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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover Illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Jane Linfoot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008260668

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008260651

Version: 2017-09-18

PRAISE FOR JANE LINFOOT

‘Jane Linfoot has got out the mixing bowl and whipped up a truly gorgeous story…A deliciously scrumptious treat’

Rebecca Pugh, bestselling author of Return to Bluebell Hill

‘Just like the perfect wedding cake, Cupcakes and Confetti is beautifully crafted and wrapped in romance’

Heidi Swain, bestselling author of The Cherry Tree Cafe

‘A pure delight…fabulous, fun and unforgettable’

Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of Summer at the Comfort Food Café

‘Simply stunning’

A Spoonful of Happy Endings

‘Gorgeous book with characters full of heart, and an impassioned story to make you smile’

Reviewed the Book

‘This author packs a punch’

My Little Book Blog

‘Loved this book. The main characters are vividly drawn…the writing is fast and feisty’

Contemporary Romance Reviews

‘With every book I read I fall more in love’

Booky Ramblings

Dedication

For Anna and Jamie, Indi, Richard and Eric, Max and Caroline, M, and Phil. With love. xx

Author Note

Each of the stories abbot Poppy, Sera, Lily, Holly, Jess and their friends at Brides by the Sea can be read on its own. If you’d like to read consecutively, this is the order:

The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

Summer at the Little Wedding Shop

Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop

I hope you have as much fun reading the books as I have writing them, love Jane xx

Taking pictures is like tiptoeing into the kitchen late at night and stealing Oreo cookies

Diane Arbus

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Linfoot

Dedication

Author Note

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Keep Reading …

Some Delicious Recipes from Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop …

Favourite Cocktails from Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop

Acknowledgements

Also by Jane Linfoot

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Saturday, 2nd December

At St Aidan station: Sparkle all the way

‘Could you possibly take me to Brides by the Sea?’

The whiskers I’m staring up at are curly, white and, at a guess, a hundred per cent acrylic. And let’s be clear about this – hitching a ride on Santa’s horse and carriage definitely isn’t my first choice to get across town to the wedding shop, where I’m going to be staying for the next month.

When I got on the train this morning at St Pancras there was a seventy-five-foot tree in the departure hall, enough spangley lights to illuminate the northern hemisphere and choirs clustered around pianos singing carols. Christmas in London was rolled out in November. I can’t tell you how blissful it was to leave it all behind and arrive in St Aidan to the sound of seagulls, and one wonky tree by the station exit that hadn’t got its decorations on yet. And I know my mum and dad have let our family house in nearby Rose Hill village and gone off to Spain on a wild winter sun-seeking adventure in a motor caravan. But when I smell the salty air and catch a glimpse of the jumble of white painted cottages and grey stone houses winding up the hill into the town here, even though my parents are away it still feels as if I’m coming home.

The bad news is, by the time I’ve jostled my way through the mass of travellers in their North Face jackets, and dragged my rucksack and a suitcase the size of a garden shed onto the pavement outside the station, the last of the line of waiting taxis is a disappearing dot on the horizon. So when a pony and trap driven by Santa Claus himself jingles to a halt in front of me, even though I’ve come to here to avoid Christmas, the offer of a lift into town is too tempting to turn down.

‘Brides by the Sea, Jess’s wedding shop?’ Santa hitches his belt over a stomach so squishy it has to be hollowfill and raises one eyebrow archly. Then he nudges the huge elf in green beside him. ‘Four floors of bridal gorgeousness, Cornwall’s most fabulous wedding emporium. As advertised on Pirate Radio, and featured in Hello! and OK! magazines.’

‘That’s the one,’ I say, mildly surprised that he’s so word perfect. Although even that gushing description falls short of describing the delicious haven of white lace and prettiness that overlooks St Aidan bay. He’s obviously heard about Seraphina East, known to us as Sera, the shop’s dress designer, hitting the nationals last year, when she made a bespoke dress for a celebrity.

Santa beams as he rubs his belt. ‘Brides by the Sea will always have a special place in our hearts. It’s where we bought the suits for our very own wedding.’ He and the elf exchange dreamy glances, a couple more nudges and some nose wrinkles. ‘You know they’re extending into the shop next door too?’ Santa’s sudden change of tone suggests he’s impressed, yet possibly jealous.

‘Do you know Jess well, then?’ I’ve heard the news about the shop expanding, because I’ve been chatting to my bestie Poppy, who works there. But it always comes as a shock when I remember St Aidan’s, the kind of town where everyone knows everybody, and everything about them too. Pretty much down to their bra size.

The elf jumps down and gives me a wink as he lands on the pavement next to me. ‘We’re Chamber of Commerce chums. Divorce was the making of Jess, you know. She’s been turbo charged ever since. Any friend of Jess’s is a friend of ours, so we’re happy to go the extra mile for you, even if we’re only out on a pre-season practice run. We’re just getting our pony, Nutella – that’s Nuttie for short – used to the bells again.’ He gives the pony’s chocolate brown rump a pat as he dips towards my luggage, groaning as he heaves my suitcase onto the back of the cart. ‘Christmas crackers, how many wet suits have you got in there? You’re down for the winter surf, I presume?’

The other thing I forget about when I’ve been away is the incessant questions.

I laugh. If anyone wants proof that you can grow up by the sea in Cornwall and end up with zero aptitude for water sports, just look my way. As for my heavy bags, I’m not admitting I’ve brought my boxed sets of Friends, every Harry Potter paperback I own, along with the Princess Diaries, and my entire Sweet Valley High collection. In case you’re wondering, as far as my extended visit to Cornwall goes, I’m planning a big month in.

‘Sorry, I should have warned you, my cameras weigh a ton. I’m here to take pictures for my friends’ beach wedding.’

Choosing to get married at the seaside in December might sound bonkers, but when they asked me to do their photos I jumped at the chance to get away from London. In my real job I’m a food photographer, working for a product development company. I know taking pictures of burgers is a thousand miles away from capturing bridal parties. But this particular surfie wedding is so small and laid back I’m looking forward to the challenge of a change. I’m hoping it’ll be more like fun than work. More importantly, the happy couple are my favourite friends of the ex I’ve spent the last year pining over. Not that I’m getting my hopes up in that area. But at least I might get to catch up on what he’s doing and take some lovely wedding shots for my friends Becky and Nate along the way.

As I pull myself back to reality, Santa’s hauling on my hand hard enough to pull my arm out of its socket. A second later my bottom crashes down next to his on the high seat of the carriage, and my own fake fur sleeve is crushed against his raspberry fleece. Then, as his yank turns into a vigorous handshake, my mouth goes onto autopilot.

‘Hi, I’m Holly, lovely to meet you, Santa … and your elf husband too …’ I usually have a rule never to tell people my name between November and January, so I brace myself for the wisecracks. Believe me, if it’s December, they always come.

Santa nods and gives a little sniff. ‘A Christmas wedding photographer called Holly. Very fitting.’

‘Not too many pricks, I hope.’ The elf widens his eyes at Santa, as he lands on my other side.

‘Only my ex,’ I say, pulling a face.

The elf takes in my groan and changes tack. ‘Great, so how about a quick selfie with Santa before we set off?’

‘I’ll pass on that one, thanks.’ If I sound appalled by the idea, I can’t help it. Apart from the beach wedding, I’m here because I’m hell bent on escaping from Christmas. So running smack into my own dedicated Santa straight outside the station is a big backwards step. Ending up jammed between him and his chief elf is even more damned careless of me. A selfie would be the end of washday. In a launderette-burning-down kind of way.

The elf screws up his face and his whine is loud and startlingly theatrical. ‘But everyone who rides in the Charity Christmas Special carriage takes a selfie with Santa, even if it’s only a dress rehearsal.’

‘Actually, I’m all good.’ That’s my polite way of saying I’d rather eat my own head than have my picture taken with Santa, when all I want to do is get to the shop, climb the stairs to Poppy’s little attic kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.

The elf’s nostrils flare. ‘Be very careful. Santa can get a bit tetchy. In elf-speak what I’m saying is a refusal may offend.’ His eyes take on a triumphant glint. ‘Let’s face it, you don’t want cinders in your pillow case on Christmas morning do you?’

Ever heard of dressing up and getting right into character? And taking it way too far. Even if I’d be more than happy for Santa to miss out my stocking this year, there are times when I know I’m beaten. ‘Fine.’ I grab my phone, jam my face up against Santa’s, frown because he’s wearing so much more eyeliner than I am and try for a smile. As I pull off a grimace, I’m resigning myself to a bad case of beard rash later.

‘Brilliant.’ Mr Elf – or should that be the second Mr Claus? – has reconnected with his happy self again. ‘Hash tag St-Aidan-Santa-Special-Selfie underscore Kids-at-Christmas for every tweet please. Whenever you find some signal, that is. There isn’t any here, obviously.’

Another of the joys of Cornwall I accidentally overlooked when Poppy suggested I use the little flat above the Brides by the Sea shop as a bolthole, and I agreed in a nanosecond. Poppy and I both grew up in Rose Hill village, a few miles inland from here. She was in the year above me at school and we both escaped to London and did the same food tech course at uni. And even though she’s been back here a while, we’ve always kept in touch.

‘Photograph your mad winter wedding then stay on for a fabulous low key Christmas above the wedding shop,’ Poppy said one day when she was cheering me up on Facebook messenger. Reminding me straight afterwards that I still had my entire annual holiday allocation left. And offering to throw in as many cupcakes as I could eat, because Poppy is Brides by the Sea’s cake baker. She also happens to be unexpectedly pregnant, with a whole load of Christmas wedding bookings to deal with as well as her bump. So all I had to promise in return for using the flat for the whole month was to lend a hand in the shop while Jess was away on a winter holiday and help Poppy with the weddings, at her partner, Rafe’s, amazing wedding venue, Daisy Hill Farm.

I know, from when Poppy lived in the tiny top floor flat, that the views across St Aidan Bay from the little porthole windows are amazing. But that wasn’t what swung it for me. The truth is, I’m not actually planning to make Christmas low key this year – I’m planning to erase it entirely. The idea of doing whatever work I had to, then locking the shop door and hiding away in the attic for the whole of Christmas is the perfect celebration-free scenario for me. This way I can watch back-to-back episodes of Friends all on my own, and come out again when it’s all over. As an evasive plan of action, it’s completely foolproof. And for someone like me, who’s in Christmas denial, it couldn’t be better. Once the wedding pictures are in the bag, it’ll be plain sailing all the way to the New Year.

‘Ready to go?’ As Santa shakes the reins and Nuttie trots out into the road, the jingling from the harness bells is shockingly loud. And hideously festive. And it’s not just who’s driving the carriage. Thanks to the back being plastered with fake snow, dangling baubles, ivy garlands and a shitload of presents, not to mention huge banners proclaiming SANTA IS COMING YOUR WAY, everyone is staring at us. Pointing, even. The only way we’d be turning more heads is if we were being pulled along by an actual real-live reindeer. What’s more, now we’re speeding down the street, the wind is biting. On a good day in winter, much to my constant dismay, my nose is red enough to lend to Rudolf. And that’s without the help of a hot, steaming coffee or a vodka cocktail. Both of which I try to avoid consuming in public, even if I don’t always succeed. After a few minutes out in this arctic blast, my hooter is going to be positively luminous.

I let go of the seat and try to pull my collar of my trusty leopard-print jacket up over my ears so I can bury my nose in the fake fur. It’s one of those coats that feels like a shield when you put it on. If you snuggle down into it, you’re guaranteed to be warm and safe wherever you go. And pretty much invincible. Which is why I couldn’t think of a month away without it, even if the rest of Cornwall are wearing on-trend down jackets, or gorgeous wool coats with humungous fur collars. Although faced with a Cornish westerly as stiff as today’s, with me trying to make it double as an invisibility cloak, I’m asking a lot of my own small jacket.

‘So, are we looking forward to Christmas?’ It’s a wonder Santa has time to chat as well as deal with the early afternoon traffic. His carriage driving technique consists of pointing his pony, then going for it. I reckon his costume must have gone to his head, because at every junction he assumes he’s got priority. If he were driving a taxi this recklessly, they’d fine him and confiscate his license.

I blink as yet another car screeches to a halt, its driver open mouthed as we whoosh past, a snowflake’s width away from his bumper. On balance, I decide it’s easiest to bluff the reply to a tricky question.

‘Christmas? I couldn’t be any more excited, Santa.’ Even without jolting along behind a pony’s swishing tail, the truth is way too complicated to go into, even for Santa. Basically, the problem is, he’s twelve months too late asking me the question.

For my whole life, Christmas has been my favourite time of year. When we were kids, my big sister Freya and I used to get so excited we’d hyperventilate from the moment we opened the first door on the Advent calendar until the last present had been opened. Freya embraced Christmas the same way she tackled everything – forging her way ahead with her amazing exuberance, dragging our younger brothers and me along on her wave of enthusiasm. Making hundreds of yards of paper chains, then hanging them in festoons all over the house, even in the bathroom. Spraying the windows along the entire street with fake snow late at night. Buying a bale of red fleece from the market and making the whole family Santa suits for her school textiles project. Then when I was twelve, the unthinkable happened and she died. It was the worst time ever. Fast growing brain tumours happened to other people, not girls like Freya, who was only fourteen and ripping through life like a tornado. Twenty years on, I’ve learned the best way to cope is to concentrate on the good bits. I’ve taught myself to love remembering all the happy times. And as my everlasting tribute to Freya, I go completely over the top with the festive thing. Because anything less would be wrong.

Which is why this time last December, I’d already decorated my boyfriend Luc’s flat to within an inch of its life and I was holding my breath for a fabulous Christmas trip to his parents’ place in the Highlands. I’d splurged to the max on presents. And bought at least a hundred rolls of paper to wrap them in, obviously. And yes, I was aching for Christmas to come. Then it did, and my entire life unwound.

I’ll save the more desperate details for a time when I’m not careering round a corner at top speed on one wheel, like we are now. At least if we go super fast, we’ll get there quicker, with less chance of anyone I know recognising me along the way. It’s enough to say that entirely thanks to me, Luc’s surprise Christmas proposal went all kinds of wrong. Okay, I admit that a woman running away at the speed of light isn’t an ideal reaction when a guy waves a diamond ring under her nose. When you’re as un-sporty as I am it’s more than ridiculous. And I still don’t completely understand why my legs reacted as they did. Or why, once I’d calmed down and come back, we couldn’t work things out. But the upshot was that by January I was boyfriend-less. And eleven months on I’m still single, confused and way too sorry for myself. What’s worse, my dream London life has completely lost its sparkle. And with my fifteen boxes of Christmas decorations still in storage and no proper home to put a tree up in anyway, I’m hardly going to be whooping it up on the twenty fifth this year. But thanks to Jess and Poppy’s help, I’ve got that sorted. I just hope me telling Santa porkies isn’t going to backfire on me, just when a tiny part of me is optimistic that things are about to get better.

‘We’ll take the scenic route along the sea front.’ Santa’s yell is a foot from my ear, as we suddenly veer away to the right. But the side winds off the bay are so vicious, I can barely catch what he’s saying. ‘It’s a long way round, but easier for Nuttie and we get to see the lights.’

‘Great.’ I shrink further inside my coat, take in the dark grey swell, and a high tide pounding against the sea wall, sending foam splashing over the railings. When I look up at the unlit light strings thrashing horizontally, the flying sand stings my eyes. At this rate, by the time we reach the shop I’m going to look like a witch who’s been on a broomstick ride in a hailstorm. I’m so busy trying to untangle my hair, I only look up to notice the huge rogue wave arching through the air across the road at the last moment. As we speed towards it I’m howling. ‘Watch out ahead, Santa!’

‘Whoa, Nuttie!’

Even a guy with Santa’s powers can’t easily stop a cart pulled by a ton of pony doing a twenty mile an hour extended trot. As the arc of water showers downwards, we clatter to a halt yards too late. The breaking wave smacks us full in our faces, then sluices down over our shoulders and legs.

‘Holy mackerel! The hazards of sleigh riding!’ Santa’s letting out a choking squawk as he collects the reins again. ‘We’re lucky Nuttie didn’t bolt there.’

‘Jeez, bolting would be nothing.’ The elf is gazing down in horror at his soaking green knees. ‘My panty hose have gone entirely transparent. How about you, Holly?’

I’m scraping the icy drips out of my eyes, muttering as I squeeze streams of water out of my jacket. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d been dipped in the ocean.’ If this is payback for lying to Santa, it’s come raining down on me scarily fast.

As the elf turns to Santa he’s close to pleading. ‘Let’s call in the Surf Shack to dry off?’

Now he’s talking. You have to admire an elf who knows his local cafés. So long as you don’t mind walls made out of random planks, it’s the best one on the beach. I’m already warming up, mentally shovelling a ton of marshmallows into the top of my bucket-sized award-winning hot chocolate. But we’ve both overlooked the fact that Santa’s on a mission.

‘This isn’t a jolly.’ Santa’s scolding is scornful and incensed. ‘We’re here to make deliveries. We need to get Holly to her wedding shop.’ There’s a jolt, and we’re off again, this time even faster.

I spend approximately two minutes consoling myself for not getting the chance to visit the ladies’ room so I could work on not looking so much like I’d crawled out of a shipwreck. Then the cliff side gives way to buildings again. As we whizz up the hill past significant and familiar landmarks, I’m getting involuntary flurries of excitement in my chest. Jaggers Bar, the Yellow Daisy Café, Hot Jack’s, and Iron Maiden’s Cleaners pass so fast they’re a blur. We’re yards away from Brides by the Sea, accelerating wildly as we make a turn into the mews, but by the time we get there, a four by four is already in the space we’re heading for.

‘Donna and Blitzen! What the hell happened to priority for the elderly? Can’t he see the beard?’ Santa’s cursing bounces off shop windows shining warm light into the grim afternoon.

The whole point about Santa driving the carriage like a loon is that it only works when other road users give way. If you meet an ‘eff-off’ driver head on in these narrow streets, you’re likely to end up in big trouble. Even dealing with any driver who doesn’t jump on the brakes a hundred yards away, you might end up with the carriage and the car wedged between the buildings. Which is exactly how we are now. Don’t ask me whose fault it is, because even though it happened right under my nose, I really can’t tell.

Enough to say, the vehicle we’re jammed up against is plastered from one oversized bumper to the other in an expensive paint job. I can see some local artist has had a great time painting beer bottles bobbing on exceptionally realistic air-brushed breakers. And the signage on the door is conveniently at knee level. Huntley and Handsome’s Roaring Waves Brewery – St Aidan in a Bottle. That pretty much says it all. Aren’t the current rash of microbreweries all run by overgrown boys with too much disposable income, staving off their midlife crises? I shiver as the car window slides down, and realise mournfully that we could be stuck here for ages arguing when I’m freezing my butt off.

But as I stare past the elf to the car driver, heat sears through me. It’s the kind of hot flash under the collar I haven’t felt since I used to blush on the school bus every morning as a teenager. My face bursting into flames at the slightest provocation was why sixth-form bad boy, Rory Sanderson, singled thirteen-year-old me out for my own personal conversation as he made his way down the gangway to his seat at the back. Every single morning. By the time he left for uni, one tweak of his eyebrow from a hundred yards was enough to turn me scarlet. I just wasn’t prepared to meet him today. Especially with me jammed between Santa and an elf, doing an impression of the old woman who crawled out of the sea.

I shudder inwardly as I stare into the car. The rock-star long hair might have been trimmed back, but the broad grin I’m staring straight into is unmistakable. And it hasn’t lost an ounce of the kind of insanely inflated self-belief that I suspect came from having his own personal tractor from the age of ten. There are crinkles around the kind of come-to-bed eyes that were only one of the reasons for his legendary status. Rumour had it he also burned down the school music room due to a fault on his guitar amp. What’s more, he was the only pupil with the cheek to call Mrs Wilson, the deputy head, ‘darling’, and the charm to live to brag about it. Although thinking back, I reckon it was him driving a car off an actual cliff top that fast forwarded him to the top of every mother’s banned boyfriend list.

‘Holly-berry-red-cheeks? What the hell are you doing here, dripping all over Santa’s sleigh? Did you take up swimming? I thought you always hated water?’

If it’s divine payback for me lying earlier that’s hurled him into my path here, let’s be clear. I’d rather have a hundred rogue waves crashing down on my head than come face to face with the awful Mr Sanderson again. Since I last heard of him light years ago, storming the world of corporate law in Bristol, I’ve stupidly let him drop off my ‘worry about and avoid at all costs’ radar. And this is him all over. Straight in there, claiming to remember a person’s intimate details. Familiar as if I only saw him yesterday.

For a second I’m wishing he’d caught me at some do I’d made a big effort for. That I’d had a shit-hot professional blow dry, got my long lasting lippy on, squeezed into some killer dress I probably don’t even own. At least then I’d be coming from a position of strength. The thing is, right now my hair is in rats’ tails, I have half the beach in my fake fur, but I’m so bright red from the wind and the cold, no blush on earth is going to make it any worse. That particular scenario might never happen ever again. This is my one chance to lay the ghosts and wipe the floor with him. It’s one of those iconic now-or-never moments. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, drag my coat closer around me and launch.

‘Actually, you know what I hate more than water?’ I’ve barely been here half an hour and I’m already talking in questions. ‘It is Rory, isn’t it?’

‘It was last time I looked.’ He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and nods. ‘And? I’m all ears here. And I’m sure Santa and his elf can’t wait to hear either.’

That back chat is only what I know to expect. If there’s a confused frown overlaying that laid- back smile of his, it’s probably because I’m coming on so kick-ass here. Believe me, I’m actually shocking myself too. You wouldn’t believe how liberating it is, when for one time only you don’t have to worry about blushing.

‘Well …’ I pause to drag in a breath and my chest ends up expanding so much I feel like a cat with its fur standing on end. ‘I hate inconsiderate drivers who force their way into spaces that don’t even exist.’

He pulls a face and his voice rises in protest. ‘Excuse me, but I’m the injured party here. Your friend Santa’s the one who cut me up.’

So likely. ‘You always were a knob head. For one time only you’re going to have to grow some balls, give in and back up. It’s obviously escaped you, but ponies don’t have reverse gear.’ Even though I’m on a roll here, I actually just meant to tell him to grow up. But whatever. I ramp up my scowl. ‘You wouldn’t want ashes instead of presents in your Christmas stocking, would you? Seeing as you’re still behaving like a kid.’ I know it’s the elf’s line, but it’s too good not to borrow.

As Santa leans past me, his voice is conciliatory. ‘Sorry she’s so prickly, Rory. You’ll have to forgive her, she’s just come all the way from London.’

Rory’s actually laughing, damn him. ‘Don’t worry, Gaz, I haven’t had a tongue lashing like that in years and I’m loving every second.’

My jaw freezes. For every reason. ‘You two know each other too?’

Santa gives me a strange stare. ‘Of course we do. This is Rory Sanderson, a.k.a. the Mr Huntley and Handsome, our eminent local wine supplier.’ He pauses to cock an eyebrow at me. ‘He’s a lovely boy. I’m sure this unfortunate squeeze here wasn’t deliberate.’

The elf purses his lips. ‘Rory’s solely responsible for keeping the fizz flowing in St Aidan, and our own personal Adonis in the Chamber of Commerce. I can’t think of anyone we’d rather be wedged in a crack with.’

The disgustingly attractive Sanderson body is obviously still working its magic then, despite it being twenty years older. It wasn’t that any one bit was particularly spectacular. But working as a whole, the effect was apparently knock-out. Not that I was ever a public fan. I made damned sure I never admitted to any of my misplaced teenage lusting.

‘No need to be quite such a tart, Ken.’ Santa’s looking daggers at the elf.

Rory looks like he’s choking back his laugh. ‘Great, we all know I like to claim that most of the upmarket hangovers in St Aidan are down to me. Anyway, if you hang onto the pony, Gaz, I’ll get out of your hair –’ He leans forward and eyeballs me, ‘– definitely not implying you look like a haystack, Holly. Or a witch who rode through a hurricane.’ He leans back again, and it’s obvious when he lets his smile go, that’s exactly what he means. ‘Then you can all get on with your day.’

Clamping my hands on my head, I try to find a snappy last word to hurl, but my wisecrack stream has totally dried. Instead I’m left, mouth sagging, staring at his manoeuvres. It’s only at the very end of his six point turn that I see past the Bad Ass Santa Brew transfers on the window and spot the two baby seats in the back of the car. I swallow hard and hang on to my deflating stomach as the engine purrs away. Rory Sanderson with kids? I did not see that one coming. Though why I should give a damn, I have no idea.

‘Holleeeeeeeeee …’

I turn as I hear my name. A shriek like that can only mean one person. ‘Poppy?’

She’s haring down the mews, blonde pigtails shining in a sudden shaft of afternoon sun, her Barbour coat flapping. ‘Great transport, Hols! Here’s me searching for you everywhere and you’ve been hijacked by Santa. How wild is that?’ Her forehead wrinkles into an appalled frown as she comes close. ‘Jeez, what happened here? Did you drive through a car wash?’

Frankly I’m relieved it’s not worse. ‘We collided with an early Christmas wave.’ Now I’m climbing down and shaking the sand out of my hair, it’s easier to laugh it off. ‘But thanks for the lift, Santa, it was way more exciting than a taxi. Take this for your charity box.’ I grab a tenner out of my pocket and push it into his hand.

Poppy leaps backwards as I land next to her. ‘No hugs for you when you’re this wet, even if you do look like an adorable baby seal.’ Poppy’s great, because she always sees the good side. Even from a distance, the air kisses she tosses a foot from my cheek smell of warm vanilla, icing sugar and waxed jacket. She turns to Santa and the elf, who’s grappling with my suitcase. ‘I’ve just made some Christmas pudding muffins if you’d like to come in and try some?’ That’s another good thing about her. Poppy’s always looking for testers for her baking.

The elf grimaces at his thighs as he hands me my rucksack. ‘Sorry, not today. I’m struggling with a see-through tights situation.’

Poppy glances at the elf’s tiny tunic as it rides up, then looks away quickly. ‘Eeek, I completely get where you’re coming from on that. Wait here, I’ll bring the cakes out.’ She jostles my arm excitedly and makes a lunge for my case. For someone pregnant who needs my help, she’s incredibly energetic. ‘Come on, Hols, I’m so pleased you’re here, and I promise we’re all going to have the most amazing Christmas.’

‘Great.’ There’s no time to remind her I won’t be doing Christmas. A second later, she’s dragging me and my case on wheels down the cobbled street towards the shop door.

Chapter 2

Saturday, 2nd December

At Brides by the Sea: Small talk and straight lines

Later that evening, as Poppy clears away the papers from the fish and chip supper we’ve just had in the tiny kitchen in the attic flat, she’s doing her best to talk me into what sounds suspiciously like a party.

‘There’s no Brides by the Sea Christmas bash this year because Jess is away. So tonight’s her consolation prize. It’s just a few friends for drinks. You’ll know everyone, you have to come down.’ She pushes the cake box towards me. ‘Another?’

Even though there’s a huge kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm, Poppy still does a lot of her cooking here in the flat above the shop. Blaming her boyfriend Rafe for eating the cakes is probably only half the story. Every time I come through to the blue-painted cupboard fronts and shelves of brightly coloured, mismatched crockery, crammed with bowls and baking trays of every size, I can see it’s not a place you’d give up easily. Which is probably why she keeps working here and has as many friends to stay as she can find excuses for.

If Poppy’s trying to soften me up with sugar, I’m confident I can fit in a second Christmas pudding muffin and still resist the invitation. ‘I was planning a quiet evening, listening to the roar of the wind and the crash of the sea. Googling hot tips on wedding photography and getting ready for my practice shoot with Nate and Becky tomorrow.’ In case she’s forgotten, I’m here to hide not go out on the razz. Peeling my holly leaf off the muffin top, I bite through the white dribbled icing. Then my teeth sink into that familiar dark chocolate sponge heaven.

Poppy’s cakes take me all the way back to the cosy kitchen at her mum’s house, with its table covered in cake crumbs and icing sugar. The warmth and the smell of baking, and the house always full of Poppy’s friends, including me and Freya. It reminds me of how as teenagers, when we dribbled icing onto buns and made feathery patterns with a knife, I didn’t have to think about my big sister never coming back again. They were happy times.

She tidies up a stack of mixing bowls and grins at me as I get up from my stool. ‘Your shirt and trousers look great. You showered earlier, your hair’s fab. A bit of lippy, you’ll be good to go for the get-together.’

As I scrunch up my muffin cases and head for the bin, I’m still holding out. Then I peep out through one of the porthole windows. Even on winter days, the postcard views across St Aidan bay will have some kind of sparkle about them. Tonight as I look down on the shimmering light reflections bouncing off the inky water, I’m so grateful to Poppy for bringing me here. However much I’d rather avoid a crowd, I have to go with her to the shop’s Christmas ‘do’. ‘Okay, let me find my bag.’

She’s already passing it to me. ‘Right answer. Jess said she wanted a word too.’ Dipping into her own bag, she takes long enough to wave her mascara wand at her reflection in the kettle. Then she’s hurrying me towards the landing. ‘Great, there’s champagne cocktails down there, we don’t want to be late. Mine will be a virgin one, of course, but I like to pretend.’

Considering the size of Poppy’s bump, we clatter down the stairs alarmingly fast. As we arrive in the ground-floor hallway the tree we pass is on the large side of stonking, but the all-white colour scheme means it blends perfectly into the background, and doesn’t set my Christmas alarm bells jangling too loudly.

Bracing myself for my first evening out in ages, I peer gingerly into the White Room, with its rails of white and cream dresses, and drifts of tulle and chiffon. The shop windows beyond are studded with a thousand tiny fairy lights that spark off the beading, where white-glittered ivy falls in cascades behind slinky satin skirts. I turn to Poppy. ‘It’s very quiet. Where is everyone?’

Poppy wiggles her eyebrows. ‘We’re going all the way down to Lily’s new department in the basement. It’s way more practical when you don’t have to worry about spilling drinks on the dresses.’ Lily is another friend from Rose Hill who we grew up with. She was always flower-crazy and worked here when we were all younger. Now, thanks to one of Jess’s career-building schemes, she’s extended her florist’s skills and moved onto styling.

As we get to the bottom of the next flight of stairs and edge our way into the white-painted brick rooms of the lowest floor of the shop, the crowd of people in sparkly clothes waving cocktail glasses around is the first clue. The table groaning under the weight of champagne bottles and ice buckets, which Poppy steers me towards is the final giveaway.

‘Right, Hols, I give in, it is a party. But it’s only small, and I promise it’ll look better through an alcoholic haze.’ She’s looking very guilty as she rams a fruit-filled glass at me. ‘Kick off with a Christmosa, which is grape juice and Champagne. Here’s a Tickled Pink, which is pomegranate and Prosecco.’ A glass of pink liquid lands in my other hand. ‘And try not to miss the Christmas Margaritas.’

I shiver as the Champagne bubbles prick my nose. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ It’s so long since I last went out, it won’t take much.

She picks up a tumbler for herself. ‘Not at all. But I’m stuck on pomegranate juice and fizzy water, so think of it as drinking for me.’ The grin she flashes at me is triumphant. ‘Cheers, Hols, and well done for coming. Truly, it’s time you learned how to have fun again. Come on, let’s see who’s here.’

But before we move off Jess comes towards us, her chiffon blouse billowing. ‘Holly, lovely you’ve made it. First, I must apologise for our local Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They might be St Aidan’s answer to Boy George and the late, great Pete Burns, but Gary and Ken get well out of hand at times.’

‘No worries.’ I’m smiling because my ride in Santa’s cart seems so long ago. Then I scan the room hurriedly to check no one else from this afternoon is about to creep up on me unexpectedly. When I was doing my best to avoid the non-party, the waking nightmare of Rory Sanderson being here hadn’t actually crossed my mind. But then neither had Ken and Gary.

Poppy sees my head swiveling. ‘Don’t worry. There’s Lip Sync Karaoke at the Hungry Shark. Ken and Gary won’t miss a second of that. They’ll probably catch us up when we move on to Jaggers’ Warm up for Christmas night later.’

I let out a silent groan. Jaggers is the local bar dedicated to happy hours and teenage drinkers. I can’t personally think of many things worse than necking cocktails by the jugful and falling into bed at three a.m. so that’s one after-party I’ll be wriggling out of. But once I’ve gazed round the whole room without anyone giving me heart failure, I give Sera and Lily from the shop a little wave. Then I turn back to find Jess is staring at me hard.

‘So, Holly, we’re both about to hurl ourselves off cliffs. Do you have any tips to offer me?’

‘Tips?’ I’m blinking at her blankly, because Jess doesn’t usually ask for advice. Being that bit older and having built up her empire from one room in the basement selling flowers, she’s pretty much seen it all. Let’s face it, this fabulous department is only a fraction of the shop, especially now she’s bought next door too.

Even after another sip of Christmosa, and one more slug of Tickled Pink I’m still confused. ‘Which cliffs are you talking about, exactly?’

That makes her smile. ‘The cliffs are proverbial, Holly. The unnerving bit is I’m about to go on holiday with a man I barely know and you’re here to be a wedding photographer when you haven’t got the first clue how to be one.’ She pauses long enough for that to sink in. ‘I always tell people to feel the fear and do it anyway but now it comes to me, it’s not that easy.’

As party talk goes this is a bit deep. And whereas my little surfie wedding isn’t quite the big deal for me she’s making out, it’s true Jess is about to dive out of her comfort zone. After years of being defiantly single, she’s taken everyone by surprise and got together with a guy called Bart, who she first met as a teenager. Bart’s main claims to fame are an all-year-round tan and being loaded. As well as owning the fabulous Rose Hill Manor just outside the village where I grew up, he’s got places in the Caribbean and Switzerland. He lets out the Manor for occasional weddings, which are now run by Poppy and Rafe’s wedding team, from nearby Daisy Hill Farm. With a couple of December bookings coming up, he’s decided to go away, and has persuaded Jess to go with him. But as Jess hasn’t had a day away from the shop in ten years, being whisked off to the Alps by Bart is a huge deal for her. So I can completely see why she’s feeling less in control than usual.

‘To be honest, Jess, I’m hoping we’ll iron out any problems for the wedding when we do our practice shoot tomorrow.’

She gives a disbelieving sniff. ‘Well, I’m glad you feel so chipper. But that still leaves me with two weeks at Bart’s mountain hideaway in Klosters. I’ll be going mad worrying about the shop. And all that time alone with Bart, too.’ The corners of her mouth couldn’t be pulled any further down. ‘I don’t even like snow.’

The note of panic in her voice sweeps me back to my first time away with Luc. That was when I saw his passport said Luke, and found out he’d swapped the ‘ke’ for a ‘c’ in a bid to look less geeky. We went for two weeks in Madeira with his parents, because that’s what he’d done every year before he met me. Although holidaying with his mum wasn’t a great idea for someone trying to look cool. I swear I only stayed sane getting sloshed on cane rum cocktails and eating my own weight in honey cake. Then the ticking time bomb of all-inclusive caught up with me. By the second week the only holiday clothes I could get into were my travel leggings. You wouldn’t believe how badly fleecy joggers chafe at thirty degrees. Not that Jess will have that problem, with her wide-leg linen trousers in sub-zero Klosters.

‘Some time apart every day might help?’ I’m remembering how burying myself in a book got me through. ‘And take thermal leggings.’

Jess knocks back her Margarita in one go and reaches for another. ‘Good thinking. My trouble is, Bart can be such a wind-up merchant.’

Poppy laughs as she joins in. ‘You know we’ll be fine here, Jess. And even though Bart loves to tease you, you always give as good as you get. Don’t forget, you two love birds have been pretty much joined at the hip since September.’

That was when Jess and Bart finally went public, after a summer of secret assignations on a secluded island at the Manor. Although, if they really are as close as Poppy says, it hits me that maybe there is a piece of valuable advice I can pass onto Jess, after all. If they’re trying to make up for lost time, it’s completely possible that in a backdrop as picturesque as Klosters, Bart might pop the question. In which case, it will pay Jess to be prepared.

I take a deep breath, and given what I’m about to throw into the mix, I drop my voice. ‘There is one very important tip – if Bart does happen to get out a ring and ask you to marry him, for goodness sake ram your finger into it and nod madly. Then decide how you really feel about it later.’ This one’s right from the heart. My downfall last Christmas is a well shared secret among our friends in St Aidan. I’m completely resigned to people knowing every last detail. ‘If you panic, like I did, and go skiing off into the distance, there’s a chance you’ll blow it forever.’ I’ve spent the last year pining for my lost life. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

For a second Jess looks as if she’s going to explode. ‘Me ski? I’m not a bloody snow bunny.’ As her voice rises to a shriek, everyone turns to listen. ‘Bart knows, I will not be going anywhere near any slopes, kindergarten or otherwise. And salopettes are completely out of the question.’ As her tone softens, a smile spreads across her face. ‘Although I’ll make an exception for the après ski, obviously.’ That thought puts the purr back into her voice. As tonight proves, no one loves a party like Jess does.

‘Good point, Hols.’ Poppy and I exchange glances over our three glasses. It’s significant that Jess has chosen to go ape at the mention of skiing, not the proposal.

‘Thank you, Holly. I had a feeling you’d set me straight. It’s exactly why I asked the question.’ Jess’s nostrils flare and her smile warms. ‘When our resident wedding photographer, Jules, gets here I’ll introduce you. He’ll be delighted to help you, in return for the absolute gems you’ve given me.’

I get in fast to jump on that idea. ‘Thanks, but there’s really no need.’ Super pro Jules is someone else I was hoping to avoid. I definitely don’t want him thinking I’m treading on his toes here.

‘I absolutely insist.’ Jess is beaming now. ‘And the forecast for tomorrow is abysmal. You’ve heard we’ve taken over the building next door and the first floor’s still empty. It will be perfect for you to use for indoor shots with your lovely couple.’

Over the years Poppy’s told me about Jess’s legendary rail-roading. I just wasn’t expecting to be flattened by the runaway train myself. ‘Nate and Becky want us to go to the beach, whatever the weather.’ Even though I say it in my firmest voice, I get the feeling no one’s listening.

‘So where were we?’ As far as Jess is concerned, I haven’t said a thing. ‘Ah yes, waiting for Jules to arrive. Meanwhile, Lily’s over there, she’ll be looking after the shop with you, Poppy and Sera while I’m away. Hasn’t she done wonders down here?’

‘It’s brilliant.’ As I check the room again, this time I’m taking in the decor and the beautifully arranged stock too. Even if the silver stars-all-over theme is way too Christmassy for me this time around, it’s obvious Lily’s a natural with the styling. The space is bursting with everything from vintage cake tables, to signs, to place settings to four-foot-high illuminated letters spelling LOVE.

That’s the funny thing. A snap shot of any corner of this showroom might have come from my food photographs at work, because the props we use are exactly like the pretty things here. The cleverest people at our company, like Poppy in her previous career, develop the tasty new food products. Then it’s my job to photograph them so they look so delicious that people rush to buy them.

The first time someone put a camera in my hand it was for a student project, photographing a bread range. We were all collapsing with giggles as the lecturer kept telling us to arrange our baps so there was a spiral in the picture. None of us could see any spirals at all, but apparently all my pictures had them anyway. Which was lucky in a way, because when it came to taste innovation, I turned out to be hopeless. My spinach and toffee pudding scored the lowest mark in the history of the course. But once I’d accidentally hit on those invisible spirals, everyone overlooked my strawberry and cauliflower tart disasters. So what began with those seeded buns ended up for me as a career taking food pictures.

Jess’s eyes are shining with pride as she beams at the fabulous place settings and the fairy lights overhead. ‘Every couple needs to make their wedding unique to them, and Lily brings those dreams to life. And talking of making dreams come true, I can’t wait for you to see the studio space next door.’ Note that in two minutes, Jess has changed an empty floor into a studio. But that’s Jess all over, from what Poppy’s told me. ‘Oh, and here’s Jules now. Ju-u-ules!’ As she yells and practically knocks us over with her wave, a guy who could have strolled straight off the pages of GQ magazine is heading our way. With his trademark pink, blue and green-striped scarf muffled around his stubble, he’s exactly as Poppy has described him.

Jess couldn’t be looking more pleased with herself. ‘Holly, meet Jules, our very own photographic wizard. You two are going to have so much to talk about. I’m hoping you’ll be able to give Holly some pointers, Jules.’

I’m wanting the ground to open up and swallow me. ‘Lovely to meet you, Jules, but forget the pointers. My wedding’s so low key it’s almost not happening.’ I force out a smile and, thankfully, I’m saved having to shake hands, because his are buried deep in his pockets.

As he turns to scrutinise me, his eyes are so blue and startling they could have been painted in on Photoshop. ‘I take it you’ve brought a camera with you. What do you use?’

From what Poppy says, Jules is as legendary for his ecstatic hugs as he is for his fantastic pictures and extravagant wardrobe. But his famously floppy fringe is suddenly stationary. And in place of the gush, I’m sensing an ice flow.

I push on, ignoring how awkward this is. ‘Most of my stuff is Nikon.’ You’ve no idea how many arms and legs it’s cost me to get the best there is. Although my memory cards are tiny rather then the true pro ones. And how many clothes I haven’t bought over the years, to save up so I can afford it. Some of the lenses alone cost a month’s salary. Which is why I’m wearing a New Look top from four seasons ago rather than designer cashmere, and a four figure price tag jacket like Jules.

Jules’s nose pinches and he flips back his hair with what almost could be a head toss. ‘You do realise it’s not the camera that makes good pictures. It’s actually down to the person behind the lens.’ He says it like it’s going to come as news.

I nod. ‘Right.’

He’s straight back at me. ‘A successful wedding photographer needs to be a great communicator.’ The slight curl of his lip has nothing to do with a smile. ‘Ordering a hundred guests around takes skill. Not to mention bucket loads of charisma.’

I’m letting this wash over me, exchanging ‘what the hell’ glances with Poppy, because it’s got so little to do with a few friends having an informal beach party.

Jess is swishing the ice round in her glass, looking slightly bemused. ‘So am I sensing there’s a problem, Jules?’

Jules draws himself up looks at a spot four feet to my left. ‘From where I’m standing, I’m just not feeling it with Holly. Not one iota.’

I force my cheeks into a smile. ‘Well, thanks for sharing, that’s very …’ I can’t bring myself to say helpful, ‘… illuminating. Always fab to have insight from an expert.’ Although now he’s mentioned it, he’s probably spot on. At work I always hide behind my camera. In a crowd I’m actually a bit of a mouse. In our family Freya was the ‘out there’ one, with enough pazazz to grab the spotlight for both of us. Meanwhile I made the most of her shadow, and hid in it. And even though I lost her, that’s how I always stayed. At least it’s good to realise that to handle a proper wedding I’d actually need a personality transplant.

Jules flips his scarf and turns his gaze onto Jess. ‘And while we’re here talking pictures, my answer is “yes”.’ Tight lipped doesn’t begin to cover it.

Jess’s eyes widen. ‘Answer? Was there a question?’

Jules sniffs. ‘Thanks for giving me first refusal. I’ll definitely take the first floor space next door. Congratulations, Jess, you’ve just added a fully in-house photographer to your Brides by the Sea portfolio.’

Jess shakes her head. ‘You’re spectacularly missing every point, Jules. We’re talking camaraderie here, not contracts.’ She pauses to roll her eyes at Poppy and me. ‘As for that first floor, I’m leaving my options open for the moment.’

‘Great.’ Jules’s snap says it’s anything but. ‘Let me know the minute you come to your senses. My offer won’t be here forever. And now I’ve got somewhere else to be.’ There’s a draught from his well-cut jacket as he whirls round and pushes past people towards the door.

Poppy pulls a face. ‘Someone’s in a rush to get to Lip Syncing.’

Jess shakes her head. ‘Sorry, Holly, I don’t know what got into him there.’

Even if Jess is mystified, I can see why Jules hasn’t put me straight on his air-kiss list. So I’m happy to leap in with an excuse for him. ‘Maybe he’s not in a party mood?’ I can sympathise with him on that one. Although, seriously, I don’t blame Jules for being appalled to be forced to give tips to someone who could be here to nick his clients. He doesn’t know that’s the last thing on my mind.

‘Poor boy.’ Jess sounds more sympathetic than cross. ‘He’s an only child, living at home. If he doesn’t get his own way, he get his tripod in a twist every time. Apart from that, he’s usually second to none.’

He might have sounded objectionable, but at least he reminded me why I work with objects not people. What’s more, I’m secretly glad there’s someone else my age who hasn’t got their independent accommodation a hundred per cent sorted. And I’m inwardly cheering that he’s left so fast. All in all, if I had to meet Jules at all, it couldn’t have gone better.

I knock back both my drinks to celebrate, and beam at Poppy. ‘Time for a Festive Margarita, then?’

She grins at me. ‘That’s more like it. Rafe and Bart and Immie will be here soon. Let’s see who we can find to introduce you to in the meantime.’

Considering I wasn’t up for a party, the next few hours fly by. And the funny thing about Champagne cocktails is, they slip down so easily it’s hard to keep count. By the time I head off up the stairs, with the excuse that I can’t go to Jaggers and keep a clear head for the shoot tomorrow, my legs are feeling strangely wobbly. As I cross the hallway, I decide to run my own sobriety test. I’m staring so hard at my leopard print pumps as I try to walk in a straight line along a floorboard, I completely miss that there’s someone hurrying towards me. The first I know is when I canon into a denim-shirted torso.

‘Shit, I’m sorry …’ Seeing how fast that came out, I can’t be so drunk.

The jeans I’m staring down at are soft and worn, and run down to scuffed boots. Then I spot the poppers stretched tight across a pretty ripped chest. However well I was sticking to my floorboard, the way I’m wanting to rip open those poppers has to be a sign of too much fizz. Then I take in a fist full of mistletoe. As I blink and breathe in a guy who smells fab, half of me thinks I’m dreaming. The other is almost ready to swoon and take advantage.

‘Holly Berry Pink Cheeks? Why aren’t you at the party?’

I jolt and lurch away. ‘Rory?’ If I’d had another freezing wave crash over me, I couldn’t have sobered up any faster. As it is, from the jangling of sleigh bells and the white pine twigs sticking in my ear, I seem to have landed mostly in the Christmas tree. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

His lips are twitching. ‘I get invitations to all the best parties. I like to drop by and check my Champagne’s going down okay.’ Then he lets his smile go. ‘If you’re typical, it looks like everyone’s had plenty tonight.’

Now I’m sober and indignant. ‘What the hell kind of player walks round parties clutching a handful of mistletoe?’ I’m dying inside because I even thought of leaning in back there.

His face creases as he laughs again. ‘One who makes sure Jess has every detail in place in the shop before she leaves for her holiday.’ He looks at the bundle in his hand. ‘I’m not so much a player, more her mistletoe supplier.’

What’s mistletoe got to do with a wine and beer seller? If I’m not keeping up here, it’s nothing to do with the booze. ‘So you’re not …’

‘Out to snog you in the stairwell?’ His laugh is very low this time. ‘Not unless you order that specifically. We like to go the extra mile for our customers, wherever it takes us.’ His face splits into the broadest grin yet.

‘As if …’ I’m shaking my head hard enough to rubbish that reply and fan my burning face at the same time. ‘Great, I’m delighted for you. I imagine you’ll have lots of very happy customers.’ I’m not only talking bollocks, but I’m also sinking backwards into the tree branches. They’re springy like a cushion, but any minute now I’m going to reach the point of no return and topple over. And probably take the tree with me.

‘We import the mistletoe from Normandy along with our festive cider, to give away with our Christmas orders. That’s the kind of detail Huntley and Handsome customers appreciate.’ Rory suspends his mission statement for long enough to frown at me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay there, Holly Red?’

Before I have time to answer, an arm slides round my back. Next thing, I’m out of the tree and vertical enough to protest loudly as I push him away. ‘Hey, no need to wade in. I was totally fine there. Thanks all the same.’

He blinks and shakes his head. ‘Sure. So how about the stairs? It’s a long way up to the attic.’ And bugger that his dimples are there now too. ‘If you need a hand, I’m always happy to help. After throwing barrels of beer around, carrying you will be a doddle.’

I’m skimming over how he knows where I’m heading, because I’m desperate to cut him off before he gets to point out it’s happened before. I make a lunge towards the stairs, and once I grasp the handrail I feel much steadier.

‘Only a few flights up.’ And thank Christmas I’m in flats, not heels. Getting carried home by Rory isn’t something I want to remember, or repeat.

There’s that laugh again. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Just saying.’

Forget kicking myself for knocking back so many Christmosas, I’m actually cursing for having come down at all. As for Rory raking up the past, I’m furious enough to want to wring his neck. Which in the end is good, because suddenly my legs spring to life. Before I know it, I’m looking down at him from the enviable position of the first landing. There should be some snappy last word I could come out with, but in the end all I manage is a wave.

His voice comes floating up the stairs after me. ‘Take care up there. See you later, Red Cheeks.’

I’m crawling into bed when I finally mumble a reply. ‘Not if I see you first, mate.’

I had every reason to stay in my attic flat before. But Rory Sanderson just gave me a hundred more.

Chapter 3

Sunday, 3rd December

At Brides by the Sea: Snowflakes, wind cheaters and yoga for mums

‘Sorry, there’s no leopard ones, but you can have a monkey, a zebra, a lion or a cat.’

It’s Poppy, and she’s talking about the cupcakes she’s been making while Jess and I have been busy downstairs. It’s no surprise that Jess doesn’t do hangovers. So we started early and moved straight on from helping the crack team clearing up in the basement to poring over the appointments book in the White Room. Jess talking me through every bride booked in for December is ideal displacement activity for both of us, because, realistically, Sera, Poppy and Lily are going to be in charge at the shop. But it keeps my mind off the engagement shoot – or more specifically Luc – and hers off her impending departure.

As I pore over the box Poppy pushes towards me and see the perfectly iced cake tops, my mouth waters. ‘I’ll have an orange cat, please. Which lucky person’s ordered these?’

‘A lion for me.’ From the way Jess strides across the room to take one, she’s momentarily forgotten her holiday wobbles. And Poppy still hasn’t answered my question.

‘Mmmm, totally delish, there’s zest in the icing too.’ It’s only when I open my eyes again, after peeling back my paper case and taking a bite, then letting the tangy icing melt on my tongue, that I realise Poppy’s hesitating. ‘Aren’t you having one, Pops?’ She eats for England, even when she’s not pregnant. I’d have put money on her going for a chocolate monkey first. Then a zebra.

She wrinkles her nose and looks down at her cropped sweatshirt, which is hiding a neat, yet surprisingly sizable, bump. ‘I didn’t have a muffin yesterday either. Midwife’s orders. I’ve cut back on carbs, and taken up Pregnancy Pilates, and Yoga for Mums.’

‘That’s harsh.’ I don’t mean to sound negative. It’s just hard to think of nine low-sugar months, with that much exercise.

‘It’s not for long.’ Poppy’s frown deepens as she shrugs it off. ‘Although there is something else I’ve been meaning to mention. About who the cakes are for.’

As the sound of the shop door opening echoes along the hallway, Jess beams at me over the top of her lion. ‘You’ve got a complete treat in store here, Holly. Poppy’s been baking for the owner of Huntley and Handsome. A lovely boy, he gives us the most fabulous deal on our Prosecco …’ Those words sound like a horribly familiar echo of what Santa said yesterday.

My mouth drops open midbite as her words sink in. Surely she can’t mean … Rory? As I gasp in disbelief, a lump of sponge goes straight down my windpipe, and a second later I’m coughing into my fist, eyes watering as I struggle to breathe. If you’ve ever had a violent choking fit that turns into a humungous sneeze, you’ll know what I’m going through. Even as I’m fighting for air, I’m desperate not to expel a throat full of chewed up cupcake, and spatter the entire rail of exquisite bridal dresses with bright orange cake crumbs.

Through my half closed eyes, I see Poppy, launching herself across the room. Then there’s a noise like flapping angel wings and she’s thrusting a handful of tissues into my hands to catch my sneeze. By the time I look up from blowing my nose, the dresses are saved. And Jess’s beam is wide enough to stretch from one chandelier to the other.

Poppy’s voice is a low murmur as her hand lands on my shoulder. ‘Sorry, Hols, there’s a blast from the past coming that I know you’re going to hate. Rory Sanderson’s come for his cupcakes horribly early. I promise I’ll explain it all later.’

It’s my own fault. If I’d had the guts to admit about bumping into him twice before, no doubt Poppy would have told me. At least this time I get to watch him walk in from the high ground of the mother-of-the-bride throne where I’m sitting. And I’m already a hundred per cent scarlet due to choking. Even so, his footfalls on the floorboards send prickles up the back of my neck. Whoever said attack is the best form of defence, I’m going to take their advice.

As I see the first, horribly familiar, weathered brown Timberland come through the doorway, I jam my mouth into a smile, scrape the last stray cake crumbs off my mouth, look up at the approximate place where his head is about to appear, and fire.

‘Rory Sanderson, one more time. Just when I thought I’d waved goodbye to you for another twenty years, too.’ I sink back against the cushions, but the hurtling retort I’m bracing myself for doesn’t come.

Instead of storming in, tearing up the the White Room with his super-confident swagger, Rory’s coming in at a shuffle. Leaning over to one side, so he can reach down to hold the hand of a small girl.

‘Wow.’ I’m not sure if I say that in my head or out loud.

At a guess, looking at his daughter’s pale silky hair, Rory’s partner’s a blonde. As if a rock god would settle for anything less. If her disagreeable pout came from her mum, it’s obvious he’s chosen looks over personality. Although for once Rory’s incessant grin has given way to a frown too as he clasps a rather over-sized baby tightly against the folds of his Superdry windcheater.

He pulls a ‘holy crap’ face at me over the top of the baby’s head and blinks. ‘Holly, right, great, hi.’ It’s a big change to see Mr Sanderson looking less than delighted with himself. Although the bad side is that when his dimples disappear, it makes the hollows under his cheekbones look even deeper.

Now I’ve seen who’s actually arriving here, I’m regretting my over-explosive ‘hello’. Somehow, even though I saw the car seats, the small people come as a complete shock. If I’d hoped for something to wipe Nate and Becky and Luc out of my mind, it definitely wasn’t this. Kids have that strange effect of making everyone around them more gentle. And although Rory doesn’t exactly look like a relaxed dad, having children hanging off him has certainly taken the fire power out of his smart-arse replies. As for Jess, she isn’t hanging round for an air kiss with her favourite Huntley and Handsome hunk either. Her expression is equal parts terror and horror as she shoots behind the desk. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything make Jess recoil this fast backwards before. Retreating isn’t her style.

Poppy is the one person in the room who looks delighted, as she clasps her hands and moves towards them. ‘So are you going to introduce us, Rory?’ Her eyes are shining as she smiles down at the girl. Which might well be down to her baby hormones. ‘We don’t often have visitors as exciting as you in the wedding shop. Although we do have lots of children at our farm. And I think you’re going to like the animals there too.’

I wonder where the hell she’s going with this, because the frown she’s sending me is equal parts worry and guilt.

Rory shakes his head, as if he’s trying to wake himself up. ‘Er, right ladies, this is Gracie. And Eddie.’

The girl pats his arm with her free hand and mumbles into his sleeve. ‘No, it’s Teddie.’

Rory gives a sheepish grin. ‘Oh shit, fine, okay. What she said.’ Even for a prat like Rory, this is taking disinterested fatherhood to a new level.

‘We’ve got some mini cupcakes here for you.’ Poppy holds out the box to the child.

Gracie hangs back. ‘Teddie isn’t allowed icing … he’s too small. And Mummy doesn’t let me say shit. Plops is gooder.’ She sounds like she’s channelling her inner disapproving headmistress.

Poppy, undeterred, flips up the box lid to reveal a whole miniature set of what we were tucking into. ‘They’re animals. Holly just ate a cat and Jess had a lion.’

Gracie wrinkles her nose. ‘I mainly have Frozen cupcakes … blue ones with snowflakes … and pictures of Anna and Elsa.’

Poppy’s holding back her amusement. ‘Maybe you’d better take these for later, then.’

Rory lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘Well, this is going well. Not.’ He looks at the baby in the crook of his arm, then down at the girl squirming behind his knee. Then at me. ‘C’mon Gracie, I’m running out of hands here, the least you can do is hold the box.’ A second later, the weight of a large baby lands in my lap, and he’s picked Gracie up with both hands and dumped her down in front of Poppy.

‘Eeeek!’ When it comes to babies this near, I’m with Jess. Although as I close my fingers round Teddie’s hoodie, and the scent of fabric conditioner drifts up my nose, I can’t believe how soft and squishy he feels. Or how heavy he is. ‘You do know I might drop him?’ I’m not sure I ever held a baby before. One of Rory’s is making me extra shaky. My cheeks burning up are only to be expected.

Poppy’s biting her lip. ‘When did you pick them up, Rory? Even Rafe thought you’d last more than ten minutes before you tried to pass them on.’

Jess is mellowing. ‘You’ll have to do better than this, Uncle Rory.’

I’m trying to work out what’s going on here. ‘So they’re not yours, then?’

For the first time since he walked in, the corners of Rory’s eyes crinkle. ‘Hell no! Jeez, Holly North, how would I end up with two of these?’ At least that explains the name blunder. ‘On second thoughts, given there are children here, don’t answer that.’

I know not meeting his eye isn’t the best way forward. I’m staring down, marvelling at how warm the baby feels when I notice a dark splodge spreading across my left thigh. What is it about me and water? ‘Is Teddie leaking?’ If I carry on at this rate I’ll have run out of clothes by teatime. Lucky for me we had guinea pigs when we were kids, so wee on my knee is no big deal. Whereas judging by Jess’s apoplectic expression five yards away, if these had been her chinos, she might have exploded.

Rory’s voice rises. ‘You’re joking? He can’t need changing. Not already.’

Poppy wanders over to give a second opinion. ‘Something here’s very wet. That’s babies for you, they pee and eat and … plop.’

Gracie’s expression is solemn. ‘Teddie’s got clean joggers in his nappy bag.’

Poppy laughs. ‘You’re right, Gracie. I knew something was missing when you walked in.’ She turns to Rory. ‘Lesson one – wherever the baby goes, the changing bag goes too.’

Rory prises the cake box from Gracie’s hands, and as he shakes his car keys the miniature beer bottles on his key ring jiggle. ‘Jeez, the good news keeps on coming today. I’ll be two minutes. And no accusing me of child desertion, either.’

I turn to Poppy, keeping my voice low. ‘Rory babysitting? Isn’t that like hiring Edward Cullen as a childminder? And when did you two get so friendly, anyway?’

Poppy raises her eyebrows. ‘He’s one of Rafe’s besties from way back. He’s a lot better for knowing. He’s also our main wine and beer supplier for weddings at the farm. Rory’s sister Erin’s gone in for an emergency heart op, and their mum’s in Australia. As there’s no one else, the poor guy’s had to step in at short notice and look after the small ones.’ She lets out a sigh. ‘They’re staying in one of the holiday cottages at the farm, so we can all help out. I’m sorry if it’s awkward for you, but it’s all happened at the last minute.’

Worse and worse. My heart sinks. Not that I’ll be involved. But I could do without the thought of Rory popping up around every barn corner when I’m at the farm helping Poppy. Who knew industrial quantities of concealer foundation would be top of my shopping list? Although, even if I live to be a hundred, Rory will never fit into any ‘poor guy’ box in my head.

‘Edward Scissorhands might have been safer.’ As I mutter to myself, Rory’s stomping back along the hallway so hard his footfalls are making the sleigh bells on the Christmas tree jangle. If he looked uncomfortable dragging two children in, that’s nothing to how incongruous he looks with a peony-print Cath Kidston holdall slung over his shoulder.

Gracie waits until Rory swings back into the room, then she eyeballs him. ‘Who’s Edward Scissors?’

Poppy’s straight in there. ‘Edward has scissors for hands, and he’s my favourite character from a film, in the same way you like Elsa. He’s great at cutting up paper, and trimming garden plants.’ She’s certainly going the extra mile here. For all of us.

I seize baby Teddie around the waist and hold him at arm’s length. ‘Okay, who’s doing the honours?’ Obviously not Jess. ‘Rory? Poppy?’ I look from one to the other, as Teddie sags back down onto my knee.

Rory hands Poppy the bag. ‘Be my guest. The bag’s flowery, it has to be you.’

Poppy shakes her head. ‘Sorry, but the antenatal classes haven’t got that far yet. Didn’t Erin show you what to do? Are you using terries or disposables?’

‘No idea.’

Dropping to his knees in the middle of the White Room might not be the ideal place, judging by Jess’s eyebrows hitting the ceiling. But he’s flipped out the changing mat before we can stop him.

‘You’re looking like a pro there, Sanderson.’ I’ve no idea why I’m being so mouthy either. Unless I’m unconsciously limbering up for my wedding work. Or hitting back for yesterday evening.

He shrugs. ‘Sorry, that’s as far as it goes. Erin wrote me a hundred page Operating Manual, but she showed me the nappy change, and it looked easy. But I’m damned if I can remember any of it.’ Baby clothes, plastic bags, creams, bottles, nappies, potions and muslin squares are skidding across the floor as he tosses them out of the bag.

Jess gives a groan. ‘This is our second best bridal area. You’re making a terrible mess down there, Rory.’ It’s lucky for Rory that Jess thinks the sun shines out of his butt. She’s run people out of town for less.

He lets out a grunt. ‘I thought it might jog my memory if I saw the equipment. But I’m none the wiser. Anyone got any bright ideas?’

It’s in my interest for me to rack my brains, as I’m the one whose knees are getting soggier by the second. ‘We could ask at the chemists. Or Google it. Or find someone with a baby out on the street and drag them in to show us. Or Gracie might know?’ As I try to catch her eye, her scowl tells me what she thinks of that idea.

‘Jeez, I was hoping for suggestions that weren’t going to embarrass the shit out of me. And why would a three-year-old know when I don’t?’ Typical Rory. Still the same straight A-star student, with a gaping hole when it comes to common sense. Probably why he ends up letting cars fall off cliffs and being entirely unsuitable for childcare. I mean, he’s said shit so many times even Gracie’s picking him up on it. At this rate she’s going to go home swearing like a trooper.

Poppy’s got a smile lilting about her lips as she peers out of the window. ‘Or maybe Immie might be able to help? It’s our lucky day, she’s on her way down the mews now.’

Immie grew up with us all in Rose Hill village. She may only be five foot nothing in her high- heeled Doccies, but she’s queen of spiky hair, belly laughs and straight talking. Back when we were kids she was the one tough enough and loyal enough to fight all our battles, single-handed, from the age of three onwards. Thinking about it, Rory was the one guy she failed to bring into line. When Immie squared up to him for embarrassing me, he took no notice whatsoever. And although she never did give the reason, she had to admit defeat. Which says a lot about how impossible and out of hand Rory is.

She and Poppy see each other every day now, because Immie looks after the holiday lets at Daisy Hill Farm. And Immie and her hunky new husband, Chas the fireman, live in one of Rafe’s cottages in the village, along with her son Morgan.

I laugh. ‘Brainwave. Immie’s got a teenager, she’ll definitely know about nappies.’ The one thing I assume about baby changing is it’s like riding a bike. However long it’s been, you never forget how to do it. So long as you knew in the first place. I can’t believe that there are four adults in the room and we’re all clueless.

From the way Immie’s hammering along the hall, she can’t wait to see this either. ‘Rory Sanderson, what the eff? And, hello, Holly too.’ Her husky laugh sets the chandelier jangling as she bursts in, then takes my breath away with a bear hug as she passes. ‘I spotted the beer-mobile parked up in the mews with a baby-on-board sticker.’ She pauses long enough to make an ‘OMG!’ face. ‘So I thought I’d call in and see how you were all getting on. Lovely to meet you, Gracie and Teddie. Anyone like a gender-neutral fluffy snowman to play with? Or should that be snow person?’ Immie, who’s still wearing her sparkly I’m getting married at Daisy Hill Farm t-shirt, four months after the event, hands one incredibly cute cuddly toy to Gracie and drops another on the floor next to the changing mat. Obviously bought specially. With a ton of thought and insight, seeing as Immie is studying psychology part time at uni. Then she retreats with her hands on her hips to take in the scene.

‘Isn’t there a snowman for me?’ Rory sounds like he’s used to joshing with Immie.

Immie sniffs. ‘They’re suitable for under-threes, Rory. You’ll have to grow up a bit before you have yours.’ And given she’s name perfect with the kids, she’s well briefed, as well as having Rory down to a T.

‘You two know each other too?’ There’s a lot I’ve missed out on since I was last home.

Immie pulls a face. ‘Not only does he hang round the farm incessantly with Rafe but since he got his own bottling plant, he’s always at the Goose and Duck too.’ For anyone who’s not local, that’s the pub in Rose Hill, where Immie does glass collecting in return for pints and other favours. Like catering at her wedding reception.

Poppy sends Immie and Rory a warning frown. ‘Are you going to say thank you to Immie, Gracie?’

Gracie’s pout deepens. ‘Actually, mostly I like proper snowmen … like Olaf.’

Poppy makes her voice bright. ‘Another Frozen fangirl moment there, I’m afraid, Immie. My cupcakes got the thumbs-down too. We clearly can’t win them all with a three-year-old.’

As for Rory, I’m quietly delighted to witness him being brought to his knees by two kids so fast. It’s heartening to know Rory Sanderson has an Achilles heel after all.

Rory gives a grunt. ‘From where I’m kneeling, I’d say we haven’t won any yet. But it’s very early days.’ Now he’s coming head to head with the same headstrong genes he’s got himself, he sounds less than delighted. ‘I might be temporarily troubled by the technicalities of nappy changing. But give me a couple of hours to read the manual, I’m hoping to be across the whole game.’

‘Which game’s that?’ I can’t believe I actually said that out loud either. My mouthy side is certainly working overtime today. I might have zero experience looking after children, but I’m still incredulous he can sound so sure of himself, and that he thinks this is going to be easy.

Rory gives a snort. ‘I’ve overseen billion pound corporate contracts. I’m the South West’s biggest quality wine importer. I brew barrels of magnificent pints every day. Throwing a couple of kids into the mix for a week should be child’s play.’ He stares around the circle of disbelieving expressions. ‘What? How hard can it be? It’s great you women are all crowding around to help, but I’ll be coming at this from a no-nonsense male perspective. Just watch me. I’ll crack it in no time.’

Immie makes a choking sound. ‘Snorting toad bottoms, now I’ve heard it all.’ She catches sight of Gracie’s wide-eyed surprise and grins down at her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a woman speaking her mind. It’s important to say what you think, Gracie.’ A second later she’s picked up the mat, scooped up Teddie and plonked herself down on the grey striped bridesmaids’ chaise longue.

Rory’s jaw is sagging. ‘Whatever happened to showing me what to do?’

‘Gracie, pass me the wipes, please, a nappy and the scented bags.’ Immie shakes her head at Rory as she peels off Teddie’s wet joggers. She raises her voice over Teddie’s sudden howls. ‘In the interest of not turning Jess’s lovely shop into any more of a disaster area than you’ve already made it, you can have your tutorial back at the cottage. Meantime, get that lot folded up and back in the hold-all.’

Rory still hasn’t moved, but he’s grinning back at her. ‘A “please” might be nice. Just saying. If we’re teaching little people to be polite.’ This is exactly why he drove the teachers round the bend at school.

Immie ignores him, then turns to Gracie, who’s bobbing backwards and forwards. ‘Cream, please. Then clean trousers and hand sanitiser.’

Poppy and I have got the strewn bag contents collected and packed. Rory’s still standing where he was, as Immie shoves first the changed baby, then the snowman, into his arms.

He staggers backwards. ‘Great. Thanks for that. It looks like we’re ready to hit the road, then.’

As Teddie’s screams of protest subside, Immie gives Gracie a play punch on the arm. ‘Yay, well done, we’re Team Teddie.’

As I hook the changing bag over Rory’s shoulder, another comment slips out. ‘If you’re going to be completely manly about this you might want to get a changing bag with stripes on, or beer labels.’ I can only blame my spontaneous banter on Immie’s influence. A moment later, I’m hooking the bag of wet clothes over his finger. ‘And don’t forget this. Thirty degree wash. Cool tumble. I take it anyone who can make fabulous home brew also knows how to use a washing machine?’

From the mystified look on his face, as he backs towards the door, that’s not necessarily true. ‘Never heard of a service wash, Holly Berry? You should try them. For an extra tenner, they iron for you too.’

Which just goes to remind me – Luc did all his own ironing. And washing. Once you’ve lived with it, it’s a great quality in a guy, especially one who regularly got through four shirts a day. Although he did once go overboard and spend three hours taking every single crease out of one of my favourite crinkle silk dresses.

We’re all waving at Teddie and Gracie, who’s managed to overcome her disapproval enough to be clutching both snowmen.

Poppy shakes her head as they finally edge out into the hallway. ‘See you all soon, up at the farm.’

‘Did someone mention cupcakes?’ Immie’s rubbing sanitiser into her hands. ‘In which case I may need a couple to keep me going on the drive back.’

Poppy opens the box. ‘One more for you, Hols, too, to keep your strength up for this afternoon’s shoot?’

I flip out my phone to check the time. ‘It’s only an hour away.’ Now it’s hurtling towards me so fast, I’m getting twitchy. ‘I need a large injection of instant courage.’ It’s not that I’m stalking Luc, and I’ve no hopes of getting him back. But when someone you love walks out of your life so abruptly, it’s hard to turn those feelings off. When you don’t quite understand what went wrong, it’s very difficult to let go.

Immie dives in and grabs a monkey, then shoves a cake into my hand too. ‘Have a lion. That should do the trick.’

But it could take a lot more than butter cream to save me this afternoon.

Chapter 4

Sunday, 3rd December

At Brides by the Sea: Gravitas and Ashton Kutcher

‘Okay, let’s go for a shot by the window. Maybe with your arms around each other this time?’

It comes as a bit of a shock to hear my own instructions to Nate and Becky echoing around the empty upstairs room. Although they live in London, St Aidan’s one of their favourite surfing destinations. Meeting up here with them always made it easier to persuade Luc to come to visit my parents.

As for the location, in the end Jess was proved right. Given the choice between horizontal rain on the beach, or a studio flooded with natural light, Nate and Becky took pity on me and opted to stay inside. Today is meant to help them relax in front of the camera, but it’s great for me to have a dummy run with moving targets too. Although, when I suggested a casual dress code, with accessories to ring the changes, I didn’t bank on them turning up in wet suits and immediately adding in Santa hats and sunglasses. It’s no surprise that every shot I’ve taken so far looks like a surfie selfie from Christmas Day at Bondi.

‘Is this a good pose?’ Becky, bless her neoprene socks, isn’t stinting on the effort as she stares out to sea through a window and coils herself around Nate’s neck.

‘Brill.’ I can overlook that she’s entwined like a contortionist. The trouble is, whenever she takes up a pose she goes rigid. ‘Remember to let Nate breathe, though.’

I was confident it would be easy to get some fabulous results in this space. But with Nate and Becky so tense it’s proving harder than I thought. I’ve been concentrating so hard on snippets of news I might get from them, I’ve completely overlooked how strange it was going to feel coming face to face with Nate and Becky without Luc. Or that seeing them again would give me quite so many pangs for the life and the boyfriend I don’t have any more. What’s worse, within a few minutes of Nate and Becky arriving, I’m getting flashbacks. And I thought I’d left those behind months ago.

There’s no way to put this tactfully. ‘Can we lose the hats and sunnies this time?’ I beam to show them how well they’re doing. Even if this is turning into a total photographic disaster, I absolutely can’t let them know.

‘Without shades?’ Nate couldn’t sound more horrified if I’d asked him to get naked and pose in the buff. ‘I’m going to feel way too self-conscious staring straight into that lens.’

Just my luck to hit a wedding couple like this, but I know exactly how he feels. I might as well ’fess up. ‘I’m just the same. I hate having my photo taken.’

Becky gives a guilty shrug. ‘It’s why we had to have you to do the wedding. I knew you’d understand. We couldn’t possibly have a real wedding photographer.’

Now they tell me. And all this is before we get to the not smiling thing. I have to say Luc’s friends are a lot more intense than mine. You’d at least expect surfers to be relaxed, but Nate and Becky surf so hard it’s more like work than fun. It goes without saying that jobs in insurance and finance involve a lot more responsibility than laughs. It’s understandable that a banker will be more weighed down than a cake maker or a dress designer. And Luc couldn’t have taken his own career in health and safety any more seriously. But then, as he always pointed out, it’s a life and death area. Whereas making food look pretty totally isn’t. I have this vague idea that when I accidentally gate-crashed the party at the shared house where he lived five years ago, we both got the wrong end of the proverbial stick. I thought he was an easy going, student accommodation kind of guy, whereas he was only there on the way from one massive loft apartment to another. The fact I was working on a one-off job, snapping champagne for Fortnum and Mason, gave him the entirely wrong impression about my gravitas. If we’d met up a month later when I was styling basic chicken nuggets for a cut price supermarket, he’d never have let me eat every toad-in-the-hole canapé on the plate he was circulating with. He’d have whooshed his platter further around the room until he found someone more suitable. I think more than my hunger for sausages, that night I hung on in there because he was a dead ringer for Ashton Kutcher. Although that could have been down to too many WKD’s on my part. Even if he did still go on holiday with his parents, he was hunky enough for women to give me envious glances when we were out together.

As for his mates branding me as ‘a Cameron Diaz’, really, there’s no resemblance. I’ll admit to the odd ditsy moment. But implying I’m out there, blonde and sexy? Mainly I hide in corners, and obviously my hair’s dark and usually messy. So they’re totally wrong on every count with that comparison. Although I will admit I was Luc’s fun side.

One last try and I’m throwing it all in. ‘Forget I’m here … talk between yourselves … think happy thoughts … try humming Heaven is a halfpipe …’ If I can’t even get one decent photo when it’s just the three of us, I’m starting to wonder how I’ll get any at their wedding.

From the way Nate’s lips twist, he’s halfway to amused disgust. ‘Wrong sport. Halfpipes are skaters, not surfers.’ And the moment’s over and he’s back to looking like an undertaker.

‘Okay, take a breather, I’ll see what we’ve got so far.’ Truly, wild accessories aside, as I flick through the camera roll, if you overlook that Becky’s got a single teensy blue streak in her hair, these two wouldn’t look out of place on the front of a funeral plan brochure. Thinking back to yesterday afternoon, the ride from hell with Santa was bliss compared to this. Although it gives me an idea. ‘How about you get your hoodies on and we’ll pop for a walk round town. It’ll be more authentic. And much more like being at the wedding than this.’ I’m bullshitting here, but I’m desperate. So long as we don’t bump into Santa, things can’t get any worse than they are now.

‘Great.’ It’s strange how these men respond to big words and office speak. From the way Nate almost smiles again, I had him the second I said ‘authentic’.

In no time at all, they’re changed and we’re out on the street. As I do up the top button on my jacket and hang on tight to my camera strap, I’m wishing I’d bought some fingerless gloves.

‘So, you two wander and look in the shop windows, and I’ll follow you with my zoom,’ I say. Then I retreat a few feet across the mews and start snapping. Becky and Nate, holding hands, ambling down the cobbles, Becky and Nate laughing – really! – Becky pulling Nate back to look at the sparkle in the Brides by the Sea window. And we’re away. Three shops along, they stumble across the Riptide surfie shop winter sale and we all troop in. Cue more cute pics. Looking at sweatshirts. Becky in a Christmas tree hat. Nate holding up a Have a Swell Christmas t-shirt. By the time we leave they’re both swinging handfuls of brightly coloured carrier bags and Nate’s carrying a body board. And I snap them spilling out onto the street.

An hour later, after a trawl all round town and down to the harbour and back, I’ve taken what feels like a thousand shots. The light’s fading and my fingers have turned to ice. As we stagger past the window at the Hungry Shark, even though the hot drinks aren’t as delicious as the Surf Shack’s, the yellow light inside is warm and inviting.

Once I’ve checked there isn’t a Lipsyncer anywhere in sight, I can’t resist. ‘Hot chocolate anyone?’

Nate hesitates and looks longingly at the Sundowner Bay window further along the street. ‘There’s still one surf shop we haven’t been in yet.’

‘Phew, I thought you’d never ask’ Becky blows with relief. ‘Shopaholic Nate can catch us up later.’ She’s through the door and ordering faster than you can say salt caramel swirl.

As we sit on high stools, scooping whipped cream off the top of cups the size of plant pots, Becky’s blinking happily. I can’t resist one last close up. And best of all, she doesn’t even flinch.

‘Well, I think we’ve found a way of making you relax in front of the camera.’ When I push the mini screen towards her, with a lovely dusk shot of the two of them silhouetted against the masts in the harbour, her delighted smile makes me glow inside. ‘Less than three weeks to the big day now.’ I know the stress on the day will make it adrenaline filled. But after this afternoon, it feels like we’re as prepared as we can be.

She sighs as she runs her fingers through hair that’s surprisingly tidy for a surfie. ‘You know, I think you did the right thing running away when Luc brought your engagement ring out.’

My spoon of cream stops in mid-air, halfway to my mouth. ‘What?’ She has to be joking, doesn’t she? ‘Are you okay, Becky?’

She pulls a face. ‘A lot of days lately I wish I’d run when I caught sight of mine.’

I give a rueful sigh. ‘For what it’s worth, if I could turn the clock back, I wouldn’t run a second time around. I’d definitely handle it differently.’ In a way that didn’t wreck my relationship, for starters.

She scrapes the grated chocolate off the top of her cream. ‘When I dreamed of Nate proposing, I had no idea getting married would be so draining.’ The sigh she lets out is long and weary.

Poor Becky. I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll feel better when you’ve drunk your chocolate.’ Wedding fatigue hitting the woman who has the stamina to ride the waves from dawn until bedtime comes as a surprise. Whereas when I legged it, the wedding itself hadn’t even crossed my mind.

If we hadn’t been staying with Luc’s parents it might have all panned out differently. In Madeira they would have been in the holiday mood due to downing vast quantities of Poncha. As it was, three days into our stay in the Highlands, when his dad’s dour expression hadn’t lifted and his mum’s mouth was still the same hard line, it finally dawned on me. Luc’s serious side was probably an inbuilt part of his gene pool that was only going to get worse as he got older. Down the line, I might not be able to tease it out of him.

My family lost a child and still manage to be jokey, so permanently long faces are an alien concept to me. I mean, who, faced with Prosecco popcorn says, ‘Sparkling white gives Keith heartburn’? And all my cute reindeer crisps got was a resounding, ‘We don’t do wild game.’ In the split second when Luc went down on one kilted knee in front of the Christmas tree and his entire, unsmiling, extended family all that flashed in front of me was a lifetime without laughing. Although, to be fair, I haven’t exactly been splitting my sides since then. And I suspect it was a complete overreaction. When I look back on our times in London, Luc did smile. Just not as much as me.

‘Today is the first fun we’ve had for ages.’ Becky’s meticulously sinking every marshmallow with the back of her spoon.

Somehow, I feel I need to share more here. Make it clear our cases aren’t the same at all. ‘My trouble was, Luc made his proposal sound like we’d only be getting married so I could get a US visa.’ Announcing he was leaving for a fabulous new job and life in the States, then popping the question in the next breath. What’s worse, it was like my whole world being hit by an earthquake. I wasn’t even aware he was up for promotion, let alone a leap across the Atlantic. If we’d discussed it in advance, I might have been more ready for it. I can see now, it was only natural that someone so work orientated would be super-excited about saving his news for a big reveal. For someone like me, who hates surprises, it couldn’t have been worse. It was my fault too. I should have made my phobia about surprises clearer. And the size of the audience made the outcome all the more cataclysmic. Had it just been the two of us, Luc might have forgiven me for taking fright. But so many cousins and aunties seeing me vote with my feet was the ultimate in public humiliation. Everyone understood that. A proud man like Luc couldn’t marry a person who’d done that to him. Even if I was mortified afterwards, there was no clawing my way back, no matter how much apologising and begging I did.

Becky shrugs. ‘Luc’s doing well over there.’ This is just the kind of snippet I’ve been aching for. Now it’s come without prompting I’m not sure I like it.

‘He would be.’ Most days I try not to think about it. I pick up my cup to cover up that one tiny fragment of news about him has my pulse racing. ‘Although, actually, I’d rather not talk about him.’ A deep draught of dark cocoa is just what I need to slow my heart rate again. Who knew I’d feel this uncomfortable?

‘He’s still on his own, too.’ She tilts her head to gauge my reaction. ‘It’s a shame he can’t come to the wedding. Second chances and all that?’

If spluttering with my face in my mug is a bad move, sloshing hot chocolate right down my coat is worse. The amount of drink I’ve lost, it’s a good thing I’m cold rather than thirsty. But at least the wipe-up gives me time to regroup. Leopard print is so forgiving, that’s why you have to love it every time. I’m frantically dabbing my soggy fake fur with serviettes, racking my brain to move on to an easier topic. ‘So how are the wedding plans going?’

Becky rolls her eyes. ‘There are so many decisions to make. Nachos or tacos for the burger van. Do we want hog roast or fish and chips for the main. We even need council permission to erect our own beachside marquee.’ She gives a guilty squirm on her stool. ‘We haven’t even begun to choose groups for the photos from the lists on Pinterest.’

‘Absolutely no worries on that one.’ Although organised group photos don’t fit with the kind of informal wedding she’s talked about before.

She lets out another sigh. ‘The only thing Nate’s looking forward to is getting his hands on our own Roaring Waves beer, with Mr and Mrs Croft labels on.’

‘No surprise there.’ Another reason for my heart to sink. Let’s just hope the brewer’s not on the guest list. ‘So how many people have you invited?’ As Becky’s repeatedly using the word ‘small’, I’m confident this won’t be an issue.

‘Not many. Although weddings have this awful tendency to grow.’ She thinks for a second, then looks up brightly. ‘A hundred and forty-seven, tops.’

The way that number makes me lurch, it’s a good thing I’ve already tipped most of my drink away. What’s that expression? Three steps forward, two steps back? Or in my case, fifteen steps back, ending up with falling off a cliff top.

Which just goes to show, your blindsides don’t always come from where you expect them. Here I was, assuming I’d be thrown off track by hearing about Luc, when all along I should have been worried about an out of control guest list. I was expecting twenty, tops. Add in an extra hundred and twenty, I’ll be needing to find a lens with a wider angle.

Chapter 5

Sunday, 3rd December

At Brides by the Sea: Hidden cameras and flash photographers

‘So how did it go?’ Jess asks, as I come down into the half light of the White Room later, clutching my laptop. If I wasn’t blanking Christmas this year, the fairy lights playing on the lace, making the wedding dresses in the window glisten against the night outside would make my heart flutter.

Jess turning up again and calling me downstairs to show her my pictures isn’t quite what I’m expecting on a Sunday evening. But as this is her shop, I can hardly argue.

‘It was a bit stiff to start with.’ I’ve had time to up load the pictures and sort a few of the better ones into their own folder, so at least I know they aren’t too awful to show her. ‘And the wedding party’s going to be a bit bigger than I’d first thought.’ I’m understating this to play it down. There’s no point panicking about something I can’t change.

‘That’s exactly what I’d heard. A hundred and forty guests is a lot for a photographer to take on for a first time. It’s lucky I’m on hand to get you the extra support you need.’ Her nostrils are flaring. ‘So did the shooting get any better once you took Nate and Becky out?’ From her prompting smile, it almost feels like I’m her latest project.

How did I forget? There are no secrets in St Aidan. Everyone, including Jess, will know every last detail of Nate and Becky’s local wedding orders, as well as our exact route around town this afternoon. I put my MacBook Pro on the table and open it up. ‘Have a look, see what you think.’ There’s silence as I flick through the first few photos. ‘Once we got into town they relaxed a lot.’ I look round for Jess’s reaction.

‘Oh my.’ Her mouth is open as she murmurs, then she snaps it shut. ‘Keep going, then.’

I’m flicking through, trying to find a picture she’ll like. I get through the first fifty, then pause for her reaction.

‘Well, well, well.’ Her loafers clatter towards the winding staircase up to Sera’s dress design studio and she calls up the stairs. ‘Okay, Jules, you can come down now.’ As she turns to me, at last, she drops her voice to a husky whisper. ‘Poppy was right, your pictures are wonderful. Now we need to persuade Jules to give you a helping hand, so you get to know your way around weddings enough to tackle your expanded one. And I’m going to lean as hard as it takes to make him cooperate.’

‘Jules?’ My voice comes out as a squeak. ‘Is that really necessary?’ From the aftershave cloud that suddenly wafts up my nose, I don’t have to look round to know he’s behind me. I can tell by his disparaging sniffs that he’s giving me the evils.

‘Go ahead, show us a few more, Holly.’ Jess’s purr is so proud, I don’t dare to do anything else.

There’s a choking noise coming from Jules’s throat. When he finally forms words, he sounds like he can’t get them out for yawning. ‘Very bland, very reportage. And I’m really missing the drama here.’

As I turn to Jess, she’s giving an incredulous headshake. ‘They’re shots of a windy walk in St Aidan, not the bloody coronation.’ Her voice rises to a shriek. ‘For goodness sake, Jules, stop being so silly. They’re incredible.’

I have to butt in here. ‘Really, I wouldn’t go that far.’

Jess is growling. ‘Come on, Jules, even you have to admit they’re good.’

Jules gives a kind of shiver. ‘Okay, technically, they aren’t the disaster I was expecting.’

‘Bloody hell, Jules, the last thing I expected was prima donna behaviour from you.’ Jess is shouting now. ‘There’s only one reason you’re playing the diva here, and that’s because you’re jealous!’

Jules obviously isn’t the kind of good looking hunk who smoulders when he’s angry, because he’s gone pale and very snappy. ‘Well, you’re the one who’s brought in the competition right under my nose. You bill her as someone who snaps quiches for Lidl and then bring on bloody Annie Leibovitz. What am I supposed to do? Cheer?’

I’m sitting with them shouting over the top of my head, wanting to yell, ‘excuse me, I am here,’ but I’m so shocked at how wrong they’ve got it, the words won’t come out.

Jess’s cheeks are scarlet. ‘After all the support Brides by the Sea has given you, Jules, we deserve better than this.’

Jules sticks out his chin like a petulant three-year-old. ‘And my point is, ditto. From where I stand, I’m the one with the talent. And I’m the one who’s lost count of the times I’ve hauled you out of the shit.’

Jess drags in a breath, and at a guess she’s speaking through clenched teeth. ‘Holly is a fellow professional who needs a tiny bit of support from you so she can come through for her friends when their wedding has unexpectedly expanded to whopping proportions. It’s for one time only, she’s not trying to steal your clients. We put a huge amount of business your way, Jules. If you won’t oblige on this, I promise I’ll run you out of town.’

‘Fighting talk. You’re really getting your salopettes in a twist over this, aren’t you?’ Jules’s nostrils are flaring.

Jess’s voice becomes a roar. ‘If I’m about to disappear off up a bloody mountain pass, the last thing I’m going to leave behind me is you two up to your zoom lenses in bloody wedding photographer warfare.’

I’m waving both my hands frantically, trying to get my squeaks heard. ‘I’m definitely not fighting. And definitely nothing to do with weddings.’ Other than a surfie party that accidentally expanded, obviously. Although hearing how loud she shouts, I’m just pleased Jess is sticking up for me and not going against me here.

Jules gives a sneer. ‘Don’t take it out on me because you’ve got holiday jitters, Jessica. If you’ve got polar bear toes at the thought of jetting off to Switzerland, seriously, you need to tell Uncle Bart.’

Ouch. This man is mean.

‘That’s enough from you, Blue Eyes.’ The blood has drained from Jess’s face now. But despite her cheeks being the colour of wedding dress lace, her voice is booming louder than ever. ‘Jules. You’re going to let Holly second shoot your next wedding, on Tuesday. I know Zoe and Aidan will be up for it. What’s more, you’re going to give her all the benefit of your vast experience, without any of the temperamental star crap.’ Thunderous doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘That’s non-negotiable. Understood?’

I have to stand up for myself here. ‘No! It’s not necessary, and not happening.’ A whole day following Jules around? Even if I would learn a lot, I’d rather eat my own Nikon. But they’re both ignoring me.

Jules’s mouth is all bunched up. ‘And?’

Jess’s expression is steely. ‘In return I’ll give your suggestion for the studio serious consideration. Although you do understand, I’ll be asking top price for that space.’ Her eyes glint. ‘Agreed?’

As Jules unwinds his scarf to wipe the sweat off his brow, the sound he lets out is almost a whimper. ‘Okay.’ His naked Adam’s apple does a lurch as he swallows. ‘I’ll be round tomorrow at two to brief you, Holly. You’d better charge up your battery packs.’

‘Lovely.’ Jess is suddenly beaming again, ‘Well, that went well. Anyone for a Winter Warmer while we look at the rest of Holly’s photos?’

But no one replies, because Jules is already out of the door and I’m busy working out what the hell I can do to get out of Tuesday’s wedding.

Chapter 6

Tuesday 5th December

In the Bride’s dressing room at Daisy Hill Farm House: Drain pipes and perfect shots

‘So, Holly, the dress and the girls are all yours now.’ Jules flips his scarf so high it bangs on the brides’ dressing room chandelier, and sends it jumping wildly. ‘I’m off to catch Aidan and the boys having breakfast at the Goose and Duck.’ As he flounces towards the door there a brief flash of sapphire as he glances at his watch. ‘I’ll be back at twelve, for Zoe’s “bride gets buttoned up” pics.’ As yet, he’s still avoiding eye contact with me, and he hasn’t cracked even a fake smile in my direction either. This far, his lips are as zipped up as his next shot with Zoe.

Another day, another couple. First Nate and Becky. And now Zoe and Aidan. What started as a favour to some friends has somehow got right out of hand. And this pair couldn’t be more different from Nate and Becky and the huge ‘let it all hang out’ beach bash they’ve ended up with. Today’s couple are trying the knot in Rafe and Poppy’s amazing Georgian farmhouse at Daisy Hill Farm, in front of a mere forty guests. And having their reception and evening party here too. Although technically, given there’s chamber music rather than a disco, that part sounds more like a soiree than a wild party. As weddings go, this one’s teensy according to Poppy. And so far, I’ve managed to get some gorgeous shots of the flowers. So whatever happens, I haven’t scored a complete fail.

To be honest, I’m still picking my jaw off the floor at the idea of complete strangers welcoming me into their getting-ready room at all. We’re in the newly converted bridal suite, downstairs in the Old Farmhouse venue, where Poppy and Rafe have done a brilliant job with their renovations. It’s wall-to-wall luxury, with white carved chairs, whisper-grey velvet cushions and huge mirrors. And enough space to be hit by the explosion of a bride’s party complete with hair and make-up entourage and all the props, and still look elegant. According to Jess, who phoned from the first class lounge yesterday, as she waited to take off for Zurich, Zoe was – and I’m quoting here – ‘completely delighted to have an award-winning London photographer on board to add another dimension to her wedding album’. Jess might be the queen of spin, but when I see the curly hand- painted wooden sign hanging on the door, saying The dressing room, it leaves me feeling someone should hang one around my neck saying Fraud. And that’s the only point Jules and I would ever agree on.

When he whooshed through the shop yesterday afternoon to give me my briefing, it was a flying visit. However hard his mouth was working, his feet didn’t appear to touch the floor.

‘Fuel up in advance … prepare to be crushed by the weight of your cameras … your people skills will be pushed way beyond their limits …’ He was rapping like a machine gun, only pausing to give Jess’s desk a once-over. ‘You will be ready here for an eight thirty pick up?’

‘Yep.’ I was shrinking back against the wall as he nosied at the piles of papers on the table. ‘Absolutely.’ Despite only being an apprentice assistant, I managed to whisk the appointment book away from him just before he opened it to snoop.

Then he started again. ‘The bride and the groom will be jangling with so many nerves they won’t know which way’s up. You are the voice of reason they look to in their day of craziness. The sober one, when the rest of the room are off their faces. It’s high octane, high expectation and a lightweight won’t last two frames.’ He delivered his entire manifesto in the time he took to do a circuit of the White Room. ‘Oh, and no flashes, unless they’re off-camera.’

‘Great.’ No idea how I managed even a grim smile after that lot. This is exactly why I’d take pictures of a biryani rather than a bride every time. It’s a doddle in comparison. ‘Got you.’

Except he wasn’t quite done. He paused by the mannequin for one last sideswipe on his way to the hall. ‘If you think you can mosey in from Oxford Street and swan all over this, prepare yourself for an epic fail, Holly. If the only thing you learn is to stay the hell away from weddings in future, it will not have been a wasted day. For either of us.’

I was completely in agreement with him on that. But I never got the chance to tell him. Next thing, the hallway Christmas tree jingled as he bolted past. And before I got my words out the shop door slammed.

I’d heard that Jules is big on playlists for setting the mood. But more fool me for expecting Now That’s What I Call Love tunes on the way to the farm this morning. Instead it was Music To Go To War To. Rather than being lulled by the Coors and Adele, we left St Aidan to the battle music from Star Wars and hit Rose Hill to The Ride of the Valkyries, with the volume at 16. As far as subliminal messages go, it couldn’t have been more in my face. But whatever my preconceptions, I’m determined to give this opportunity everything I’ve got. After all Jules’s animosity, it’s a massive relief when he closes the door behind him again this morning. Now it’s just me, Zoe, her bridesmaids and the make-up ladies.

I warm up with a few shots of the jars spilling out of the make-up team’s boxes. I even dare to take a few reflections of the girls in the mirror. Then I walk across to where the dress is hanging and turn to Zoe. ‘Is it okay if I move this to where the light’s better?’ I’m feeling so guilty for being here, my apologetic plea couldn’t be further from Jules’s masterful orders.

Zoe peers past the hairdresser pulling rollers the size of drainpipes out of her hair. ‘Of course, help yourself.’

The champagne silk drifts as I move it across the room to a hook on the other side of the room. ‘Is this one of Sera’s designs?’ Even after only being in the shop for a couple of days, I can spot her trademarks. Fabulous flowing satin. The exquisite embroidery winding across the straps, the slight flare of skirt.

Zoe looks delighted that I’d know. ‘That’s right. It’s very light for December, but I fell in love with the way it moves. I’ve got a little fur jacket to go over it.’

‘I’ll try to capture how amazing the beading is.’ I hang on to the one useful thought Jules threw at me this morning. Never rush. Take your time for that perfect shot. A few minutes later, all thanks to Sera’s lovely work, I have some fabulous close ups.

Despite the hairdresser dragging her hair through the tongs, Zoe carries on, with a wistful look in her eyes. ‘We got engaged on Christmas Day last year, so we wanted to get married in winter too.’

I swallow my gulp at the coincidence and force my face into a smile. ‘Lovely.’ It comes out a lot too brightly. Although, truly, it’s good to know that someone’s festive proposal worked out well, even if mine crashed and burned. And if I’m silently groaning, this could have been me, I need to stop.

Zoe frowns at me as I put the dress back. ‘Are you sure you’re okay there?’ She dodges the hairdresser’s comb and nods at the ice bucket and champagne flutes. ‘Would you like some bubbly? You look even paler than I feel.’

And damn that it’s that obvious. ‘I’m fine.’ I’m lying. And dying of embarrassment too, because everyone knows the bride should have the monopoly on wobbles on her wedding day. I smother the shock waves and concentrate on how I was before. ‘Actually, I’m a bit nervous.’ It’s the ideal way to cover up that the moment I heard about her Christmas Day proposal I felt like passing out. ‘Whatever Jess told you about me, this is actually my first wedding.’ I can see the make-up girl’s eyebrows hitting the ceiling as I blurt out the truth. But I can’t help it. Now they’ve noticed, I have to come clean.

‘So what about the awards?’ The bridesmaid in the baby-pink Team Bride dressing gown is looking daggers.

I’m ready to take my camera and go. ‘I have won stuff, but for pictures of food, not brides. Things like …’ I rack my brain for anything to block out Luc and his engagement ring. ‘Country Living Food Campaign of 2016 for my sausage casserole shots?’ Sausages? That sounds worse than nothing now it’s out.

‘Right.’ Six faces are giving me bemused stares.

‘I’m really sorry. I started off in food design, but I moved across to photography after a massive roast beef and meringue debacle.’ I take in the bridesmaids’ expressions getting more horrified by the second. I know this isn’t the moment to babble my entire life story, but I can’t stop. If my feet weren’t welded to the spot, I’d already be out of here.

‘One moment.’ Zoe lifts up the hair tong wire. ‘It’s good you’re not on the catering team. Show me what you’ve got so far.’

As I move in and flick through the frames, she’s nodding. Then she pushes back a stray hair grip and grins up at me. ‘For an assistant, I’d say you’re acing it. Don’t forget, it’s my first wedding too.’

I can’t help but smile back at that. ‘So you don’t mind if I stay?’

Zoe laughs. ‘I’ll throw a bridezilla fit if you don’t. Jules is lovely, but it’s nice to have a woman around too. Especially if you’re taking pictures like those. How about you go and beg some leftover cupcakes from Poppy before you expire?’ From the way Zoe’s taken command from her hairdressing chair, I suspect she might be an army general in her day job. ‘We’ll all feel better after some of those. Better still, bring back some pictures of what’s going on outside.’ She nods beyond the door.

‘Brill, back soon, then.’ I don’t need to be asked twice to escape. As I yank my camera bag onto my shoulder and dash out into the hallway I can see Poppy amidst a sea of tables and chairs. She’s deep in discussion with Lily from the shop, who is here sorting the styling and the flowers.

Poppy grins as I skid to a halt on ancient floorboards, polished to a sheen. ‘How’s it going?’

I give a shrug. ‘Getting there.’ It’s not ideal to be this anxious to leave the wedding venue when I’ve barely been here half an hour. ‘What are you doing here anyway? I was coming to find you in the kitchen.’

Now her bump’s getting bigger, Bart’s nephew Kip, who is Lily’s new boyfriend, is supposed to be taking over Poppy’s wedding work here. And since Kip started work as wedding manager, and Poppy’s got more pregnant, she’s supposed to stay in the part of the farmhouse where she and Rafe live, for at least some of the time.

Poppy wrinkles her nose. ‘Kip and I are still in the hand-over phase. I’ve been working with Zoe all year to make today perfect. It’s hard to let go.’

Lily pulls a face. ‘We’d have to tether Poppy to the Aga to keep her away today.’

I sense I’m treading on proverbial eggshells here. ‘Zoe’s asking for spare cupcakes. Does that help at all?’

Poppy sighs and rubs her tummy. ‘Okay, we’ll have to go back to the kitchen for those. But remember, I’m not broken, I’m simply growing a small person.’ Poppy and Rafe have only known about their surprise baby for a couple of months, and it seems like they’re still catching up.

From the ease with which Lily chimes in, it’s an ongoing problem. ‘Eighteen hours on your feet at a wedding isn’t ideal when you’re this far pregnant, though.’

‘I’m fine. Most pregnant women these days go straight from work to the labour ward.’ Poppy brushes away Lily’s concern and nudges me towards the front door. ‘Come on, Holly, let’s get those cupcakes. The first rule of weddings – if the bride’s hungry, feed her. Otherwise she may explode.’

‘Great.’ I store that nugget for when Becky gets married. And make a mental note to forget it the day after.

As I follow Poppy outside and along to the part of the house she and Rafe live in, Immie is ahead of us in the courtyard, showing a group of early wedding guests towards the holiday cottages. It’s great to see so many of our friends all pulling together in such a brilliant team. The people where I work are more colleagues than friends, and we rarely go out after hours. I’m asking myself when Rose Hill became so buzzy? Or when my fabulous life in London became so quiet in comparison? Although even if it’s temporarily shrunk to nothing, I definitely wouldn’t swap it.

After the cold breeze that blasts us as we hurry up the cobbled yard, the farm kitchen is deliciously warm. Jules wasn’t joking about the cameras weighing a ton. As for me being a lightweight, I’m holding my hands up to that already.

I slide my bag onto the table, rub my cramping shoulder, push the kettle onto the Aga and reach for a mug. ‘I’ll make you some tea while I’m here, Pops.’ At least then she’ll have to stay to drink it.

Poppy shuffles a stack of cake containers. ‘I’ll give you vanilla ones. We can’t risk chocolate smudges before the ceremony.’ She frowns at me as she hands me a box. ‘You look like you could do with one now.’

I’m already regretting skipping breakfast. ‘Chocolate stains won’t show on leopard print, will they?’ It’s worth a try.

Poppy answers that with a beam. ‘That’s my girl. How many?’

‘No more than two.’ I’m feeling mean that I’m only passing her ginger tea in return. ‘I don’t want to spoil my appetite for the vanilla ones.’ Now I’m back in the normality of the kitchen, sinking my teeth into soft chocolate butter cream, I’m reluctant to leave.

Poppy squeezes my arm as she sinks onto the bench. ‘It’s lovely to have you home, Hols. We’ve all been hoping we might tempt you into coming back here full time.’ By the time she drops that bombshell, she’s looking innocently out of the window. ‘To live, I mean.’

‘What, and leave London?’ If I sound shocked, it’s because a move back is in the wrong direction entirely. We spent all our time at school plotting how to get away. For Poppy, it was all about the lure of the bright lights. Whereas for me, I was desperate to get to a place where I could be anonymous. Where I wouldn’t always be the girl whose much more popular sister died.

She laughs. ‘I did it and I survived. It’s different when you get a bit older.’ From the way she bites her lip and looks guilty, she’s going to push it. ‘It isn’t as if London’s brilliant for you right now.’

I sigh and try to shut out that I just had the same fleeting thought. Then I make sure I get the right tone of bouncy. ‘I might be back in my old flat share, in a room the size of a shower cubicle. But I’m at the hub of the action. What’s not to like?’ The worst thing is that my social life dematerialised when Luc left. And a year on, it’s not looking up. All enrolling at woodwork classes and zumba did for me was give me splinters and a pulled hamstring. But coming back to live here isn’t an option. I try to sound jokey, yet firm. ‘Me moving in with the oldies and working in an ice- cream kiosk? That would go down a storm when my parents are doing their best to leave home themselves.’ So happily, it’s not a choice I’ll need to address.

Poppy leans towards me. ‘This is why we’ve all got our fingers crossed for you today, Hols. Strictly between us, now we’ve expanded, there are too many weddings at Daisy Hill for Jules to handle on his own.’

Originally Daisy Hill Farm held summer weddings in the fields, but they’ve now added in the main farmhouse and converted a barn. There are also the weddings at Bart’s Manor too. And it looks like I might have been completely set up here. As Poppy wiggles her eyebrows expectantly, my heart sinks.

I let out a sigh, because it’s all so impossible. ‘It’s really sweet of you to think of me.’ But leave London and become a wedding photographer? How the hell do I express that those are the two last things I’d do – in the world, ever – without sounding ungrateful? ‘I’ll do my best today. And get back to you on that one.’

‘There is another thing.’ The way Poppy’s screwing up her mouth tells me I may need to brace myself for bad news.

‘Yes?’ I’ve got no idea what’s coming, but it can’t be any worse than the last suggestion.

‘You’d be way more likely to find a new partner here than in London. Especially given who’s staying in the cottages.’ She wiggles her eyebrows madly.

What the hell is she hinting at? ‘Surely you can’t mean …?’

She grins. ‘Yes, I’m talking about Rory. Truly, once you get past the joking around he’s all heart, and way too nice to be on his own. You two always had the hots for each other. Twenty years on might be a good time to finally check that out?’

I let out a shriek. ‘We TOTALLY did not!’ However much I want to stamp on this, I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘hots’. ‘The guy drives me round the bend. If we were stranded on a desert island together, I swear I’d swim to get away from him. And you know how much I hate water.’

Poppy’s making no effort to hide her laughter as she looks down at her bump. ‘They don’t call me elephant memory just because I’m huge, you know. Deny it as much as you like, but I remember the way you two always had your heads together, back in the day. And he always looked out for you too. That time you got off your face on cider punch at Hannah Peveril’s birthday because you thought it was lemonade with colouring in, he was the one who insisted on walking you round until you sobered up, then driving you home.’

I stifle a shudder. ‘Trust you to rake that up. That night was so awful, it still makes me groan with embarrassment even now.’ And moving neatly on from Mr Sanderson … ‘My mum went ape about that, and Hannah’s dad never forgave me for throwing up all over his Gertrude Jekyll prize roses.’

But Poppy’s seen what I’ve done there and she’s not having it. ‘Better still, Rory delivered you home in one piece, without driving into any ditches or off any precipices. He might have been older, but he was wonderfully protective of you. Pretty besotted, if you ask me.’

I have to close this down. ‘Which I definitely didn’t.’ She’s sounding like she’s teasing, but we both know she’s not.

As her laughter fades, she gives me one of her stern stares. ‘You broke up with Luc almost a year ago now, though. It’s definitely time you moved on.’

‘That’s the problem, Pops. I haven’t even begun to think of myself as free.’ Saying it out loud now, I’m realising it’s totally true. My heart hasn’t actually let go yet. Although I’m not sure I can admit that to anyone.

Her smile is sympathetic. ‘What’s that old phrase? You’re still holding a candle for Luc, even though it’s over.’

My shrug is as noncommittal as I can make it. ‘Maybe.’ In truth it’s probably more like a bloody great beacon flare than a candle. Which is yet another reason why it’s best to push on here. ‘Anyway, I’d better get these cakes to Zoe. Before she spontaneously combusts. Or whatever it is brides do.’

If Poppy’s on the matchmaking warpath, I need to get the hell out of here. If I hang around with her in this mood, she’s so determined that I’m quite likely to get bumped into an arranged marriage before Zoe and Aidan even get to theirs. And if Poppy’s got Rory in her sights for me, all I can say is, her taste in other people’s men is appalling.

I hadn’t counted on bolting back down the yard so soon, or so fast. Although since I left the wedding venue a huge and fabulous winter wreath has appeared on the front door. The heavy twines of ivy and pale eucalyptus in a circle the size of a hoola hoop have me skidding to a halt on the flag path. How many ways are there to photograph a wreath this awesome? At least it takes my mind off Poppy’s shudderingly awful suggestion. It’s a perfect expression of winter against the warm sandstone, untinged by the negative overlay of Christmas. A broad hessian bow which trails to the floor. White frosted mistletoe berries against the dove grey paintwork. I admit I’m so lost in the prettiness of the moment I barely hear the car engine thrumming down the yard. And when I hear a shout, I jolt so hard I nearly drop my battery pack.

‘Holly Berry, what the hell? When did you join the paparazzi?’

Rory? I’ve been so busy worrying about being a wedding crasher and putting Poppy right, I’ve overlooked this particular pitfall in my day. And completely failed to have a contingency plan for it. Which is beyond stupid, given the guy’s staying in a holiday cottage barely a hundred yards away. I drag in a deep breath and repeat my mantra. Never rush. Take your time for that perfect shot.

‘Rory. And your beer-mobile. Great to see you too.’ I don’t need to look. Right now I can guarantee my cheeks are blazing red instead of deathly pale. ‘Haven’t you got some fizz to sell, or a brewery to go to?’

I don’t hang around to enjoy the moment my words hit his ears. Instead I fling open the front door, hurtle to the safety of the bustling venue interior and slam the door behind me. And even though the door is monumental, hand hewn from oak planks in the seventeen hundreds, when I lean my back against it, it’s still not thick enough to keep out the echo of Rory Sanderson’s laugh.

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?’

There’s another low laugh from across the room, as Rory picks Teddie up and tosses his own hair out of his eyes. ‘You already know I’m allergic to hairbrushes. Fingers work every time for me.’

I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. ‘It might come as a surprise, but there are other people here apart from you, Rory.’ I smile down at Gracie. ‘Maybe ask Uncle Rory if you can have your hair done tomorrow.’ I turn and look daggers at Rory. ‘Before the tangles get too bad. A week like this and she’ll have dreadlocks.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s all about priorities. There’s no time to sweat the boring stuff here.’

I sniff. ‘I can see that.’ As I pick my way over the mayhem and pass the bathroom, on balance I decide not to mention teeth-cleaning.

Rory’s swagger at his mantra takes us all the way to the kid’s room, where he rolls Teddie down into a travelling cot, muttering as he drops in a soft toy. ‘Instructions page two, cat stays with baby at all times.’

Blocking out his self-congratulatory expression, I step over a tangle of t-shirts and towels as Gracie clambers into bed. Then I get out my phone and I try to sound businesslike. ‘Right, time for Let it go? We’ll have the YouTube version – with lyrics.’ It’s not strictly necessary, seeing as Frozen is one of our go-to films when we have girly nights with Poppy and the crew. Singalong? You bet we do. But there’s no way I’m about to claim I’m word perfect without accompaniment. I’m so tempted to say ‘watch and learn’ but I bite my tongue. ‘Thanks Rory, I’ll take it from here.’ Hopefully he’ll take that as a dismissal. The last thing I need is an audience.

‘I can’t watch?’ His disappointed wail sounds a lot like Gracie’s.

‘Absolutely not.’ I wait for him to move, but he’s still standing smirking, shoulder against the wall. ‘It’s a deal breaker.’

I ignore his disgruntled sigh and wait until he’s shuffled well out of view. Then I perch on the blue-striped duvet and grin down at Gracie. ‘Ready?’ From somewhere in amongst the mess, she’s found both Immie’s snowmen and a teddy, and tucked them under the covers next to her.

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