by Jane Linfoot
‘Do let me show you.’ As she dips into a bag, she looks up at Cate, then suspends her unwrapping. ‘You look very familiar too, where do I know you from?’
‘Sorry.’ Cate smiles patiently. ‘I don’t think we’ve met – unless you work in government finance?’
Nicole blanks that last comment and narrowly misses poking her own eye out, as she lifts her fingers to her forehead, in an exaggerated mime of concentration. ‘Got it!’ One russet acrylic square end nail points straight at Cate. ‘Daisy Hill Farm Weddings – you’re all over the website.’
I rush in. ‘Cate models,’ I say. It’s not a complete lie. ‘She took part in our recent photo-shoot.’
‘God, that dress you’re wearing on there is heaven,’ Nicole says. ‘If I hadn’t bought mine already, I’d have had to go for that one.’
‘Cate’s actually getting married at Daisy Hill Farm in the autumn,’ I explain. ‘She’s here trying on dresses now.’
Nicole stands back, thrusts her hands on her hips, and looks Cate up and down critically. ‘No, take it from me, that one does nothing for you at all. Not unless you’re going for the sack of potatoes with sequins look.’ The peal of tinkling laughter she lets out develops into a loud braying, and finally ends in a snort.
‘Fucking hell, that’s a bit harsh.’ Immie says into her fist.
‘Off you go, take it off, I’ll get out my shoes while you change into the next one.’ Nicole begins to rummage again.
From across the shop, Cate studies herself in the monumental mirror, bunching up the fabric at the waist. ‘It’s actually a lot less fitted than it looked in the pictures,’ she says. ‘And it doesn’t skim my bulges, it accentuates them.’
Nicole’s straight in there. ‘They pin the dresses to make them look good on the shoots,’ she says, as if she’s party to insider information. ‘But as a model you’ll know that Cate. Albeit a model with a lot of bulges.’ This time her laugh goes straight to the bray.
Under cover of Nicole’s donkey guffawing, Immie and I exchange appalled glances.
As soon as Nicole’s got past her end snort, she’s pulling out a shoe box with a flourish. ‘Ta-da! Now unlike that dress you’ve got on Cate, these beauties are the business. And a snip at six hundred.’
‘Oh my, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many gems on one shoe.’ I’m desperate to keep Nicole on side, whilst not condoning her bitchier asides. ‘And that overlay of blooms down the heel is very unusual.’
‘Exquisite isn’t it?’ Nicole strokes her finger down the shiny silver heel, which is home to a giant liana of beaded flowers.
‘Might be an idea to get some sparkly wellies too,’ Immie adds, flashing me a ‘what is this woman on?’ frown. ‘Just in case.’
In case of what, Immie? A visit from the taste police?
It doesn’t matter because Nicole carries on as if Immie hadn’t spoken. The Gucci handbag Nicole dives into next is almost large enough to contain her whole body. After some time she emerges with her phone. ‘Seeing as we’re all brides together,’ she pauses to give a sickly wink, ‘I’ll give you a teensy peek at my dress.’
That will be whether we want to see it or not, I presume. I ignore that Immie’s cheeks are blowing out as they do when she’s about to literally explode with laughter.
‘It’s a Seraphina East, but not a ready to wear one, it’s custom made, hugely expensive and immensely special,’ Nicole says, which really, should have prepared me, but it didn’t.
As Nicole flashes round the photo of herself in her dress, I practically swallow my tongue with shock. The dress I’m staring at is stunningly like mine. Peering in closer I notice a lot more beading and decoration than on mine, but the damage is done. As I choke on my constricting throat, I go hot enough to send a river of sweat trickles down the hollow of my back, then I turn icy cold.
‘Blini crumb’ I gasp, grabbing a tissue, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose. ‘Went down the wrong way.’
‘Get it up, woman.’ Immie, glad of something to distract her from her giggles, thumps me on the back with a lot more gusto that I need.
She and Cate have no idea why I’ve gone puce, then deathly white. They don’t even know my dress exists. If Nicole were more likeable, it might be easier to come to terms with watching her get married in a dress very like mine. As she is – and I’m thinking hideous, outspoken, self-centred, and insensitive here, and that’s just for starters – it’s a bloody nightmare. What’s more, I just know she’s going to be shoving the pictures in my face at every turn.
‘Great dress,’ says Cate to Nicole flatly. After Nicole’s quip about Cate’s bulges, you can tell Cate’s thought balloon adds for a bitch.
Sensing she’s lost her audience, Nicole has slipped her shoes and phone away, and is sliding her bag handles onto her arms like slinky bracelets. The watch that she glances at is diamond encrusted. ‘Well, I can see you guys desperately need my styling flair, but I’m already late for lunch with someone more important, so I’ll have to dash.’ She gives us an airy wave as she totters across the shop. ‘Chow. I’ll catch you soon Poppy, I need a word about those awful cottages.’
As the shop door clicks closed, Immie blows upwards hard enough to make her tiny fringe stand out from her head. ‘Holy fucking crap, what was she like?’
Cate’s still pulling faces at herself in the mirror, ‘She was right about this dress though, I can’t think why you two didn’t say as soon as I came out of the fitting room.’ Cate drags the fabric backwards and forwards around her body. ‘It really doesn’t suit me at all.’ She gives a sigh. ‘I don’t know how I got this so wrong. I’m sorry for dragging you two so far to see a complete blunder.’
From where I stand it’s a result that she hasn’t blown nine grand on an awful dress, but I can’t come out with that. ‘All in a day’s work for your dedicated bridesmaids,’ I say instead. ‘It’s always good to rule things in. Or out.’
Immie scratches her head. ‘What I want to know, is who the hell would want to marry someone like Nicole?’
‘A rich masochist, with a fetish for multi-coloured shoes?’ I laugh, trying to block out the image of Nicole in her wedding dress, which seems to be burned onto my retinas. ‘I hate to reinforce the stereotype of Bridezilla and the easy-going groom, but when I talked to Nicole’s fiancé he sounded like a nice guy. Chas, I think it was.’
‘Nice name,’ Immie says, airily. ‘Thank jeez we’ve seen the last of her, anyway.’
‘Wrong, Immie.’ I bite my lip, because instinct tells me today was just a warm up session. ‘I suspect we’re going to see many more sides of Nicole before her wedding is over.’
‘And talking of cottages,’ Immie goes on, somewhat randomly. ‘That reminds me. Rafe’s been asking when you’re moving into yours.’
34
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Don’t count your chickens
‘So how are the eggs?’
It’s the kind of hot June day when you leave the door open and hide in the shade to work, because otherwise you’d expire. Which is why Rafe is in the doorway, asking his question, before I notice he’s here.
‘Eggs?’ I look up from the list of wedding guests and cottages that I’m trying to untangle. ‘You need to be more specific. Easter? Cream?’ What other kinds are there?
‘The eggs Henrietta is sitting on?’ Rafe rubs the stubble on his chin, absently.
‘I fail to see where eggs come into this, Henrietta is sitting on the waste paper basket.’ I may as well say it like it is. ‘And refusing to move. Like she has been for the last month. End of.’ Rafe already knows my thoughts on this, because I’ve told him repeatedly, but he’s too stubborn to acknowledge my feelings on the matter. Things around here are rarely straight forward, I’m currently putting rubbish in a Sainsbury’s bag on the filing cabinet by the kettle, but there you go.
‘Strictly speaking, Henrietta’s sitting in the waste paper basket, on my second best cashmere jumper, so it’s a good thing
my mother’s still away.’ Rafe lets a grin go. So long as his mother’s well out of range, he seems to enjoy getting one over on her.
‘If it’s all the same to you, I’m a bit busy for a discussion on semantics,’ I say, sad that I have to point it out. ‘The same goes for chatting about eggs.’ Especially non-existent ones.
‘Come over here,’ Rafe says. He’s squatting on the floor next to Henrietta, stroking her head the way he does, the corners of his lips twitching.
As I go over and kneel down beside him, I can’t help notice the deep tan of his forearm next to my own pale freckles.
‘Give me your hand.’ He doesn’t wait, but takes it anyway. Next thing I know, horror of horrors, he’s sliding my hand under Henrietta’s bum.
‘Waaaahhh …’ I pull back, and not just at the thought of touching a hen’s bottom. ‘Isn’t she going to peck me?’
He has a firm grip on my hand. ‘She’s been sharing an office with you for months, she trusts you. I promise she won’t peck.’ He slides my hand under the feathers. ‘Now what can you feel?’ His face is so close I can practically count his eyelashes. As he stares at me quizzically, he’s holding back a smile.
Oh, shit, so this is what he’s going on about. The silky warmth on my hand makes me momentarily suspend my disgust and push deeper. ‘Eggs. She’s sitting on eggs.’ Who’d have thought?
‘Rest your hand on a shell.’ He’s talking softly, still holding my wrist, but it’s still an order. ‘Can you feel anything?’
I try to ignore that my head is rammed against his T-shirt sleeve, and that I’m breathing in the scent of sun on skin, with a distinct overtone of warm guy. Once I forget that, I feel a weird vibration where my fingertips are resting on an eggshell. ‘There’s a tapping … on the egg.’ Jules perfume-counter haze never made me dizzy like this. On balance, it would be a whole lot easier if Rafe came in smelling of farmyard.
‘There is a tapping.’ He’s biting his lip. ‘And if you listen hard, what can you hear?’
When I close my eyes, and black out the view of his folded thigh, bursting through the threadbare denim, it’s easier. Sure enough, there’s a noise – faint, yet high pitched. ‘Is that squeaking?’
He draws my hand out, and dips his own back under Henrietta. When he brings it out he’s cupping something in his palm. ‘Look, here, just for a moment …’
As I lean in, I jump as I hear a loud cheep, then I make out a bundle of grey fluff in his hand. ‘Omigod, it’s a baby chick.’ As I reach out a finger and touch the downy scrap, my stomach squelches, and not in a good way.
The grin he’s been holding back breaks, lighting up his whole face. ‘It’s Henrietta’s party piece, she hatches a brood of chicks in the office every year. She’s been incubating the eggs for three weeks, and they started to hatch this morning.’ His voice is bursting with pride. Deftly, he slides the baby bird back under Henrietta. ‘No doubt you’ll meet them soon enough. There should be a dozen or so, they’ll be following her round the office in a day or so, I’ll put up a barrier later so they don’t get lost.’
I’m not sure whether I want to say ahhhhhh … Or arghhhhhhhhhhhhh! One desk-top hen was bad enough, but thirteen? Even if they’re cute and cheeping, it’s a big ask.
Rafe gets to his feet, rubbing his hands on his hips. ‘Right, that’s enough poultry for today, don’t you think?’
Not that we usually agree on anything, but I’m probably with him on that one.
He’s straight in, firing the next question. ‘So, when are you moving into the cottage, Poppy?’
Crap. Where did that come from? ‘Err … I’m sorry?’ I’m kicking myself for being caught on the hop when Immie warned me this was coming.
‘You moving up here, I was under the impression it was part of the deal.’ The way he’s putting it, he’s making it sound non-negotiable.
I purse my lips. ‘Hmmm … it’s a bit complicated.’
He lets out a sniff. ‘Nothing new there then, it’s never straight forward with you.’
On balance, I decide to let that go. ‘Have you read my CV yet?’
He pulls a face. ‘No. And to be brutally honest I’m not going to.’
Four months on, and other than seeing me cutting Ella and Jack’s cake, he still hasn’t got a clue what I do. ‘My main job is making wedding cakes, and I live above the shop where I find a lot of my customers. I also work in the shop. As I’m there a lot more than I am here, it doesn’t make sense to move.’ Firm, and simply put.
‘I see.’ As he props an elbow on the filing cabinet, his frown says he might understand, but he doesn’t like it. ‘I was under the impression you’d be here full time, that’s all.’
And we all know how much that would thrill him, having me in his hair twenty four seven. As for me, I get panicky if I’m out of town overnight. If I was here full time I’d be climbing the walls after a weekend. When I was growing up in the village, I couldn’t wait to get away. London was my dream location, which I only gave up to move in with what I thought was my dream guy. I was wrong there, but whatever. Living on an isolated farm has always been my worst nightmare.
‘Moving here full time isn’t an option,’ I say, remembering the trick of saying it as if there’s no other way. ‘Especially as you’re not carrying on the wedding business after the end of the season,’ I add, as an inspired afterthought.
Rafe’s jaw clenches, ‘There are a lot of weddings coming up.’ He narrows his eyes and drums his fingers on the filing cabinet. ‘I’ve been looking at the calendar.’
‘Well that’s a first.’ I can’t hide my astonishment that he’s taken that much interest.
He screws up his face. ‘It’s obviously best for you to stay over when there’s a wedding.’ He hesitates. ‘Especially bearing in mind what happened at the last one.’
Suddenly I get where he’s coming from. He’d rather not have me crashing in his spare room. Shit. And suddenly it’s obvious he’s thought this through already. ‘So what are you suggesting?’ I send him a cool, professional smile, to make it clear I’m definitely keeping my distance.
‘The cottage is there, use it whenever you need to.’ He makes it sound simple.
So long as he understands it’s only occasional. ‘Thanks, that’s very … useful.’ If he wants to waste a cottage, that’s up to him. ‘But I’m not moving in. You do understand that?’
‘Fine.’ He sighs, gives Henrietta a last tickle, and sidles towards the door. ‘I don’t like to think of you driving back to town late at night. So long as we avoid that.’
What is this? ‘I’m a big girl,’ I point out. And he’s suddenly treating me as if I’m not. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I know you can,’ he says, swinging out of the door. ‘But it doesn’t hurt for other people to look out for you too.’ The smile he sends me from the threshold suggests he thinks he’s won the argument. ‘Immie will give you the keys, you can bring your stuff as soon as you want, come on Jet.’
Jet, who’s been sitting patiently on the step, gets up, and his tail thumps on the door.
I sink back down onto my chair, trying to remember what the argument was. What the hell just happened there?
A minute later, Rafe’s back. A hand on either side of the door frame.
‘One other thing.’
My heart sinks. I’ve had enough of Rafe’s good ideas and input for one morning.
‘About the wedding in the garden.’
I manage to catch my dropping jaw and grind it into gear enough to croak. That would be the one in August he’s previously categorically refused to contemplate. The one that’s had me tearing my hair out with anxiety at two in the morning for weeks.
‘We need to get on it and make sure the venue is ready.’ He’s saying it as if I’m the one that’s dragging my heels here. ‘You’d better have a look around the house and see what you think. Is Thursday morning any good for you?’
I’m speechless.
35
In the courtyard at Daisy Hill Farm: Hot tubs and a fireman’s lift
‘Oh my giddy aunt, I don’t believe what’s coming.’ Immie’s groaning as she peeps out of the tiny window next to the office door, as Bridezilla Nicole and her poor fiancé Chas pick their way across the courtyard. They rang for an appointment to look around, just as Nicole promised they would. And now we’re bracing ourselves for whatever’s coming.
‘We might as well go and meet them,’ I say, waving at them enthusiastically from the office doorway. ‘If we wait for Nicole to check every cobble for dirt before she puts her foot on it, we’re going to be here all day.’
‘What she going to be like when she gets down to the meadow?’ Immie gives a groan. ‘Has anyone told her fields are made of mud?’
‘How did she book in the first place? And on the same day as someone else too.’ I mutter. ‘Judging by that pencil skirt and those strappy sandals, she’s hardly rocking the boho farm wedding chic thing, is she?’ As for the double booking, Nicole’s wedding is so big, it’s the other smaller one I’m trying to move.
‘I think she was one of Carrie’s mates from Surf and Turf Dating, who got lucky and fast forwarded to a wedding.’ Immie’s derisive tone turns to a soft sigh. ‘Whereas Chas on the other hand …’ She lingers over his name, as she looks him up and down and soaks up the faded chinos, and open neck polo shirt, not to mention a few well-toned muscles. And then does the same all over again. ‘Now he looks right at home here.’
I get where Immie’s coming from. Whereas Nicole is all dark gloss and brittle nerves, Chas is your classic blond hunk, and laid back with it. Ignoring that Immie has melted into a hormone puddle next to me, I carry on. ‘Nicole, Chas, great to see you, I’m Poppy, and this is Immie.’ By going straight in for handshakes, we by-pass the hugs and get away with a smattering of Lady Million air kisses, and the odd bash from another huge Gucci bag that appears to be glued to Nicole’s shoulder.
Nicole, thanks largely to her seven inch heels, is looking down on all of us. ‘We might as well get to the point, I’m here to inspect the accommodation.’ If her vowels were a bit la-di-dah last time we met her in Bristol, today she’s channelling her inner Royal. ‘The Bridal Suite’s what matters, so we’ll go straight there.’
