Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!

Chapter 7

Tuesday 5th December

At Daisy Hill Farm House: Miracles and bows

‘Awesome transformation or what?’ Lily’s beaming at me as I come back in from the hallway.

And it’s true. She and the catering team have been working miracles while I’ve been away. By the time I wind my way through the area where the wedding breakfast will be held, the tables have been laid with snowy linen cloths and decorated with an array of lanterns, with buckets of gypsophila, vintage lilac roses and pheasant feathers, and hessian bows to match the outside wreath. Through the line of sash windows along one wall I can see across the garden, to where Kip and Rafe are walking across the back lawn. They’ve both swapped their jeans for dark suits. One note for fashion slaves, Rafe’s still wearing his Barbour too, for now. Although Poppy assured me earlier, it’s his best one. Definitely not the one he feeds the cows in then.

As I dip here and there clicking my shutter, the crystal ware and cutlery on the tables are sparkling in the light from the chandeliers above. Then I hurry through to the fabulous orangery, with its ancient black and white tiles and floor-to-ceiling windows, which is where the ceremony chairs are arranged. Each has its own hessian bow on the side, holding a bunch of gyp like a miniature snowstorm. There’s a fabulous grand piano in the room where the evening dancing will be, and that makes a lovely picture too. And for the sake of completion, I snap the Ladies, with its deep-blue painted walls and massive mirrors. Then I hurry along to the Dressing Room with my cake box, knock and tiptoe in.

I brace myself, then make the announcement. ‘I have cakes, ladies.’ I put down the box, and open the lid. ‘Obviously I need pictures first.’ Although, to be honest, any view of swirly icing, topped with silver balls was knocked out of the park by the sight of four bridesmaids in their ice cream-coloured robes, wrestling the cakes out of the box straight afterwards. I take it from the long line of empty fizz bottles in front of the mirror, which I also snap, that they’ve been binge drinking. Which might explain the no-holding-back cupcake rush. Then I whoosh in and deliver a cupcake to Zoe.

‘Thanks for bringing those, Holly. How’s my messy up-do?’ She points to her hair and pauses for my admiring glance. ‘It’s the only relaxed bit of the whole day I got past my mum.’ So that explains the string quartet tuning up outside. Also ridiculously photogenic. Jules doesn’t know what he’s missing here. But in addition to a chamber orchestra for later? From where I’m standing, still very much on the outside of the wedding scene, it all sounds like over-kill.

Although I mustn’t let my mind wander. That’s another cue for me there. ‘Gorgeous hair, Zoe. The diamond strands in there look amazing. If you hold still, I’ll just get those.’ And they’re done.

By the time I’ve taken shots of the girls right along the hair and make-up line, all the way into their bridesmaid’s dresses, I’m staring at the big clock on the wall and wondering where this morning went. And then Jules is here, arm in arm with Zoe’s mum, looking every inch her new ‘best friend forever’, as he marches her in to help Zoe into her dress.

One bark from him. ‘Okay, I’ve got this, now, Holly.’ I’m back to hovering in the background like a hawk, mopping up the leftover shots. Jules only broke his silence in the car to give a rundown of the occasions where he wanted me to shadow his shots. And to drum into me that for the rest of the time I had to be on high alert, every single second of the whole day, to cover the relaxed angle. It’s the candid shots that make the day, apparently, and they’re over in an instant. I need to anticipate each bridesmaid finally sinking into a chair and kicking off her shoes. The moment the hard man groomsman cracks and wipes away a tear. Every toddler yawning.

And then Kip’s at the door, calling. ‘Time for the bridesmaids, please.’ As he sweeps them away, Jules marches Zoe’s mum out too.

And now it’s just me, Zoe, and the hair and make-up ladies, unplugging their hair tongs, and packing up the lippy. Four empty chairs. And the rest of the room that looks like every suitcase on an entire luggage carousel just exploded.

Zoe’s standing, tugging at the satin of her dress, wagging her small bouquet, having the last pale brushstrokes added to her lips. ‘What happened to the last four hours?’ Her voice is rustling like tissue paper. And despite enough contouring and blusher to make her look like a supermodel, her skin looks the colour of parchment. ‘How can it be time? Am I even ready?’

‘You have to be more ready than I am.’ As I mouth the words silently, my stomach feels like there’s an iron hand gripping it. How ridiculous. I couldn’t feel more nervous if I was the one getting married. It’s as if I’m living the moment I’m never going to have with Luc.

It starts as the iron hand tightening on my guts, and it ends with me making a dash to the bride’s bathroom and hurling my non-existent breakfast down the luxury toilet bowl. It’s all over in a few seconds. Then I’m pulling the flush, washing my hands and face, throwing down a glass of water. A minute later I’m out again, grasping my camera in one hand and grappling my camera bag onto my shoulder with the other.

Kip’s back at the door. ‘Okay, we’re ready for you, Zoe.’ I know he’s Lily’s man, and apparently his wedding skills weren’t always this well-honed. But Kip has definitely found the bucket-loads of charm it takes for a job like this now.

I don’t even have time to say sorry for my hugely embarrassing bathroom dash. I give Zoe’s hand a little squeeze and she’s off. But as she hesitates to drag in a breath in the doorway, a shaft of sunlight illuminates the hallway ahead of her. And the stark lines of her neck are silhouetted against the light. The diamond strands in her hair are glinting. From somewhere I scrape my voice together. ‘Hold it there, Zoe, just for a moment, please.’ I don’t rush. I press to adjust for the back lighting. I capture Zoe’s last terrified second as a single woman. ‘Okay, all done.’

Kip grins over his shoulder at me as he ushers Zoe out of the room. ‘Watch out for the oldies falling asleep during the speeches, Holly. Happens every time.’

And as they glide off down the hallway, I shoot back into the bathroom.

Chapter 8

Tuesday 5th December

At Daisy Hill Farm House: Handbags and potato sacks

‘So, you can head off now, Holly. We’re pretty much done here.’

It’s Jules, and if he’s finally called a halt to hostilities, it’s probably because it’s nine in the evening and he’s completely knackered. We’ve seen his famous bounding all day, but for the first time at this wedding he’s come to a complete standstill, by the front door.

To be honest, I can’t remember a day this action packed, ever. Even the year we all went to Glastonbury after A levels, there was time to flop. And today has been one of those weird days that has whizzed by, but it still feels like at least a century since I first wriggled out from under the duvet this morning.

‘If you’re sure?’ I say, hoping that he won’t change his mind. Aidan and Zoe have swayed to their Wonderful World first dance and we’ve spent another half hour taking pictures of other couples, also swaying. As we’re assured there definitely won’t be any Macarena action this evening, apparently this is traditionally the time we photographers disappear. While Jules is going to hang on to do a couple of his signature illuminated outdoor shots with Aidan and Zoe, I’m getting a taxi back to town. ‘If I wasn’t so tired, I’d shout woohoo.’ And phew to me finally getting out of his hair.

Jules can’t hold back his ‘I told you so’ grin as he flips back his fringe. ‘Bad as that, is it?’ All day on his feet and the guy still looks flawless.

I pull a face. ‘One of the most full-on days of my life to date.’ I’m being honest, not ungrateful. And if I’m sounding cheery, it’s probably because it’s finally over. ‘Thanks for letting me tag along. I’ve picked up enough to know that my beach wedding will definitely be my last.’ When it comes to photographic subjects, give me pizza every time. High octane wedding stress has gone straight to the top of my avoid-at-all-costs list. My one lucky break today is that Jules didn’t find out about my pre-wedding puke.

He’s beaming at me now. ‘Great to hear you’ve come to terms with your limitations. I knew weddings weren’t your bag.’ No one gloats quite as much as a man who’s just been proved right, even though I was with him all along. ‘Although you might have a shot or two for me to put in the album?’

‘There’s a couple of a snoring grandma.’ That was all thanks to Kip’s tip. I caught her nodding off, then jolting when the person next to her woke her up. Cruel, but if you look at it from the humorous side, it’s a nice sequence. To be honest, I think that’ll be the sum total of my contribution. Jules really did have this entire day covered. More than that, he seemed to be under the impression he was personally in charge of the whole damned shebang.

‘I’ll call by the shop very soon and we’ll whizz through what you’ve got.’ Despite the hint of a smile, Jules deals in orders not requests. ‘Well if you want to say “bye” to Zoe and Aidan, they’re here now.’ What was I saying about him being in charge?

And that’s it. I grab a quick hug with Zoe, who, despite the all-day make-up, looks as done in as I feel. Then I’m out into the night, rushing off up the cobbles to Poppy’s kitchen, to say goodnight and ring for my ride.

As I hurry out into the frosty night I’m so relieved to be free that I punch the air, obviously being careful not to drop my camera bag. As I stare up at the dusky-blue sky, the star specks are so amazingly bright and wonderful, I almost feel like singing.

The weird thing is, as I go up the courtyard, the tune in my head – Poppy’s favourite, Don’t Stop Me Now – seems to be echoing off the walls of the barns. When I stop and hold my breath to listen, the sound’s still there. But it’s more of a yell now, overlaid with a scuffling of feet. A moment later, a small figure comes hurtling down from the cottages, arms waving wildly. There’s a moment to take it in. From the spangles on the sweatshirt that are sparking off the floodlights in the yard, it’s a girl. Before I know it, she’s banged straight into me and she’s burying her howls in my leopard fur. As I put out a hand to steady her, I hear heavier footsteps thumping down the yard.

‘Gracie, Gracie! Jeez, people are trying to sleep round here.’ The voice is urgent and low. It takes approximately a nanosecond to work out it’s Rory.

I try to ignore the fact that Gracie’s clinging to my leg. ‘Everything okay?’ For nine at night, after a very long day, having just bumped into the person at the top of my ‘best avoided’ list, I’m astonished how breezy I sound.

‘Brilliant, thanks for asking, Holly Berry.’ Rory gives me a ‘what the eff’ look as he shakes back his hair. ‘One’s yelling, the other’s bailing. Life doesn’t get much better.’ He’s got Teddie under one arm, bundled in a Barbour, and he blows as he hitches him up.

‘Sorry, I just mean …’ I don’t want to sound judgemental. ‘Someone doesn’t seem very happy, that’s all.’ Given Gracie’s wellies are cannoning into my shins and her fists are pummelling my thighs, it’s an understatement. I look down for a bit to pat, and when my hand lands on her shoulder it’s bony under the soft jersey of her pyjama top.

‘The feeling’s mutual, okay?’ Rory’s reply comes through gritted teeth. ‘They get me up at four a.m., then run me ragged all day doing kiddie stuff that lasts two minutes max. If I refuse to end the day singing songs from Frozen, that’s too bad.’ As he says the ‘F’ word, Gracie stiffens and pricks up her ears.

‘What’s wrong with songs from Frozen?’ I’m sensing he’s a long way from cracking looking after the kids. But however much I’d like to cut him down to size, I hold back on pointing that out.

He shakes his head. ‘It’s still no reason to leg it at a hundred miles an hour.’ Then he gives a sniff. ‘In a hundred pages of Erin’s descriptions about how to keep her children happy, there’s nothing about singing at bedtime. And no mention of Frozen songs either.’

I stare down at Gracie. ‘How many songs do you want?’

‘One.’ Her voice is small and husky now the yells have subsided. ‘Let it go.’

‘Great song choice.’ I can’t hold in my smile. ‘That’s all?’

Gracie nods. ‘To go to sleep with.’

I’m squeaking with indignation. ‘How’s that unreasonable, Rory? Everybody loves Let it go.’ Okay, it’s maybe not worth leaving home over. But a girl has to have principles. I’m with Gracie on this one. And after what Poppy said earlier, it’s also vital that I fully express my disagreement with Rory on every point.

Rory gives a dismissive shrug. ‘I don’t sing. End of.’

Not strictly true. I’m sure he used to hurl a mike stand around when he played with his teen band. Not that belting Bon Jovi songs at the top of his voice ever counted as tuneful.

‘You’ll have to man up and try, Rory. For the sake of a peace deal.’ As Gracie shudders against me, I put my hand out to steady her. ‘It’s freezing out here. You’d better all get back into the warm.’

‘Unless …’ Rory’s holding Teddie in front of his t-shirt like a sack of potatoes, apparently impervious to the bite of the wind. When I finally tear my eyes away from the sculpted shadows on his forearms, he’s staring at me expectantly.

‘What?’ Shovelling hops into vats must work wonders for your biceps. When I finally re-divert my mind to sensible stuff, my instinct is yelling at me to do a runner of my own.

The floodlights are bright enough to light up the curl of his try-it-on smile. ‘If it’s that easy, then I’m sure you won’t mind doing the honours. Bedtime serenade here we come.’ It isn’t even a question. It’s like he’s been taking lessons from Jules-the-dictator.

I’m opening and closing my mouth, and my ‘Er-er-er …’ is stuck on repeat. I feel like I’m about to be sucked in by a giant vacuum cleaner. And being spat out in the heart of Rory’s home is my number one nightmare scenario. Even if it is only a temporary holiday let, it still counts as the full-blown dragon’s lair. It’s horribly close to this dead-of-night fantasy I had as a very misguided teenager, where Rory would take me back to his house for tea and worse. It probably grew from the night he took me home. Although whatever I said to Poppy, I don’t actually have much recollection of that bit, other than what people have told me. But I’d die of embarrassment if I admitted any of this, even to myself. Even transmitting the thought waves this close to Poppy, I could be dead meat.

‘Okay, Gracie. Panic over. Holly’s going to sing you to sleep. So what are we waiting for?’ That inscrutable smile is as infuriating as ever. ‘As you just said, it’s too damned cold out here to hang around.’

Except from where I’m standing, with Gracie tugging on my sleeve, suddenly the inside of my fur jacket feels like a sauna.

He’s striding ahead. ‘Straight on up the yard. It’s the cottage with the grey door.’ It takes a self-important guy like Rory to miss that all the cottage doors are grey. Luckily for the neighbours who might otherwise have been accidentally gate-crashed, Rory’s door is ajar.

Despite the open door, as I follow him into the hallway, the warmth hits me in the face, then envelops me. Gazing past Gracie to the wide white-painted room beyond, I spot a log burner in the corner, blazing behind a fireguard. In the time it takes to drop my camera bags onto the tiled floor by the entrance and shed my leopard, my cheeks have flushed from crimson to burning beetroot.

I scan the sofas and table for an empty space to put down my coat, and fail. ‘Good to see you aren’t a tidy obsessive.’ If were talking mess explosions, this is on a par with the bridesmaids’ room. Whereas I’m still used to Luc, who liked everything in its place. Although that insistence on order is something I never properly appreciated until I lost it.

Rory clears a space with his boat shoe, slides Teddie onto the rug and throws the Barbour he was wrapped in behind a tub chair. ‘The mess is the downside of having a three-year-old for a housemate.’ As he rubs his forehead with his fist, there’s a disgusting flash of tanned stomach. ‘You wouldn’t believe it but Immie had this place looking impeccable this morning.’

Actually I would. Him leaving the dirty work to someone else sounds exactly right. Which is why I need to get in and out of here like a lightning strike. ‘Okay, time for bed?’ If I wasn’t purple already, I would be after how that came out.

‘Sounds like a plan, Holly Berry Red Cheeks.’ There’s the lowest chuckle in his throat. ‘Bedrooms are straight through, past the kitchen.’

I’m not even going to bother about his jibes. It’s bad enough being in his living room. If I stop to think about being near his bedroom, I might vomit again. From sheer distaste.

As I clamp my eyes onto the sparkly snowflakes on Gracie’s top and march her across the rug, I can’t help noticing. She’s rocking the ‘Courtney Love walking out of a wind tunnel with a hangover’ look. Complete with dark shadows under her eyes and cheeks so white I’d swap with her in a heartbeat. I’m puzzling at how this fits with the super-uncle care package. ‘Have you brushed your hair today?’