Summer at the Little Wedding Shop: The hottest new release of summer 2017 - perfect for the beach!

Chapter 9

Saturday, 25th February

Open Day at Rose Hill Manor: Ice breakers and sharp claws

‘So you see why we like it?’

My mum’s suddenly less sure of herself, hanging back as we get out of the car.

It’s one of those times when my memory plays tricks with scale. Somehow now we’ve pulled up on the gravel at the front, Rose Hill Manor’s bigger than I remember from the few times I came here as a teenager. Sharper too. But the windows are irregular, and the stone is so mellow, its warmth pulls you in. And the huge front door is open and inviting. Although whoever’s organised the parking has scored a mammoth fail, because there’s no signage, and there’s a jam of cars as drivers try to work out where to go.

‘It’s lovely.’ My hand’s on the handle of the car door, when it hits me that my mum’s about to commit to something huge here. ‘You are sure about this? You don’t want to wait a bit?’ She wouldn’t be the first woman to sign up for a wedding just because she fell in love with the venue.

She picks up her handbag, and she’s missed the point by a mile. ‘So long as we’re quick, we should beat the stampede. There were a lot of cars in that queue.’

I let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m not talking about now, I’m asking if you should be waiting longer to get married. You could have the wedding next year instead?’ I mean, how would she react if I said I was rushing into marrying someone I barely knew?

My mum’s expression is determined, as she catches my eye in the sun visor mirror. ‘Time’s short. At my age, I have to make the most of the youth I’ve got left.’ As she snaps away her lippy, she glances at a band on her wrist. ‘If I skip round the Manor, I should get to ten thousand.’

She’s lost me. ‘Ten thousand what?’

‘Steps, silly – on my Fitbit.’ She shakes her head at my frown. ‘Never mind, we’d better hurry.’

As we arrive at the entrance, David’s standing next to a balding potted pine, hitching up skinny jeans that could be borrowed from an eighteen-year-old. Believe me, if I’d picked up on the spray-on denim earlier, I’d never have left Heavenly Heights. But as we go into the lofty hallway, I take Poppy’s advice, to pick out the positives.

‘Fabulous staircase, and it’s lovely and cosy.’

There’s a flash of dayglow lycra as my mum unzips her jacket. ‘What a crowd. And it’s positively tropical. Lucky I’m wearing my technical top.’ She picks up my blank look. ‘Special exercise fabric – it wicks away the sweat, darling.’

On a need-to-know basis, that’s way too much. Whatever happened to her love affair with Phase Eight and a sedentary lifestyle? But she’s not joking about the crush. Despite Fred’s delaying tactics, the place is rammed. As we thread our way through the wide-open plan reception rooms that flow from one into the next there are couples hugging the walls.

‘Any idea which way we go?’ I ask, as I squeeze my way into a room with polished boards, and linen covered sofas. Even though it could have dropped straight from a Country Living magazine, there’s no hint of weddings at all. And there’s a thrumming sound track, that sounds like it came from a Driving Rock CD. As Meatloaf gives way to Led Zeppelin, at least the chaos is eclipsing David’s embarrassing trouser situation. It’s not like you can see anyone’s legs.

A girl rolls her eyes at me over her glass of fizz. ‘Bubbly’s in the study. We served ourselves, but we haven’t got a clue where to go next.’

When it comes to listening in, my mum’s a pro. ‘Don’t worry, we know our way around, we’ve been before. Follow us.’ As she begins her running commentary, more people start to tag along. ‘The winter garden’s where the ceremonies take place, then the ballroom’s the party space.’

David’s right behind her. ‘You can have marquees by the terrace, or even a lakeside tipi.’

Not that I’ve landed a styling commission yet, but at least soaking up the spaces and the atmosphere makes me feel less like a spare part. Although it would make me a traitor to Poppy, a job here would be a dream if I had the courage to do it.

‘And upstairs there are masses of luxury bedrooms, and a bridal suite.’ My mum can’t hold in her enthusiasm. ‘We’d better head up there now, if we’re going to get to spinning.’

‘Spinning?’ As I puff up the stairs, trying to keep up with her, I get my first clear view of her state-of-the-art Nike trainers. Given how pink they are, I can’t think how I missed them earlier. What’s more, it’s the first time I’ve ever known her leave the house without four inch heels.

She laughs over her shoulder. ‘It’s all go. The hazards of having a fiancé who’s a personal trainer. As soon as you see the four poster you’ll understand why I want to marry him here.’

The thought of my mum on her wedding night makes me shudder. ‘Maybe I’ll check out the other rooms. Give you two some “couple” time in the bridal suite.’

Linking arms with David, she heads for an elegant panelled door. ‘We’re in here then, you’ll need to be on the next floor. The single rooms are up under the eaves.’

There’s no point taking the truth as a jibe, but it still stings. ‘With your insider knowledge, they should be employing you as a guide.’ As I back down the landing, I’m visualising cupcakes. ‘I’ll wait for you by the refreshments.’

It’s a fight to reach the study, but I know I’m there when I spot a hand-written sign blu-tacked on the door. Drinks and Bookings. Kip Penryn is obviously an optimist then. The bad news is there’s not a crumb of cake in sight. It’s an indication of the entire event. I’d give ten out of ten for venue, zero for effort. But on the plus side, the study’s delightfully empty, with an array of bottles and ice buckets on a long oak desk. I’m helping myself to apple juice, when I hear a voice in the corridor outside.

‘If the fizz is as good as the rest of the place, they’ll be splashing round the Bolly. Fingers crossed for smoked salmon blinis.’

Someone blagging smoked salmon blinis? How’s that familiar? My stomach wilts, although it’s all my own fault. I’m the one who was shouting about the open day.

It’s a good thing I’ve put down my juice, because the next moment the door pushes open, and an apparition in white fur is storming towards me, arms out-stretched.

‘L-i-l-eeeeeeeee …’ Someone elongates my name as they drag me into a strangle-hold. ‘I was soooo hoping you’d be here.’

‘Nicole …?’ I haven’t totally seen her face, but the haze of Black Opium, and the faceful of fur are the giveaways.

‘And this is Miles … Miles, this is amazing Lily from Brides by the Sea, who found me my dress, and who’s going to be our wedding stylist.’

As Nicole relaxes her grip, I make a mental note to keep my toes well away from her bag.

‘Hello Miles, lovely to meet you.’ However big my smile, it’s going to be hard to live up to the build up.

‘You too, Lily.’ As he raises an ironic eyebrow and grasps my hand, he’s every bit as 007 as Nicole promised. A little bit older in real life than on his photo, but an impeccably cut suit lifts his ‘phwoar’ factor to a solid eight point five. Speaking impartially here, obviously.

‘Bolly for both of you?’ I’m joking, but when I pick up the bottle to fill their glasses, I’m spot on. Which is a teensy bit crazy, when Prosecco would have done the job. And in no way makes up for the cupcake deficit. As I hand them their flutes, I can’t help thinking it’s like Nicole and my mum got their men mixed up. But that’s entirely up to them.

‘Did someone say Bolly?’ This time it’s my mum’s head coming around the door, so they must have fast forwarded on the bedrooms.

‘You were quick.’ I manage a smile as they shuffle in.

‘There’s no time to lose, we need to do this.’ The corners of her mouth are white with excitement.

‘Have we met?’ Nicole butts in, staring at me expectantly.

‘Sorry, Nicole, Miles, David, and Barbara is my mum …’ I rattle off the names, and throw in an ice breaker. ‘You all got engaged on Valentine’s Day.’ I skip the Pirate FM bit. The sooner we forget that, the better.

When Nicole’s fist comes forward, surprisingly – or maybe, not – it’s not for a hand shake. ‘I’m so lucky, and isn’t this the most fabulous engagement ring?’ She’s waggling her rocks on her left hand, and seeking out my mum’s ring hand with the other.

I’m bracing myself, because if this is a bling competition there can only be one winner.

‘Ooooh, very Beyoncé.’ My mum’s smile freezes, as she pulls her hand away. ‘Actually, mine’s still being re-sized.’

So that explains why I haven’t seen it. More surprising still, now they’re closer, I can’t help notice her lips match Nicole’s. Bright pink Chanel Mighty. I’m still reeling at my mum’s bitchy return, trying to think of some way to move the conversation on when the door swings again.

‘So Bolly and bookings? Have we got any takers? Everything’s half price today.’

Okay, it had to happen. Kip does live here. I’d just hoped to avoid him. Less ridiculous than it sounds, seeing as he was doing such a good job of making himself scarce.

As he strides in his smile’s wide, and he’s rubbing his hands. Literally and metaphorically, no doubt. And if Penryns in denim are dangerous, in a dark jacket this one’s incendiary. Not that it matters to me though, because I know to keep a country mile away. At least.

‘So … we meet again. You really couldn’t resist my exclusive venue?’

Seeing he’s whizzed straight past four potential customers, to home in on me, I’m guessing his business sense isn’t as sharp as he pretends.

My mum jumps forward. ‘This is Lily, she’s my daughter …’

If she asks him for a date on my behalf I’m going to expire. But I’m saved because Nicole’s straight in there.

‘But much more importantly, Lily’s from Brides by the Sea, and she’s my wedding stylist.’ If she lost out in the ring tussle, she’s not backing off now. And professional trumps family every time. ‘We’re here to make a booking, and as we were in here first, it’s only right we get first go.’ She’s powered past us, plonked herself in the swivel chair, and she’s tapping an acrylic nail on the polished desk. ‘Although we will be looking for assurances of up-grades. Complimentary cocktails, snacks in the Bridal Suite, a hot tub on the lawn. You could do with having a wedding fair too.’

And that’s just for starters. Exactly why Poppy ran a mile. And Nicole’s barely begun. I must be mad thinking I’ll work for her.

‘Great.’ Kip sounds less excited then he might. ‘If I can get to my seat, we’ll see what we can do.’ He shepherds Nicole back around to the front of the desk.

‘Saturday August 12th, it’ll be our six-month anniversary, and we want two days before thrown in too, for styling.’

I should be grateful for the extra preparation time she’s grabbed, but instead my knees are actually knocking with nerves that it’s real. I’m sure that’s when Immie and Chas are tying the knot too. What are the chances of that?

Nicole dips into her bag. ‘Here’s the deposit.’ A shower of notes slithers across the desk. At least that explains why she needed such a humungous bag.

My mum’s low moan is so heartfelt, it almost has me looking for a wounded dog.

I turn to her. ‘You didn’t want that day too?’

She bunches up her mouth, and nods.

‘Too late, it’s taken.’ Nicole’s air punch is gloating. ‘Second best gets second place. Suck it up.’

I know I’m not ecstatic about my mum getting married. But right now I’d like to knock Nicole’s lights out. Or smother her. Or anything else that would silence her. What’s more, I can’t understand why any couple who’ve only been together a few months would put themselves under the pressure of organising a wedding. At such short notice too. It’s not as if they don’t know any better. They’ve all been there before.

From the way my mum’s mouth bunches, she’s not taking that lying down. ‘Lily’s never actually styled weddings before. So good luck with that one, Nicole.’ Ouch. With friends like my mum, who needs enemies? Although I’m probably the first ammunition that came to hand.

‘It always rains in August. September’s much sunnier,’ I say, momentarily putting to one side that my mum’s just dropped me in the shit, and wrecked my chance of a job. Am I a bitch for wishing torrential storms for Nicole? With any luck my mum will see this as a sign. Leave it until next year. By which time she might have come to her senses.

‘Whatever.’ Kip counts the cash and tries three drawers to find a pen. The way he reaches for an A4 ruled pad to write out a receipt sets my alarm bells ringing.

‘So what about corkage?’ I blurt it out before I can stop myself.

I’m no expert. But it’s to do with costs for opening wine, and every venue has a policy. It’s not exactly my business, but it is the perfect test question to see if he knows what he’s doing here.

‘Corkage?’ As soon as Kip repeats the word, he gives himself away. It’s obvious from the wiggles on his forehead he hasn’t the first clue what I’m talking about. A definite fail.

‘A list of approved caterers and suppliers? Price lists? Agreements?’ I watch his eyes widen as I screw him down, and his throat bulges as he swallows.

But a second later, he holds up his hand. ‘Not quite in place. Yet. Hence the stonking early bird discount.’ Talk about thinking on his feet.

‘So what else don’t you know about?’ I’m not the one making bookings here, but his don’t-give-a-damn attitude’s left me fuming. My voice soars. ‘These people are trusting you. You can’t mess around. We’re talking about the biggest days of their lives here.’

The smile’s vapourised, and his scowl is directed straight at me. ‘What exactly is your point?’

In other words, butt the hell out. But if he thinks I’ll back down, he’s wrong.

I make my eyes as cold as his. ‘If you can’t take a whole lot of heat, you really shouldn’t be messing around in this particular kitchen. Is what I’m saying.’ I suspect he hasn’t got any idea what he’s getting himself into here. And he could ruin a whole lot of hopes and dreams, as he claws his way up the learning curve. ‘Running a wedding venue is about a whole lot more than collecting the money, you know.’

Although, I might be talking to myself here, given my mum’s entirely engrossed flicking through a tiny diary, and David’s nodding wildly.

‘Right, that’s settled. We’ll take the third Saturday in September.’ My mum’s missed the whole altercation, and she’s hurtling towards the metaphorical cliff edge like a happy lemming.

‘What date’s that?’ Kip dips to scramble through the desk drawers, presumably searching for a calendar, but comes up empty handed. He drums his fingers expectantly.

‘16th September,’ my mum says, helpfully.

If I were a tiger, I’d be roaring. ‘An appointment book might work here?’ I’m spitting the words out. ‘Or is it too early for something so rudimentary?’ There’s no point telling him most venues have dedicated files, for years ahead.

He rips a sheet of paper off the pad, and scribbles the date. ‘Got you.’

Nicole’s pointy nail pokes Kip on the chest. ‘And don’t forget us. You haven’t written us down yet.’ Just this once I forgive her for being so unbearably pushy.

‘You might need to add names and phone numbers to those dates, you know.’ It’s not my place, but someone has to tell him. And maybe staple the paper to his head to stop him losing it. As for what it’s going to take to pull a wedding out of this? We’re about to find out, because David’s already tearing his cheque off.

My mum’s scribbling her details next to her date. ‘Sorry, we’ve got to dash. We’ll be in touch. Fifty per cent off, we can’t go wrong,’ she’s saying as she heads for the door.

In my head, I’m screaming, ‘oh yes you can, don’t bloody do it, for every reason’ at the top of my voice. But somehow the words never make it into the air.

We’re barely two steps out of the door when my mum lets rip instead. ‘Who was that awful woman? Someone should tell her pink doesn’t work on brunettes. You must be mad leaving that nice hotel to work with hideous people like that, Lily.’

At least she still thinks I had a choice. Although seriously, I’m quaking at the thought of taking on Nicole. We’re outside getting into the car when I remember what I’ve got away with.

‘So much excitement, you forgot to try to fix me up with a date with Kip Penryn. That has to be a first.’ If there’s one good thing about my mum getting married, that was it. Unless she had the good sense to see this is the one guy in the world best avoided.

The sun visor’s already down and she’s getting to work with the Chanel Mighty. ‘There’s no point either of us wasting time there, Lily. He’s way out of your league.’ Her lips are popping as she launches into her favourite mantra. ‘You could do so much better for yourself, if only you’d make the effort.’ She looks at my trousers, and winces.

Black jeggings. A size too big. Very practical for the shop. Not that someone in fitness bottoms like my mum’s is in any position to dish out fashion advice.

David gives his own jeans a wrench as he slides behind the wheel. ‘As a guy I’d say old Kip was way more interested in Lily than he was in us, or his bookings. Seriously Lily, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

There he goes again. Butting in. And talking the usual bollocks. As for my mum, the criticisms’ been raining down since nineteen eighty-four. Mostly I shrug it off.

‘Part of the Penryn empire went to the wall recently.’ David’s rubbing his chin, musing as he waits for my mum to finish. ‘It was all over the FT, as I remember.’

My mum raises a querying eyebrow. ‘The what?’

‘The Financial Times.’

As my frown meets David’s in the driving mirror, his is worried, while mine is disbelieving. I suppose he has to read something when he’s on his exercise bike. Or he might be making it up.

My mum brushes away his concerns, as she flips the sun visor up again. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, dahling.’

Meanwhile I file that information snippet safely in my ‘good to know for a later date’ box, because it’s always useful to have something to hold over a Penryn. And as the tyres scrunch along the gravel drive, I’m horrified to find I’m scanning the horizon for logs and tractors. But thankfully they’ve all gone.

‘Let’s just hope “old Kip” pulls his finger out, and stays solvent here until September.’ I say, as we roar off up the lane towards the village. Because if he fails on either count we’re all in trouble.

Chapter 10