by Jane Linfoot
Then he gives a long low laugh that bounces off the whitewashed office walls and leaves me helpless too.
‘No, I’m bringing the cameras, I’m the photographer.’ The smile he flashes is luminous enough to suggest he’s on great terms with his dental hygienist.
‘Remind me what you’re taking pictures of?’ Immie’s doing well here, given her legs are all floppy, and she hasn’t got a clue what he’s talking about.
‘The engagement shoot for Lara and Ben’s wedding … back in December we booked to have it here this afternoon …?’ Those blue eyes are full of hope as they search our faces.
I struggle to make my expression less blank as he goes on.
‘I say engagement shoot, it’s really just to get the happy couple relaxed in front of the camera before the big day. Some people do their engagement shots in New York or Paris or somewhere exotic, but these two went for Cornwall in February. I came early to check out the best shots. Let’s hope the weather’s improved for the real thing at Easter … it’s only four weeks away now.’
And finally the penny drops. He’s a wedding photographer. And the couple he’s talking about are the bride and groom I’ve been trying to get hold of all weekend, and they’re coming here this afternoon. If ever I wanted a fairy godmother moment, this is it. Not only has a hunk of a guy been delivered to my office – not lusting, just admiring here, you understand – but my most dreaded task of the morning just melted away.
‘Of course, I’m so sorry,’ I begin. ‘We’ve had staff changes, you’re down in the book for later.’ Shhhh, I know it’s a porky, but he’s not to know there isn’t a book yet. ‘It’s absolutely fine for you to be here now.’ I can tell Immie thinks I’m gushing, but I’m so damned relieved. ‘I’m Poppy Pickering, Events Manager, tell me what you’d like me to do, and I’m all yours.’
I grab Jules’ hand and give it a vigorous shake, ignoring Immie, smirking behind her fingers.
‘I’m in my 4x4,’ Jules voice is half purr, half growl. ‘If you could possibly spare the time to show me a few locations …? With the weather as it is, we’ll be working to big up the rugged side. I’m on the lookout for five bar gates, craggy trees, backdrops of sky, picturesque barn doors, stuff like that.’
‘No problem.’ Immie is straight in there. ‘I know this farm like the back of my …’
Whatever happened to those pressing weekend check outs she was off to? Not to mention her disdain for men in general. No doubt if she stopped to think about it with her uni head on, she’d have a lot to say about how her reproductive instincts are completely over-riding her sensible brain, when she’s faced with this vision of genetic male perfection. I’m guessing Jules’ resemblance to an over-sized puppy probably swung it for the animal lover in Immie too.
I jump in before she has me sidelined completely. ‘It’s fine, I know you’re busy Immie, I’ll handle Jules.’ Wincing a bit at the word choice there, but I’ve been to so many weddings, and poured longingly over the pictures afterwards, wishing it were me, that I know exactly what he’s wanting. And this is my first real taste of my new job. ‘Promise I’ll shout if I need you Immie.’ I sweep across the office to grab my jacket, noting that the fairy dust hasn’t extended as far as the yurt coat. With luck and a following wind Jules might read my over-sized Barbour as extreme boho chic. ‘Shall we go?’ I’m suddenly tingling with excitement at the thought. And it’s nothing to do with any hot guy hormone rush, it’s all about getting Daisy Hill Farm Weddings up and running.
12
On Location, at Daisy Hill Farm: Step ladders and panda bears
As the day goes on, Jules proves to be a lot more than a pretty face. He’s scarily organised, meticulous about his work, and he’s brilliant at putting people at their ease. And I don’t only mean the happy couple, Ben and Lara here, I also mean me. Somehow the morning disappeared as we whizzed around finding suitable gateways and hilltops for the shoot. And the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to swap my afternoon plans to work on the website for Daisy Hill Farm, and go and be a photographer’s assistant instead.
‘It’ll be a great way of getting to know Lara and Ben,’ Jules promised. ‘And in return, I’ll help with that website you seem so stressy about.’ Given he offered to provide me with an unending supply of wedding pictures, in return for credits, and that I’m shooting in the dark as far as websites go, the only answer was ‘yes’.
I also took my notebook, and jotted as we chatted. So I now know that there will be forty guests in the day and a hundred in the evening. At night they’ll be dining on hot dogs, served from a retro burger van. The ceremony is booked for midday at the church, which means I don’t have to deal with registrars this time, and they’d love Morgan to help with the parking. I also got the names of the marquee company, the caterers, the florists, the stylists, and the furniture hire people, not forgetting the band. All of whom will be arriving to set up.
The downside for me was the twang in my chest as Lara and Ben chatted about their excitement, and all the details for the day. At Brides by the Sea, when I’m discussing cake orders or helping with dress fittings, I see brides with their friends, or their mums, and that’s fine. But being so involved in helping a couple realise their wedding dreams is something else. Ben dropping devoted kisses onto the top of Lara’s head, untangling the hair on her forehead, gently twisting her engagement ring round so the camera would catch it. Lara digging her elbow in his ribs and teasing him about his wedding spreadsheet. All the coupley love I’ve lost is being paraded under my nose. Whereas in normal life if I see it I can simply look the other way, here it’s part of my job. There isn’t a Wedding Coordinator in the world who wouldn’t get involved. Yet when I see the easy way his arm flops over her shoulder, as they put their heads together and share a joke about for better or for worse, I’m there thinking how close I came to doing the same. That this was almost me.
‘Let’s just do it.’ Those were Brett’s exact words, the last time we talked about us getting married. If someone said that to you, you’d think it was happening wouldn’t you? You would feel safe to build up those expectations you’d held in check so carefully for so many years. And a week later he’d stuffed it all up.
I hadn’t expected being a firsthand spectator in someone else’s wedding build-up to hurt quite this much. And in the next few months I’m going to be faced with couple after couple, all about to tie the knot, and every time it’s going to make me feel like shit.
‘Are you okay over there, Pops?’ It’s Jules calling, and he’s already fast forwarded to Immie’s nickname for me. More scarily, he’s also picked up that I’ve dropped out of the game momentarily. ‘Any chance you could bring the steps over?’
Judging by the pictures Jules has been flashing at me on the screen of his camera as we’ve worked our way around the picturesque places on the farm, he’s a hot shot photographer.
‘So, for this one last picture, how about you both climb up onto the wall.’ Jules yells to be heard above the wind.
I whisk the step ladder in place right on cue, help Lara and Ben into position, then whip the steps out of shot. As Ben and Lara shuffle uncomfortably on top of the wall, I pull my woolly hat over my eyes, and haul up my coat collar.
‘We’re going for wild here, sit facing each other, let your jackets flop open, and let the wind blow you.’ Jules leaps around, his movements fluid and easy, snapping from all angles, constantly checking his shots. ‘Camera bag please, Poppy, I’ve a feeling the sun’s about to break through those clouds.’
I lug the holdall across to him, and he swaps cameras, and seamlessly swoops to take more shots of the couple laughing amidst chaotic strands of windswept hair, silhouetted against the sudden brightness of the sky behind. He’s been like this all afternoon – exhausting, yet exhilarating to watch, working with what was there, seizing every opportunity, catching Lara’s surprise when a flurry of rooks rose from the trees. The moment when Lara fell off the gate and Ben instinctively di
ved to catch her in his arms.
‘Okay, got you. Everyone into the car, we’ll head back to the farm.’
His voice is throaty, as he swigs from a bottle of water as he jumps into the driving seat, and throws a flask of coffee to Ben and Lara in the back seat. ‘Here, warm up with that, you’ve both been stars out there.’ His nonstop praise has definitely kept Lara going when she looked like she was flagging.
‘Phew, I’m exhausted, and all I’ve done is watch.’ I heave myself into the car, and flop into the passenger seat beside him. It’s been amazing to watch how this guy took this inhospitable afternoon, and somehow managed to warm up and coax these freezing cold lovers into beautiful moments he could capture. ‘Hardly ideal weather for a photo shoot either.’
As Jules turns on the engine, the music starts too. I forgot to mention the whole afternoon has been played out against the most romantic soundtrack in the world ever. Earlier we were bouncing down the lanes to Hozier’s Take Me To Church, and right now Nothing Compares 2U is coming and going in the background. I deliberately don’t listen too hard to the words, or I’ll have to swallow back the tears.
‘You’ve done a whole lot more than watch. I certainly asked the right person to help.’ Jules gives a low laugh. ‘And actually the weather’s perfect – extreme conditions make the most interesting pictures.’
It may be unfair to make comparisons, but I can’t help think of Jules with his can-do attitude, and easy coaxing manner, beside grumpy Rafe, and his tractor load of negativity. As if to underline the impression, Jules flashes me a wide, warm smile.
‘Is that the last stop?’ I ask with a sigh. Even though it’s exciting to see Jules at work, after three hours I could kill for a mug of sweet tea and a chunk of chocolate shortcake.
‘I think we’ll call it a day at that,’ Jules confirms to all of us. ‘I’m confident I’ve got some pictures you’ll like.’ He shoots a satisfied beam over his shoulder to Lara and Ben in the back.
In my head I’m already putting the kettle on and opening the biscuit tin.
‘Ohhhh.’ A groan of disappointment comes from Lara.
This far I hadn’t got her down as whiney.
‘What’s wrong, Panda?’
And this is something I forgot to mention earlier. Panda Bear is Ben’s slightly annoying pet name for Lara. Whoever thinks I only mind because I’m jealous is totally wrong. As I’m basically only meeting them for a day after this, I don’t need to stress about it, but to be honest, if someone started calling Immie Panda Bear in public, Cate and I would have to put a stop to it. Immediately. With physical force if necessary.
‘I was hoping to have just one picture in the dress I was wearing the day we met.’
I wonder if Jules has picked up the same winsome note in Lara’s voice that I have.
Ben grunts. ‘For chrissakes, Pand, we met in Greece, it was forty eight degrees, and you were only wearing a thong, that’s why I noticed you.’
Panda’s hiss is indignant. ‘I had my dress with me, one picture is all I’m asking for.’
Jules raises his eyebrows. As he steers into the farm courtyard, and the car swoops to a halt Rafe marches out of the office, and stomps over to the car. If I had a hard hat with me, I’d reach for it now.
‘Great shoot.’ Jules’ electric window slides downwards. ‘Thanks for some amazing locations.’
‘Any time.’ Rafe backs away with a shrug. Two words and he’s reached the limit of his engagement.
‘I don’t suppose …’ Jules is trying his luck here. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have an inside space we could borrow for ten minutes?’ Seemingly oblivious to Rafe’s dismissal, Jules switches his gaze pointedly to the farmhouse.
As Rafe pauses, a pained look passes across his face. ‘The house won’t be suitable, it’s empty and mostly falling apart.’
Jules is straight in there. ‘It sounds perfect, thanks, we won’t bother you for long I promise. Come on guys.’ He’s already out of the car, grabbing his cameras, and striding past a stormy-faced Rafe, towards the front door. Rafe shakes his head, but all the same he goes to open up from inside.
Why didn’t I think of acting like an over enthusiastic dog to get Rafe to roll over?
‘In we go …’ Jules loses no time, ushering us all into the hall the moment Rafe opens the front door a crack.
Beneath the glow of a bare bulb, it takes a second for my eyes to get used to the gloom as I step in out of the wind. Despite the shredded wallpaper, and bare floorboards, it’s the broad staircase with its beautiful swooping handrail that has us all gazing. It could have come straight from a shabby chic magazine, which is probably why Jules’ grin has turned from triumphant to ecstatic.
‘Great stuff, we can definitely work with this …’ Dust rises, as Jules drops his bag and turns to Rafe. ‘Is there anywhere Lara can go to slip her dress on?’
I’m holding my breath. This free pass into Rafe’s private domain is an unexpected bonus. I’d imagined him climbing into a king sized bed with a smart new painted brass bedstead, but that doesn’t fit with the patina. Shocked that I’ve imagined his bedroom? Me too, to be honest, but cake icing can be a repetitive business. There’s plenty of time for your mind wander to places you had no intention of visiting. There’s nothing more to it than that.
‘Sure, she can change in here.’ Rafe sighs loudly, pushing on the nearest door, and clicking a bank of switches. ‘You can take pictures here too, if you must.’
We follow him into a big empty room, where the floor is flecked with flakes of distemper that has fallen off the walls. There’s a clatter as he moves down the room, opening shutters as he goes, letting the last of the afternoon light seep in through four tall, small-paned sash windows.
‘What a fantastic fireplace.’ Jules breaks the stunned silence, and says what we’re all thinking. ‘And a fabulous room.’ And he’s seriously understating it here. The fireplace is huge and square with the most intricate carvings in the pale stone surround. My head is doing a quick reshuffle, and flashing up images of Rafe’s huge Jacobean four poster.
Rafe gives a grunt, and breaks the dream. ‘It’s a bit big for a farmhouse, my Georgian ancestors obviously had delusions of grandeur.’
‘And delightfully empty …’ More positive spin from Jules, overlooking the dust sheet covered piles around the room.
Before we have time to take it in, Rafe has pushed through some double doors in the central wall which open into yet another room. Tentatively we follow him into an ancient conservatory, with glass so misted and cobweb covered, it’s hard to see through.
‘This is the orangerie, which like the rest has seen better days. It opens onto a walled garden behind the house.’ Rafe says, with a nod towards the glass structure. ‘Not sure how many oranges it’s seen, certainly none in my time.’
‘A truly fabulous place to live.’ Jules is gushing now. Not surprising given the locations Rafe has just handed him.
In the interests of fairness, and to prove there’s no favouritism going on, I force myself to picture Jules’ bedroom. Definitely in a loft apartment, with chunky wood hewn furniture. I hastily add in a massive wardrobe, and a bright coloured quilt with a chunky knit throw.
Then, back in the farmhouse again, I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets as I suppress a shiver. Lara’s going to be almost as cold in here as outside, but they’ll get some great shots. Let’s hope they’re quick.
‘This is no place for me on my own, and anyway, I prefer modern. I keep to the end wing, hence the cobwebs here.’ Rafe shrugs again, as he backs away towards the hall. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it, knock yourselves out. Give me a shout when you’re done.’
Which leaves the Rafe in my head bouncing on a retro fifties ash bed from Habitat, while he shouts about ancestors and house wings. I mean, what planet does this guy live on? Certainly not the same one as the rest of us.
‘Bloody hell …’ Ben is shaking his head, gazing up at the sagging ceiling.
> My thoughts exactly.
Jules rubs his hands together, and they’re slightly less pristine than earlier. ‘Right Lara, pop next door and get your dress on. Five minutes of freezing at most, I promise the pictures will be fab.’ He turns his smile on me. ‘Poppy, tea would be awesome, biscuits or cake would be a big bonus, we’ll be with you before the kettle boils.’
I’m reeling at the way he tells it as he wants it, but the way he half closes one eye softens the dazzle of his smile to something much more personal and intimate. Anyone in a more susceptible place than me might have swooned on the spot. As it is, when I rush to fill the kettle in the office kitchen and catch sight of myself in the mirror on the door, there’s a distinct red patch on each of my cheeks. Almost like I’m burning up, not freezing cold.
I just hope Immie doesn’t walk in and spot the afterglow.
Meanwhile, I’m whizzing around the office waiting for the kettle to heat up, still in my tent coat, grabbing mugs from the shelves, and sneaking a cheeky chocolate shortbread out of my drawer when I come face to face with Henrietta. Or more aptly, beady eye to beady eye with Henrietta. If hens roosting on the filing cabinet was beyond the pale, a chicken sitting on the biscuit barrel and snuggling up next to the clean cups is a million miles off the scale of what’s acceptable. And sorry to disappoint Jules, but cake’s off today.
Which reminds me that somehow I’ve got to get down off my cloud, and address my Monday list. Much more pressing than the problem of unwelcome livestock in the office, there’s my biggest burning question of the week.
How the hell am I going to get Rafe on a work night out?
13
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Light bulbs and snowballs in hell
