by Jane Linfoot
There you go.
‘Professional how?’ I murmur into the half-light, intrigued.
He backs off a little. Even if his eyes aren’t real, under the alcohol he still smells expensive. ‘They give great results. It’s easier to hold people’s attention for pictures when your eyes are really blue.’ He turns his full face smile onto me, but even in the half-light, minus the startling eyes, it’s mainly teeth. ‘That’s the only reason I wear them.’
That’s the only reason my arse. Doubtless they also have a useful side effect in that they help to make susceptible women … well … susceptible. And from Jess and Immie’s reactions, I’d say they’re working. Big time.
‘I’m glad everything’s okay, anyway.’ I’m backing away. Not that I’m feeling cheated, but it feels like the right time to make a run for it. ‘I’m off now.’
‘But … but … how about a drink, or …’
Ignoring his protests, I take a tip from the man himself, and say it like there’s no other way. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
Two minutes later, I haven’t looked back, and I’m at the office, feeling strangely empowered. I’m fumbling to find my key when I hear a voice, over by the cottages.
‘Poppy, Poppy …’
As a figure in sweat pants jogs towards me, I recognise the groom, Jack.
‘Jeez, am I glad to see someone who’s not pissed. Everyone else is off their faces.’ He’s panting, pushing back his spikey hair, holding his hands to his face. ‘It’s Ella, she’s having cramps.’
‘Would you like me to come and see her?’ Although I’m not sure what help I’ll be, we run, push through the open door of the cottage and find Ella hunched on the sofa.
‘So much for our wedding night,’ she says with a gasp. As her bath robe falls away from the bump of her tummy, she brushes the damp straggles of her fringe out of her eyes. ‘My waters broke when I got up for a pee an hour ago and …’ She breaks off as her face contorts, and she grabs her stomach, groaning. ‘Since then it’s like all hell broke loose.’
Shit. This looks scarily similar to One Born Every Minute. ‘I think they’re maybe contractions rather than cramps. How often are you getting them?’ Not that I’m broody, but six months on the sofa means I’ve seen every episode. At least three times.
‘She’s been getting them on and off since earlier this evening, but she didn’t think they were real.’ Jack is hugging his head with his hands, as he watches Ella sink back on the sofa. ‘It can’t be that, the baby’s not due for another month or more.’
Babies don’t always wait for their due date, but I don’t say that. ‘Would you be more comfy on the bed?’ I ask, knowing the bedroom’s on the ground floor.
‘I’m not sure I can move.’ As Ella jack-knifes again, she lets out a moan. ‘Whatever they are, they’re coming wave after wave.’
Not that I want to cause panic, but there are times when labour happens very fast. I pull Jack into the kitchen. ‘I think we should call an ambulance. Just to be on the safe side.’
He tugs on his hair. ‘The midwife at the classes said not to rush to the hospital, there’s always plenty of time.’
And in rare cases, there isn’t. A split second later I make the decision for him. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I dial nine-nine-nine, and push the phone into Jack’s hand. ‘Answer their questions. You’re at Daisy Hill Farm, Daisy Hill Lane, Rose Cross. Say she’s having strong, continuous contractions, and I’ll be back in a second.’ Thank god Jules is still awake.
As I sprint across the yard I literally bump into Jules before I reach the camper.
‘Everything okay, Pops? Did I hear someone calling you?’ At least he’s looking out for me here, and it’s good he’s half way to the cottage already.
‘Ella’s in labour, Jack’s in denial, please can you come and help?’ I’m flapping my hands as I blurt out the words. I’ve been poised to deal with disaster all day, but this is something else.
‘Holy shit.’ The groan Jules lets out is as loud as Ella’s. ‘There’s no way I can do child birth, I pass out if I prick my finger … Sorry, but …’
Crap. I don’t have time to argue with wimps, who aren’t going to be any use in any case. There’s nothing else for it. I spin, and head for the dimly lit windows of the farmhouse. In a nanosecond I’m at Rafe’s kitchen door, hammering hard enough to make my knuckles bleed, praying he’s a light sleeper. As the door swings open a moment later, I practically tumble over the threshold with relief.
‘Welcome to the Wide Awake Club.’ Rafe rubs his hand on his threadbare jeans, propping himself against the door frame as nonchalantly as if it were midafternoon. ‘Anything I can do for you?’
His T-shirt tells me he’d rather be tractor driving, and for once I’m with him on that.
At least I’ve got an excuse to gabble. ‘Ella’s having her baby, we’ve phoned for the ambulance and …’
As I tail off, Rafe breaks in. ‘The ambulance will take at least twenty minutes to get here.’ He rubs his chin. ‘How close is she?’
The goosebumps prickle up my spine. ‘Very close.’ My voice is a squeak. ‘I think.’ I’m no expert, I’m going on instinct, and pure fear.
Rafe calls over his shoulder as he bolts into the house. ‘Let me grab some towels, and I’ll be with you.’ A second later he’s shepherding me across the yard, where Jules is still hovering in the shadows by the camper. Rafe shouts across to him. ‘Go down to the road, and when the ambulance comes, send them to up the cottages.’ He turns to me as we creep into Ella and Jack’s cottage. ‘I take it he can manage that?’
As we slide through to the living room, Jack meets us, phone to his ear, his eyes wild, talking a million words a minute. ‘The head’s crowning, I’ve seen it, they’re talking me through, we’ve got to stay calm …’
Rafe puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. ‘Don’t worry mate, it’ll all be okay, I’m Rafe by the way.’ He smiles down at Ella, who’s on all fours on the floor, blowing and panting. ‘Great way to spend your wedding night, but the honeymoon suite is well sound-proofed. No need to keep the noise down, just go for it.’ He turns to me, passing an armful of towels. ‘Spread these out under Ella, I’ll keep a couple to wrap the baby.’
My chest lurches at the word. In all the lurid worst case scenarios I’ve imagined, I’ve never considered this.
‘Jack, I’m scared.’ Ella’s shuddering and writhing on the striped rug, while Jack hangs onto one of her hands and grimaces at us over her head.
‘Keep blowing.’ Rafe puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘No need to be scared, everything’s going to be fine, we’re here now, we’ve got this under control.’
I can’t believe how calming he sounds. I’m praying I can believe him.
‘Hold on Ells,’ Jack pleads. ‘They’ll be here soon, I promise.’
Ella lets out a wail. ‘I can’t wait, I’ve got to push.’
Rafe stuffs a towel into my hand. ‘Mop her forehead,’ he says, as he grabs a towel of his own. ‘Everything’s fine Jack, you stay there, I’ve got this.’
As I struggle to find Ella’s face, all I can see beside me are Jack’s eyes, wide enough to pop out of his head, and his mouth, which is twisted in a silent scream. Ella gives a huge groan, a yell, then another heart stopping groan.
‘Here it comes,’ Rafe soothes, as he safely delivers the crying newborn.
As Ella sinks to the floor, and Jack stoops to help her, the baby begins to howl. With a few deft movements Rafe wipes the squirming baby, then gently wraps it like a parcel, carefully avoiding the umbilical cord.
‘Here you go Ella, one lovely baby girl.’
I swallow back a mouthful of saliva. ‘Lovely … amazing … a girl … wow … congratulations.’ I make myself shut up at that point. If I wasn’t already kneeling on the floor, I think I might have fallen, from the sheer relief bursting through me.
As Rafe leans and places the bundled baby onto Ella’s chest, there�
�s the sound of an engine, and flashes of blue light begin to circle around the room.
‘The ambulance is here,’ I say, even though we all know that already. ‘I’ll go and bring them in.’ It’s the least I can do.
As I scramble to my feet, Rafe stops wiping his hands, and leans towards me. ‘Well done.’ His low voice resonates in my ear, and his breath is warm on my cheek as I pause on my way past him. ‘You did brilliantly.’
‘Back at you,’ I say, knowing I should be hurrying, but just for a minute my gratitude gets the better of me. Next thing I know, I’ve flung my arms around Rafe, my face is scrunched up against his T-shirt, and I’m drinking in the scent of fabric conditioner, and … and … It takes a second to sink in. Hot, delicious man. That’s it. For one delirious moment I think I’d like to hold on to him forever, then I remember what the hell I’m doing, and prise myself away. ‘Thanks.’ I give his arm a passing squeeze. ‘You saved all of us here.’ And I make a dash for the door.
It’s only as I look back over my shoulder that I see he’s wiping away tears.
32
In Rafe’s kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm: Milk and sugar
There are times when what you’d like to happen next, and what actually happens, are a million miles apart. And tonight was one of them. As I showed the paramedics into Jack and Ella’s cottage, somehow I imagined Rafe and I stealing away, to snatch a quiet cup of tea and have a pull-myself-together debrief in his kitchen. Then maybe he’d take me down to see whatever cow he’d been up looking after, and as a pink dawn broke over the barn we could share our hopes and fears, and then he’d offer me his spare room, where I’d curl up cosily, until he woke me with breakfast – full English, obviously, with real fried bread – just in time to wave the guests off.
But in reality, the blue light wakes the light sleepers in the nearby cottages, who all get up and wake the heavy sleepers, and in the end, as Jack and Ella finally leave in the ambulance for the hospital, everyone from the cottages pours back into the farm kitchen for tea after waving them off.
‘Milk, sugar, tea, coffee, mugs.’ Rafe zooms around the kitchen pointing out the essentials to me. ‘The kettle’s on the Aga, are you sure you don’t mind doing this?’
‘Of course not.’ And I’m not lying. Rafe opening his kitchen to wedding guests is such an unexpected and major breakthrough, I’d have happily do cartwheels to entertain them too, if I was a more athletic person.
‘I’ll check on the cow, and be back up as soon as I can, depending how it goes.’
Cow labour, like human labour, varies. That much I’ve learned the last couple of months. It could be ten minutes, or he still might not be back tomorrow afternoon. Somewhere along the line, he’s changed into a very tattered T-shirt that says Sexy Farmer and I Know It. Definitely the worst choice yet, because even though it’s four thirty in the morning, and even though the words are barely legible, for the first time possibly ever, I find myself agreeing with him.
‘Great,’ I say, as I re arrange the mugs on the side, and pull out a chair for Ella’s grandmother.
‘Help yourself to the guest room if you finish here, and I’m not back,’ he says, picking up his keys, and stepping aside to let Jack’s parents in, as he goes out.
In the end I take him up on the offer of a bed. At least that part of my wish that came true. But by the time I get up to help Immie with the cottages the next morning, and to welcome in the tipi dismantlers and the mobile toilet company, Rafe’s gone off somewhere else entirely.
JUNE
33
At White White White Weddings in Bristol: Blinis and guffawing like a donkey
‘I know there’s a cluster of weddings coming up, but once you’ve had a bride giving birth, you can give up worrying.’ Cate smiles, and waggles her glass of bubbly at me. ‘Nothing will ever be more traumatic than that.’ She leans back on her white leather bar stool, takes in the single rail of wedding dresses hanging against the bare brick walls, and gives a satisfied sigh. In these high end places, less is inevitably more, and despite the industrial decor, today we’re pretty damned close to the pinnacle of wedding dress establishments.
If you’re thinking, all these people ever do is sit in wedding shops knocking back Prosecco, you’re close to the truth. Although I’m not drinking today, because I’m designated driver, and as I’ve just driven all the way from Cornwall to Bristol, you can give me a break. And as Cate’s a bride who’s taken an overtime day to come wedding dress shopping, she’s got a good excuse too. In fact she’s drinking pink champagne, because the shop we’re in is super posh. Whereas Immie, who’s bunking off lectures, on her third glass, and doesn’t even know that blush is a colour, deserves every bit of your judgement.
‘Poor Ella, the birth was so fast and fierce, she didn’t know what had hit her,’ I say, taking a sip of my freshly squeezed mango and passion fruit juice. It still makes me shudder to think about it, two weeks later.
‘At least she didn’t really get time to swear at the dad.’ Cate grins. ‘When I had George, I was cursing Liam so much I’m surprised he ever asked me to marry him afterwards.’
‘It did take him a couple of years to get round to it.’ Immie laughs. ‘Maybe that’s why?’
Cate skilfully skirts Immie’s dig. ‘So Rafe’s gone up in your estimation, Poppy?’ Cate grins.
‘He was spectacular in that particular crisis.’ I have to give him that. ‘They’re calling the baby Rafaella.’ I pause to roll my eyes for effect. ‘It’s gone straight to his head, and he’s bloody insufferable, so we’re back to square one.’ Which isn’t strictly true. Since that night things between us have shifted. For a start, I truly appreciate that those dusky brown eyes are all his own.
‘It’s a bit of a shame about Jules though,’ Cate muses, glancing at her watch. She’s a stickler for time, and all the champagne in the world isn’t going to make her overlook that this appointment’s running late.
‘It’s not Jules’ fault that he’s more into personal style than home births.’ Immie’s still leaping to his defence, but then she didn’t see him without his blue contacts. ‘His mum was a model, he’s had facials since he was little. He’s bound to be a bit precious. It’s only like your mum’s cake making rubbing off on you, Poppy.’
‘Jules failing to come through was good in a way.’ I say. ‘It reminded me not to rely on anyone, even if they’re helpful a lot of the time. It’ll help to remember that when I plan my future.’
Cate nibbles on a smoked salmon canapé. ‘You’re not thinking of making changes are you?’
‘Yours will be the last wedding at Daisy Hill, and I can’t expect Jess to put me up indefinitely,’ I say. ‘I might have to pick up what I was doing, before I moved back to be with Brett.’ Sooner or later I’m going to have to face it – if I’m on my own long term, it makes sense to go back to my food technology career. It pays a lot better than cake making.
‘Surely you wouldn’t move away from your support?’ Her voice is full of concern.
‘It was great living on my own in London before.’ It seems like a long time ago. I wave my hand towards the people out on the pavement beyond the wide shop window, and the queue of cars. ‘Let’s face it, the city vibe is much more “me” than fields of bloody cows.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Cate fluffs out her chest under her smart Karen Millen blouse, the way she does when she’s building up for a fight. I’m spared the argument when an assistant with a dark tan and towering block heels clatters across the roughhewn floor, and whisks Cate away.
‘Thank jeez she’s only trying on one dress.’ Immie scoops up the remaining blinis, and washes them down with a slug of champers. ‘We’d be in serious danger of missing lunch otherwise.’
I can’t quite believe how long it takes Ms Stompy to get one small bride into one not so tiny dress. It seems like hours later when Cate re-appears, looking a lot less triumphant or triumphal than I’d anticipated.
‘So what do you think
?’ Cate stands, waiting expectantly for our reaction.
Admittedly, in wedding terms, she’s leaving her dress decision very late, and this dress is both top-flight designer, and available for September. But given the price tag she whispered in the car had a nine in it, at the beginning, not at the end, I have to admit, I’m seriously underwhelmed. The chiffon’s shiny, the beading’s OTT, as for the saggy cut, “expectant” is the word that fits. So how do you tell your bestie that the wedding dress she’s set her heart on looks less than perfect?
‘Bloody expensive canapés,’ Immie mutters. Nicely put.
‘Well …’ I’ve no idea what to say, but I draw in a long breath and brace myself.
‘Poppy … it is you isn’t it?’
I’m momentarily saved from giving my opinion when some cut glass vowels slice through the air. Only one person I’ve ever met speaks like that, and I suspect it’s completely put on. I turn, and sure enough, Nicole, one of our August double-booked brides is dashing towards me, her outstretched arms sagging under the considerable weight of designer carrier bags. I narrowly miss having my bare upper arms lacerated by a flurry of acrylic nails, and instead end up in a cloud of air kisses, and enough Yves St Laurent Black Opium to knock out an army at ten paces.
‘Nicole, great to see you.’ I know I’m gushing, although obviously no-one here knows quite how great it is, or that her timing is impeccable. ‘What are you doing here?’ I’m hoping she’s going to give an endless answer.
‘Isn’t it funny that we both shop locally? I’m here to pick up my wedding shoes,’ she says.
The fact she thinks three hours in the car is local gives a good illustration of the woman.
‘And what an amazing shop, isn’t it?’ I’m playing for time, because I’ve an idea she’s about to get out the shoes in question. I give a silent cheer as she drops her bags to the floor.
