Cupcakes and Confetti

by Jane Linfoot

  ‘Fuck,’ I mutter. ‘I knew you were going to say that.’

  She’s straight back at me, with the speed of a top rank squash player. ‘And do you have a problem with the idea?’

  The diamanté stilettos I just picked up clatter onto the floor boards as I sink onto the sofa. ‘No, I know you’re right,’ I sigh, wishing Jess would plonk a tumbler of neat gin in my hand. But she doesn’t.

  ‘Any other dress than this, I wouldn’t give a damn, you could keep it in the dress store forever.’ Jess stabs the air with that bloody Swarovski crystal pen of hers. ‘But thanks to the current media circus surrounding Josie and her wedding, your dress would fetch at least ten times its value if you sell it now. Possibly more.’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘You’re never ever going to wear that dress yourself. Keeping it is a way of clinging onto the past that’s not there any more. You need to move on. Now’s the time to let go.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, pulling hard on my stump of a pony tail. This is the first week I’ve been able to scrape my hair into a scrunchy since I chopped it all off. That dress belongs to the girl with the long blonde ponytail who spent at least three hours of every day working out how she could get Brett King to marry her, and I’m not that person any more.

  ‘It would be completely unprofessional of me to let you dither,’ Jess says. ‘If you don’t sell immediately, you’ll miss the opportunity. Basically, it’s now or never.’

  If she doesn’t stop chomping on that sparkly biro, she’s going to end up with a mouthful of diamonds.

  Stretching upwards, I pull out my scrunchy, and recapture my pony tail. ‘It’s just hard. I bought that dress with the money my mum left me, which pretty much amounted to everything she’d ever saved in her life. Somehow selling it seems like a betrayal, even though she never knew I’d bought it.’

  Jess backs up against the desk, and pushes herself up onto it. ‘Try it another way then.’ She crosses her legs, and takes a breath so deep, I suspect that whatever bend I’m driving her around, she’s pretty close to reaching the end. ‘Is there anything really important you can think of to spend the money on, something you especially want? A new car, maybe?’ The smile she gives me is the one she reserves for brides who are being bloody impossible, but I’m past caring.

  I stare at her blankly. Brett was so proud of splashing his cash around, but the weird thing is, since Brett and I split up, I haven’t missed the material things at all. I gladly shoved all my evening dresses off to the Cat Rescue shop, without as much as a whimper. Even my little yellow car is part of who I am now.

  ‘Something that will really make a difference?’ Jess is pushing me. ‘This is lucky money. Try to think of a way to spend it that would make you happy, to spur you on to sell.’ She purses her lips. ‘Think of it as a windfall profit – if you don’t cash it in right now, later it won’t be there at all.’

  Something that will make a difference … to someone I care about …

  I hammer my knuckles on my head. When it hits me, it’s like the clatter of bridesmaids running down the street. It’s like divine symmetry. Once it’s hit me, I can’t imagine what took me so long. This lucky profit from the wedding dress I don’t need can help Cate and Liam with the shortfall for their wedding. Perfect. My mum loved Cate. And selling for someone else’s benefit makes the whole sordid unworn dress part feel better. Something good coming out of something bad and all that.

  ‘Okay, I’ll go for it. I’ll sell the dress.’ My voice is so squeaky, it sounds like it belongs to someone else. What’s more, I’m already talking as if the dress doesn’t belong to me any more. That’s progress in itself. ‘How am I going to do it?’

  Jess leaps off the desk, and the next moment she engulfs me in the bear hug of the decade. I might have been about to turn tearful, but the heady cloud of scent Jess brings with her saves me.

  ‘You need to sell the dress on eBay,’ she goes on seamlessly. ‘Seven day listing, finishing next Friday, at one. That way all the brides can do their final bidding in their lunch hours.’ She’s on her feet again. ‘Come on, bring your phone, we’ll do the pictures now.’

  41

  In the old house at Daisy Hill Farm: Identical chicks

  ‘So which playlist do you want … No Cupcakes ‘Til The Cleaning’s Done–The Fast Mix, or Falling In Love … At A Hundred Miles an Hour?’ I ask Rafe. I’m eager to get to work, and giving him this choice might be a way of easing him in.

  We’re marching through cobweb central, a.k.a. the orangerie, towards the drawing room, and as this morning’s task is to clear both, a zippy sound track is non-negotiable.

  ‘Let me guess. They both begin with Don’t Stop Me Now?’ he asks, as he saunters through into the dimly lit room, and begins to undo the shutters. He doesn’t need to wrinkle his nose. I already know that’s his most hated track in the world ever.

  ‘All my playlists start with that,’ I say. Don’t ask me why, it just seems like a suitably up-beat way to begin. No surprise that down-beat Rafe can’t stand it.

  ‘How about neither?’ he says, as shafts of sunlight flood across the floor, illuminating large shapes, covered in dust sheets.

  I stick out my chin. ‘Not an option.’

  ‘There’s news …’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘I can’t give you the gossip and compete with Mr Mercury.’

  ‘Gossip?’ It isn’t a word I’d associate with Rafe, but I’m a sucker for it. ‘Go on then. Spill and we’ll leave the soundtrack until later.’ If I’m forfeiting my mood enhancing music, this better be good.

  ‘That woman came round again yesterday.’ He looks exceptionally pleased with himself considering he’s told me absolutely nothing.

  ‘Which one? I need more clues than that.’

  He scratches his head. ‘Bad tempered, grumpy, unreasonable …’

  I purse my lips to nip in my smile, because he could be describing himself here. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Bag the size of a feed sack, boyfriend tearing his hair out …’

  Got it. ‘That has to be Nicole. And husband-to-be, Chas.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Rafe shudders. ‘That’s one brave man.’

  ‘He’s very much in love.’ I add, attempting to explain. ‘They’re the camping half of our double booking. What did they want?’

  Rafe frowns. ‘I never got to find out. They got out of the car in the middle of a blazing row, so I hid in the feed store to give them some space, and the next thing I knew they were driving away.’

  Rafe pulls a face. ‘My mum drummed it into me to stick up for women every time, but seriously, this one’s bad news. When Jet wandered up to say hello, she tried to bash him with her bag.’

  Worse and worse. ‘I’ll give them a ring later, and check everything’s okay,’ I say. ‘Nicole gets over-wrought, not that that’s any excuse for lashing out at Jet.’ Poor Jet’s such a gentle dog. ‘When I explained to Chas about the double booking he was fine. Originally they’d only booked the field but not the cottages, so they weren’t expecting exclusive use.’

  ‘It’s a good thing the other couple are the ones using the garden,’ Rafe says, putting my thoughts into words.

  ‘Very true.’ For one rare time, I agree with him, but I’m not going to let it go to his head. As I lift the corner of one of the dust sheets to see what we’re about to deal with I get plenty of ammunition to bring him back into line. ‘Rafe, what exactly are you hiding under these sheets?’ More fool me for expecting furniture. I look more closely. ‘Is this the tractor engine you had in the kitchen?’

  He gives me a withering look. ‘How can you possibly think that? This one’s completely different.’

  ‘Excuse me for not being able to tell two engines apart.’ I’m spluttering with indignation.

  His sniff is dismissive. ‘You’re the same with the cows. But give you a bit of lace or anything with icing on, and it’s another story.’

  He’s so serious, it’s hard to keep a straight face. ‘Actually I’ve got the cow
thing sorted now. I used to think they were all black and white or brown, with slobbery noses, but lately I can tell them apart.’ Much to my own astonishment, not that I’ll be admitting this in town any time soon. The ability to recognise cows is never going to figure large on my CV. ‘And I know every one of Henrietta’s children by name,’ I add, happy to take credit here. Despite the fact they spend a large part of every day trying to sit on my desk it was damned hard learning to recognise thirteen identical chicks, just from the differences in their beaks and claws and sprouting feathers.

  ‘They’re not children, Poppy.’ From the way he’s shaking his head and closing his eyes, he’s definitely talking down to me here.

  I sigh, and give in. ‘Okay, offspring,’ I say. On balance I’d rather appease than set off yet another of our recurring arguments. To hide the climb down I go back to looking under sheets, and now I’m the one shaking my head. ‘This is such a man cave Rafe, have you got anything in here other than bits of rotting tractor? And why the hell aren’t they in a barn for chrissakes?’

  His loud squawk of protest is predictable as he whips the sheets off enough stacks of metal and cogs and chaos to fill a large garage. ‘These are all valuable vintage parts you’re talking about.’ At least he has the decency to look vaguely sheepish. ‘Now they’re all uncovered, there do seem to be lot of them. As it happens, there is something else in here that might make up for these.’

  As Rafe crosses to the far end of the room, and his boots clatter on the scuffed floor, my optimism takes a nose dive. Whatever I’d envisaged this morning, it wasn’t moving a scrap yard. I’m starting to doubt that the filthy windows will ever come clean again. As for the peeling walls, they’re looking so much worse than they ever did on that afternoon in winter. In the full glare of summer sun, the task is looking more hopeless by the second.

  ‘Okay, here we go.’ Rafe begins to tug at the faded fabric that’s covering the biggest pile yet.

  Before I came here to help with the weddings, the worst problem I faced at work was trying to make a seven tier cake stand up. And I know it might have been hard keeping all the domestic balls in the air at home to keep Brett happy. I probably only realised how much of a strain that was once I didn’t have to do it any more. Even when I was in London, all I had to do was design food that was nutritious and attractive. Okay, the clients were prestigious and demanding, but nothing that came before was anything compared to the challenges we face here.

  We’ve already had double bookings, water-logged weddings, a bride giving birth, and the season’s barely begun. Admittedly, the buzz I get from making things work is huge, but let’s face it, things working out were largely accidental. Deep down, I’m not sure I’m up to the job. And I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m going to fall flat on my face by imagining I can make these rooms anywhere near wedding-ready.

  Meanwhile, Rafe is carrying on like some kind of conjurer, about to produce something jaw-droppingly astonishing. Whereas I’ve given up all hope there might be furniture under this sheet, and I’m braced for more horrors. So when a corner of polished wood emerges, it’s a pleasant surprise. I’m preparing myself for a sideboard, but as the cover slides back and the wood stretches further, my eyes widen.

  ‘Is that a piano?’ If I’m stating the obvious, it’s only because it’s the last thing I expected. ‘It’s massive.’ That’s an understatement rather than an exaggeration. I’m thanking my lucky stars it’s not yet more pieces of tractor.

  Rafe is buffing up the crackled varnish of the top with what looks like a candlewick bedspread. ‘It’s a Steinway grand. My grandmother’s.’ His eyes are strangely dreamy as he turns the lock, and lifts the lid. ‘Luckily for me it thrives in the same atmosphere as bits of old tractor.’ The grin he sends me is half defiance, half mischief.

  ‘It’s fabulous, people love pianos, it’ll add so much atmosphere.’ This room’s going to need all the help it can get, and stage setting doesn’t get much better than a grand piano.

  ‘It hasn’t been tuned for six months.’ He taps one note, and screws up his face as the sound resonates around the walls. As he spreads his fingers wide and brings his hands down onto the keys, he’s hitting black note as well as white ones. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes as he listens to the chord as it echoes. ‘If it’s not too badly off key, maybe we’ll try a tune.’

  ‘What, you play?’ If my voice has gone all high, it’s because I’m so taken aback. The last thing I expected was that the piano was going to be used. Not that Rafe shouldn’t be able to play, it’s just I don’t know anyone else who can. And somehow it’s so much at odds with the whole rough farmer-in-a-tractor image.

  ‘A little.’ He shrugs, but the way he brings his outstretched fingers down and hits a whole lot more chords, he’s obviously understating things. Big time.

  Shit. I jump as my phone beeps in the pocket of my denim jacket. It’s a whole fifteen minutes since I last looked at it, and that has to be a record. Since my wedding dress listing went up last weekend, it’s barely been out of my hand. The bid that caused the beep has pushed the figure so high, I have to gulp for air, because my head is spinning.

  ‘Everything okay, Red?’ Rafe’s voice comes from behind the piano, where he’s already settled onto a stool. ‘Come over here.’

  ‘Why R-red?’ What the hell is he calling me that for.

  ‘Your name and your dress for starters …’ He begins. ‘The ends of your hair … I know you’re really a blue Poppy, but for a minute back there the general impression was red.’

  Walking into that was my own silly fault. I shouldn’t have teamed my red daisy skirt with a scarlet T-shirt, and then gone puce in the face.

  ‘I can substitute it for Blue if you’d rather?’ he offers, suddenly all laid back and languid.

  If he carries on like this I’ll take refuge on my phone. ‘Do what the hell you want, are we going to get on?’ I snap.

  ‘One song, and then we’ll be straight back to work, I promise.’ Sitting down, one foot in front of him on the piano pedal, his long legs bent, hands resting on the keys, he’s suddenly all chilled.

  I lean my elbows on the silky wood of the piano edge. ‘Great idea, except you don’t have any music.’ Not that I’m trying to spoil the party, but someone needs to point out the obvious.

  The corners of Rafe’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. ‘Not a problem.’ And then he begins to play.

  The notes are small at first, then they expand to fill the room. As the warm wood of the piano top vibrates under my wrists, goosebumps ripple up my spine. I’m torn between watching Rafe’s hands travelling up and down the keyboard, and watching his face. All dark lashes and cheekbones, the stubble shading his chin, and the lines that slice down his cheeks. I can’t help … Even as the tingling spreads across my scalp, I’m lip syncing, silently mouthing the words I somehow know as well as if they’d been inscribed on my mind’s eye. … falling in love with you …

  If I stopped to think about it, I’d curse him for his dangerous choice of song, but I don’t. Instead I close my eyes and sway into the crescendos, leaning closer when the music fades, half opening my eyes to watch a broad tanned wrist coming towards me, as he stretches to hit the high notes. My chest is whirling like there’s a tornado passing through, and I know it’s all horribly mixed up, but just for a minute I’m Lizzie Bennet, seeing Pemberley for the first time, and tumbling head over heels in love with Colin Firth, striding out of the lake, soaking wet. Except round here that would be a duck pond. And just when I think I can’t bear to listen any more, because my heart is so wrung out, the music changes tempo.

  Next thing he’s crashing into Bohemian Rhapsody, and those dark brown eyes have locked fast onto mine. I’m grinning at him for all I’m worth, and laughing, and he’s grinning right back at me, daring me to look away. All the way through, right up until the last tiny notes fade to nothing.

  42

  In my flat at Brides by the Sea: Early birds and parcel tape<
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  You know those times when you make fresh coffee for breakfast, and you’re aching for a caffeine hit, but there are so many butterflies battering in your chest you give up after one sip?

  That’s me. It’s five past seven on the morning my dress auction is ending. The current highest bid is already huge. I’m in my tiny living room, perching in a splash of sun on the sofa edge, staring at my cup full of number five strength Italian blend, watching it go cold beside an untouched croissant. How I’m going to make it through until the auction ends at lunchtime without chewing my hands right off, I’ve no idea.

  The good news is: I have a plan. I’m going to lock my phone in my desk as soon as I reach the farm office. First I’ve got to go over some final details with next Wednesday’s bride. Then I’m going to grab the scrubbing machine Rafe appeared with late yesterday afternoon, and attack the floor in the orangerie.

  Right now I have twenty minutes before I need to leave. My dress – it still is mine, if only for the next few moments – is hanging in its cover. There’s a box, bags and parcel tape all waiting. Plenty of time to say my last goodbyes and pack up the parcel, so it’s ready to post as soon as payment comes through after the auction.

  I fill my lungs and hold my breath as I slide back the cover for the last time. My tummy clenches as I run a finger over the soft tulle, and my head is starting to spin when a clatter of feet on the stairs yanks me back to earth.

  ‘Poppy, are you there?’

  As I turn Cate’s already in the doorway.

  Without bothering to say hello, she launches straight in. ‘Liam found my secret stash of credit card statements and he’s going ape.’

  ‘Shit, that’s not good.’ As I make my understatement I turn and inch towards her, making myself as large as I can in an effort to hide the dress behind me. With any luck she won’t see beyond the crazy flower print of my jumpsuit.