so I move on swiftly. ‘For my fifth birthday I had the most amazing merry-go-round cake, with prancing horses and barley sugar twists holding up the roof.’ Growing up in a kitchen with the table covered in icing bowls and piping bags definitely rubbed off on me, but there’s no point sharing that with a cake hater.
‘So I grew up with cows and tractors, you grew up with cake. That explains a lot.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh. ‘It’s always the kids who have easy childhoods who grow up to be annoyingly happy adults.’
Two side swipes in one breath. I doubt that my mum bringing me up on her own counted as easy for her, not that I’m going to tell Rafe that. My dad died when I was too young to remember, we never had much money or owned a home, but my mum made up for it in every other way. Our home might have been tiny, but it was filled with warmth and love and colour. If those digs were meant to shut me up, I’m not letting him get away with it.
‘Whereas you had so much, and still turned out moody and bad tempered,’ I snap back. That came out more harshly than I intended, but maybe someone needs to tell him.
He comes straight back at me. ‘Well, sorry I don’t go round wearing spotty wellies and thinking the whole world should be made of sugar, but some people have responsibilities.’
I had no idea he’d even noticed Cate’s red boots. What kind of guy takes offence at wellies?
He gives a snort. ‘And just so you know, in-your-face red hair might match your name, and it might be fine if you want to scream “happy hippy”, but I’m not sure it sends out the right message for a Wedding Coordinator.’
I’m wearing borrowed wellies, have go-wild-after-break-up hair, and I’ve been thrown into the job. I take a minute to collect myself in the face of that attack.
‘Actually, I’m not a Wedding Coordinator, I’m an Events Manager according to you.’ I throw that at him for starters. And whereas I might have been thinking along those lines myself about the hair a couple of weeks down the line, now he’s been so rude, I’m damned if I’m going to tone it down. ‘As for my name, I’m called after the blue poppy, not the red one.’ My mum’s favourite flower, our garden was bursting with them. ‘Known as meconopsis.’
His only reply is to lean forward and flick on the stereo, and we roar up the lane back towards the farm. Oasis blasts away the silence, and the beat is loud enough to make my head throb. As we pass the farmhouse Immie is there waving her arms, and there’s lucky respite as Rafe cuts the music and slides open the window.
‘You two getting on okay? No more falling in ditches I hope?’ She asks with a breezy laugh.
I’d say overall it’s a big fat ‘no’ to both those questions, but she isn’t waiting for an answer.
‘By the way Rafe, Morgan texted, says he’ll be round to help with the engine rebuild later,’ she adds.
‘Fine.’ Another monosyllabic reply from Rafe.
Immie’s fourteen year old son, Morgan, has morphed from a sweet boy to a monster overnight due to a testosterone rush. That’s Immie’s description, not mine. But if Rafe is an example of Immie’s choice of fun male role models to keep Morgan out of trouble, I feel sorry for poor Morgan.
‘We’re just off to see the venue field, I’ll be back for him in a bit.’ Rafe says, as he slams the window shut, and then we’re bouncing off down the lane again.
As he turns through a gateway with an open five bar gate, I’m a) still fuming b) thinking we need some signage.
‘So what would yours be then?’ His question comes from nowhere as we skid down a field.
‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘Your birthday cake. What kind would you make for yourself?’
Who’d have thought he’d ask that?
‘A summer garden, bursting with flowers.’ Easy to answer. ‘And I might not have a cake, I’d probably make a cupcake tower.’
Too much information there obviously, given he’s shaking his head again, but then he pulls to a halt in front of an open barn, and my eyes go wide.
‘This is it,’ he says, with a ‘take it or leave it’ shrug. ‘Ceremony in the building, marquees anywhere on the grass, and car parking in the next field beyond the trees. Nothing more to it than that.’
I know I shouldn’t be gushing, but my surprise whooshes any remaining crossness away. ‘It’s so pretty.’ Even on this grey winter’s afternoon it’s beautiful. With the carved wooden pillars across the front of the open barn and the ancient flag floor, I can imagine it festooned with garlands of summer flowers. As I take in the field rolling gently down past a fairy wood to a stream, I can suddenly see why Cate has set her heart on marrying here.
Rafe flings open the tractor door and jumps out, and cold air floods into the cab, along with the most disgusting stench.
I bury my nose in my sleeve as I clamber down after him. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘The smell?’ His expression suggests amusement, but on second glance it’s more of a grimace than a smile. ‘Muck spreading in the next field.’ He folds his arms. ‘Is there
a problem?’
Obviously he doesn’t think so, despite the stink being enough to make me retch. I peer over the hedge. The grass is covered with a thick brown mat of what looks like cow poo.
‘You aren’t going to …’ My voice is coming out as a squeak. ‘You aren’t going to do that in this field are you?’
‘It’s next on the work sheet,’ he says, as if it’s the most matter of fact thing in the world.
‘Are you mad? You can’t have brides wading through …’ I man up and say it. ‘… cow shit.’
He doesn’t flinch. ‘Don’t worry, a bit of spring rain, and it’ll soon soak into the ground.’ Spoken like a farmer talking to a townie, not a wedding venue owner talking to his Events Manager.
My brain whirrs. This is another thing I needed to tell him. ‘The first booking is at Easter.’
He looks unruffled.
‘Which is the 25th of March.’ As I count back in my head my hands go clammy. ‘That’s only five weeks away.’ I might just be shrieking now. It’s going to take a deluge of rain to clear this lot by then.
The way his mouth is set, he almost looks jubilant. ‘As I said before, it’s over to you now. That’s your problem, not mine.’
Last week I might have let that go. Ten minutes ago I might have shied away. But thanks to the cow shit, something’s shifted inside me. I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my Barbour and clench my teeth.
‘Fine.’ I stick out my chin, begin to take a deep breath, then think better of it and take a small sniff instead. ‘If I’m in charge, I say, we won’t be having muck spreading in this field, and we won’t be having it in the surrounding fields either. Is that clear?’
I reel at how decisive I sound.
‘I’ll stop it then,’ he mutters. ‘But it won’t be good for the soil in the long term.’ With a loud sigh he turns away and gets out his phone.
‘Soil isn’t my problem,’ I hiss.
No, my problems are way bigger. Like how to deal with the nightmare known as Rafe Barker. And how to prepare for a wedding, in only five weeks’ time, when, thanks to the chaos left behind by Carrie, I don’t have the first clue how to get in contact with the bride and groom.
9
In my flat at Brides by the Sea: Anyone like a cupcake?
After the shock of the news that her wedding venue was under threat, Cate didn’t want to tempt fate and look at bridesmaids dresses last Saturday. But now her wedding’s back on track, we’ve arranged to look at the bridesmaids’ dresses after work today. And to put us in the country wedding mood, I’m making a last minute batch of cupcakes. So I’m in my cosy, pocket handkerchief size kitchen, sprinkling sugar daisies on top of swirls of lemon buttercream when Immie’s text arrives.
I’m here, I’m early, are you in? xx
She’s not kidding about early. I was counting on another half an hour to finish the cupcakes, and to get changed. Dragging off my apron, I clatter down four flights of stairs, and fling open the door to find Immie, legs bowing under the weight of a huge box.
I waft her into the hall with a couple of air kisses. ‘I didn’t know you were bringing dresses.’
‘I’m not.’ Her frown is uncertain. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to kill me for this, but I had a tutorial in Falmouth, so I’ve been round to see Brett.’
‘What …?’ I open and close my mouth, as I collapse quietly against the door frame, but nothing more comes out.
‘After what you said about Carrie’s stuff, I thought it was time you had yours.’ Immie blows out her cheeks. ‘Actually the car’s rammed.’
What …? At least she has the decency to look slightly shame faced, which doesn’t happen often with Immie.
‘I’m sorry Pops, but someone had to do it.’ She dumps the box by the stairs. ‘Come on, the car won’t unload itself.’ Before I can open my mouth to protest, she grabs my arm, and the next thing I know we’re shuttling up and down the cobbled mews behind the shop, with bags and boxes.
By five when Cate arrives, Immie and I are red and sweating, and my tiny top floor bedroom is piled high with bulging black sacks.
‘Packing up to move to the farm already?’ Cate takes off her Alice band and shakes out her hair. Then she slips off her mac, strides over a stray bag, and lays her coat on the bed.
‘No, this lot is on its way in, from a certain penthouse.’ Immie explains for Cate’s benefit. ‘I’m re-uniting Poppy with her festival wellies,’ She gives me one of her tough love stares. ‘It’s time to accept that you and Brett are over, Poppy.’
‘I see,’ Cate sounds doubtful. She’s left work early to do bridesmaid shopping not a house move. It’s Friday afternoon. After a hard week she’s looking forward to a glass of prosecco, and a cosy session in the shop downstairs.
I twiddle with the edge of a black bag. ‘I think leaving my things behind was a way of playing for time.’ With my things here, the break up suddenly feels very concrete and final. And it’s not about losing Brett, it’s more about accepting that from now on, I’m on my own. And that’s me on my own forever, because I’m done with relationships. ‘It’s hard to think I might never be part of a couple again. Or a family.’
Cate’s arm lands round my shoulder. ‘Move to the farm, and be nearer Immie and me. We’re your family.’
Immie nods in agreement.
The thought of leaving my cosy attic in the heart of St Aidan is bad enough, but anywhere near Rafe Barker would be my worst nightmare at the moment. ‘What? And live next door to the boss from hell?’
Cate scours my face for clues. ‘You and Rafe aren’t getting on?’
Immie laughs. ‘Understatement of the decade. The good news is our meek mouse Poppy has finally found her inner lioness.’
‘I’m so sorry, Pops, it’s all my fault you’re in this situation.’ Then suddenly a beam spreads across Cate’s face. ‘But the lion bit sounds good, what happened?’
‘Anyone like a cupcake?’ I try to distract them. ‘There’s fizz in the fridge too.’
They don’t move. When were they not bribed by the promise of prosecco?
‘Come through, and I’ll tell you while I open the bottle?’ My last attempt works, and we all cram into the tiny kitchen as I pop the cork. I wait until the girls have wine in hand and mouths full of cake, so they can’t interrupt too much, because between you and me, I’ve been asking myself the exact same question. Why am I jumping down Rafe’s throat all of a sudden, when I can barely say boo to a goose?
‘I’m winging it here,’ I begin, not quite knowing what to say. I’ve inadvertently taken a bite of bun, and as I talk through my cake, the crumbs falling down my front remind me of Rafe picking me up about crumbs on the desk. And suddenly I know. ‘I always bit my tongue with Brett because I didn’t want him to dump me. I never told him what I thought, because I was scared I’d lose him.’
‘So you concede you were a bit of a doormat then?’ Immie is grinning. I’m not sure if it’s the sugar, or the first wine of the day going to her head.
Immie’s glass is already empty, so I top her up, ignoring the doormat bit. ‘Brett acted like he was the boss, and that was fine because he was better than me.’ I ignore Cate and Immie’s matching appalled looks and blown out cheeks, and carry on. ‘I gave up a good job to live with him, but once we were together here, he was the one with the big salary, the flat, the fast car. All I did was bake a few cakes.’
‘I’ll let that amazing piece of self-dismissal go …’ Immie is shaking her head. ‘But how come you tell Rafe exactly what you think?’
‘Ha, that’s easy.’ I don’t hesitate. ‘To start with I was really angry that he nearly robbed you of your wedding, Cate. And fighting your corner is way easier than doing it for myself.’
‘Go Poppy!’ Cate cheers. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘The wedding side is in complete chaos.’ I have to be careful here, because I don’t want to alarm Cate. If she knew there was no trace of her booking she might just lose it. ‘In
confidence,’ I meet eyes with Cate, ‘to give you an idea, there’s a wedding booked for a month’s time, but I’ve got no clue at all who made the booking, and no way of getting in touch with them.’
Cate’s eyes go wide. ‘Oh crap …’
I go on. ‘But then Rafe’s not even apologetic, and he’s so so rude all the time, and so damned annoying.’ Even as I think about him the back of my neck begins to prickle. ‘He’s got it all – looks, a rich family, a great place to live. All that, and he can’t even be bothered to be civil. So for the first time in years I didn’t hold back when he pissed me off, I said exactly what I thought.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Immie sounds impressed.
Cate waves her glass in the air. ‘Yay Poppy!’
I slosh out more wine all round. At this rate it’ll be taxis home.
‘And although we’re having all-out war, for the first time in years I feel like I’m being true to myself.’ I slug back my own wine so fast, the bubbles sting my nose. ‘And you know what, I like saying what I think.’ I glance at my watch. ‘Sorry to rush you, but we’d better head down to the shop. Jess will be waiting. Take your glasses, I’ll grab another bottle or two to take down with us.’
‘It’s nice to have our feisty Poppy back.’ Cate grabs a last cupcake as she heads off down the white painted stairs. ‘I’m going to need all the strength I can get if you’re both saying it like it is. Have you got any hard hats in those bags of yours, because I have a feeling we might need them? Bridesmaid wars here we come.’
10
The Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut, at Brides by the Sea: Counting on fingers
The Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut is the upstairs shop area dedicated to bridesmaids, but you probably guessed that already. Jess recently gave it a beachy make-over, hence the name, and as we troop in across the artfully scuffed floorboards she’s straightening the pink striped fitting room curtains.
‘Wow.’ Cate’s eyes light up when she sees the love seat decked with fairy lights. But when she spots the long rail of dresses beyond, her beam stretches the width of the bay.
