Cupcakes & Confetti
The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea
JANE LINFOOT

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HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2016

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Cover design by Cherie Chapman

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be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for 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.

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Ebook Edition © April 2016 ISBN: 9780008190491

Version 2016-06-09

PRAISE FOR JANE LINFOOT

‘A pure delight…fabulous, fun and unforgettable’

Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of The Birthday That Changed Everything

‘Simply stunning’

A Spoonful of Happy Endings

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

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‘This author packs a punch’

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

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For Anna, Jamie, Indi, Richard, Max, Caroline, M and Phil xx

The best thing to hold on to in life is each other.

Audrey Hepburn

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Linfoot

Dedication

Epigraph

February

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

March

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

April

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

May

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

June

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

July

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

August

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52.

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

September

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

October

Chapter 67

November

Chapter 68

December

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Acknowledgements

Jane Linfoot

Also by Jane Linfoot

Coming Soon From Jane Linfoot

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

FEBRUARY

1
In my flat at Brides by the Sea: White letters and net curtains

LOVE YOU, LOVE CHOCOLATE MORE …

I can’t help smiling at the message the client has ordered to put on top of the cake as I stamp the letters out of the thinly rolled icing. White words on a mocha background, and all going on top of a dark chocolate sponge. It’s just out of the oven, steaming on the wire cooling rack next to the tiny table where I’m working, and filling the kitchen with a heady mix of vanilla and cocoa. I lean forward to crank open the little porthole window to let in some air, and catch a glimpse of the sea, turquoise and glistening in the February sun. When I lived with Brett, his penthouse had seaward facing balconies and floor to ceiling ocean vistas, but this last six months I’ve come to love my jewel sized view from this borrowed crow’s nest flat. A tiny corner of an attic over a wedding shop might not be everyone’s first choice, but it’s home for me.

‘Poppy, Poppy, come down quick.’ If Jess’s shriek hadn’t come echoing up the stairwell, I could have filled you in on the gory details of how I came to be here. As it is I need to go, and fast, because it’s also part of the deal that I help in the shop whenever I’m called. Which is why I’m clattering down the stairs two at a time, instead of giving you back story.

Bridal shops are emotional places, but Jess the shop owner is usually the one holding the mayhem together and mopping up the tears, not the one screaming like a banshee. This must be big news. I wind my way downwards through the shop, past the dark blue of Groomswear, through the shell pink Bridesmaids Beach Hut. I hurry through the Shoe Room with its shelves of exquisite heels, zoom through Cakes, then Flowers, before I finally find Jess in the ground floor White Room, flapping her hands and all breathless next to the rail of wedding dresses.

‘And?’ I skid to a halt on the white painted boards, hurriedly wiping the icing sugar off my hands with my apron. You’d think I’d get blasé seeing acres of gorgeous lace and satin every day, but a cascade of tulle still makes my heart beat faster. But why the hell is Jess this excited?

‘You’ve heard of Josie Redman … THE Josie Redman?’

‘You mean the reality TV star featured in every issue of Closer, Heat, OK! and Hello?’ I ask. I can’t quite remember what she did to be famous, but I know the one. ‘Dark hair, swallow tattoo up her leg?’ Don’t worry, it’s a lot classier than it sounds. ‘The one who was too famous for Celebrity Big Brother?’

Jess nods madly and it might be worth pointing out here that Jess doesn’t do crazy. Anyone who could build up her shop, Brides by the Sea, from nothing has to be super serious. She began with wedding flowers in one room on the ground floor, and now she has the whole building, and a wedding emporium that attracts brides from the whole of Devon and Cornwall, and beyond. Believe me, it came from hours of hard labour, coupled with some equally hard headed business savvy.

‘It came up on the Celeb-News app on my phone, and it’s all over twitter so it’s definitely true.’ Jess gasps. ‘Sera’s up in the studio, talking to Josie’s PA now, sorting out details.’ As the words tumble out of her mouth, she’s flapping her hands harder than ever.

‘Details of what, tell me what’s happened Jess?’

For a moment I think Jess is going to have a mother-of-the-bride-breaks-down moment. I’m scouring the velvet sofas and gilded side tables for tissues, when first Sera’s distressed boots, and then her long legs, come into view on the stairs from the studio.

‘Here she is, she can tell you herself.’ Jess gives another breathless squeak.

Sera’s coming down the stairs as if she’s an extra from a zombie movie. As she slides off the bottom step and does a slow motion collapse into the nearest carved armchair I swear her face is several shades paler than her bleached blonde hair.

‘Sera?’

Given that she’s clutching the hem of her shorts, and opening and closing her mouth with no sound coming out, I turn back to Jess.

‘Josie Redman has chosen Seraphina East …’ Jess’s squeak slides to her usual baritone mid-sentence. ‘To design her wedding dress.’

The words take a few seconds to sink in. In my head I’m silently mouthing O-M-G in slow motion, because this is huge. HUGE with the caps lock on. That would be Seraphina East, a.k.a. Sera, the local girl who touted her dress designs round to Jess’s newly opened wedding shop in her cut off shorts when she was fresh out of college. She’s still wearing the ragged shorts, but the rest has moved on a long way. That was around the same time I gave up my proper job in London and came back to move in with Brett, and popped in to ask if Jess would be interested in show casing my wedding cakes. Since then Jess has encouraged, nurtured, and supported both Sera and me all the way. But whereas my cake baking was a sideline I squeezed in alongside Brett and his starry career, Sera threw everything and more into her dress designs.

Sera now has her studio on the top floor, just below my attic room, and the shop has been the exclusive stockist for her collections in the seven years since she came. And now all her hard work, not to mention Jess’s considerable financial backing, is paying off. Because they’re hitting the big time here with paparazzi darling, Josie Redman.

‘Oooooooo …’ I can hear I’m doing that embarrassing howl that comes out all on its own whenever I’m over excited. ‘That’s sooooo amazing Sera …’ And it’s going to be equally amazing for Jess and Brides by the Sea too. Brides from across the country will come flocking here now to get a wedding dress like their favourite celeb. It’s the stuff of dreams. ‘Well done … both of you …’ As I grapple Sera into a hug her cheek is wet with tears.

I’m about to track down a tissue for her when the phone in the next room begins to ring. Jess and I exchange glances.

‘There you go, I bet that’s the first booking coming in now,’ I say, not quite believing it. Josie Redman chooses Seraphina East, and an army of brides follow hot on the trail. ‘Who’d have thought it would be this fast?’

But it is. For the next two hours we field non-stop calls. By the time we turn the phone off every booking for the next six weeks has been taken, and it’s dark in the street outside.

‘We’re going to have to set up another dressing room … not every fitting will transfer into an order …’ Jess is thinking aloud as she lowers herself into the nearest armchair and kicks off her loafers.

Sera’s zombie state is beginning to wear off, because she turns to me. ‘How the hell am I going to do this?’ Her strangled shriek is ten per cent desperation, ninety percent pure panic.

‘We’ll be here to help,’ I promise, hoping for Sera’s sake that we will. Poor Sera is amazing at selling anyone else’s designs, but when it comes to her own she withers.

She lets out a desperate moan. ‘I freeze when I meet customers at the best of times, what am I going to say to a celebrity?’

‘Whatever the gossip columns say about Josie, I’m sure she’s not that much of a diva …’ I begin, realising my mistake too late.

‘What?’ Sera lets out a shriek of horror.

Damn. Sometimes she seems so sheltered from the real world, I wonder if she gets out at all, other than to the beach. ‘I’m sure Josie will turn out to be lovely,’ I say, hoping I’m right.

Jess carries on, apparently oblivious to Sera’s nervous breakdown. ‘So long as we can produce the volume of dresses, Sera, we’ll need a room dedicated to your collection.’

At least we have space. The building rambles over four floors. That’s the whole reason Jess was able to come to my rescue, and offer me my place here in the attic when Brett and I broke up.

Jess gives me a meaningful stare. ‘Be an angel please Poppy, and grab us all a drink.’

Bridal boutiques favour white fizz because it gives you a lift and doesn’t stain. ‘Prosecco?’ I suggest. There’s always a fridge full. As Jess says, bubbly brides are happy brides, and happy brides buy.

‘Hell no, we need something stronger,’ Jess waves me away. ‘Get us some stiff G&Ts, there’s Hendricks in the desk drawer. I’ll have mine supersized, like the cocktails at that place in town, Jaggers.’

Sera and I raise our eye brows at each other. ‘When did you go to Jaggers, Jess?’ I have to ask. It’s strictly for under twenty surfers, and Jess is double that and more. If my voice is high, it’s because I can’t believe this either.

‘Oliver and I often drop in on our terminally single Friday night bar crawls,’ Jess says, as nonchalantly as if she’d been a fag hag all her life. ‘It’s so much more fun going out once you give up trying to pull.’

Sorry about the cliché, but Oliver is gay and in charge of Groomswear. And this is the first I’ve heard about his celibacy vow, or these racy Friday nights. I admit I’ve had my head under the duvet these last six months, but this is ridiculous. If this is her way of taking Sera’s mind off her immediate problems, it’s certainly working.

‘You could come too?’ Jess adds brightly. ‘Much better than hiding away, babysitting in the country, or whatever it is you do. Or working nonstop like Sera.’ Although Jess seems to be overlooking that Sera’s work ethic is turning to gold for both of them.

My Friday evenings at my best friend Cate’s house, helping her look after her dogs and four kids, have become a bit of a ritual for me. I know I’m not ready to start dating again after Brett, but I’m still reeling a bit at being included for a night out with self-confessed ‘terminally single’ people. As for Sera, I suspect she might be married to her job. I side step the invitation by dashing to the fridge for ice and mixers. By the time I get back Jess is already on to the next thing. As I hand her a clinking pint glass, she motions me to sit down.

‘So this is no bad news for you either, Poppy.’ Jess stares at me over the top of her Prada reading specs which are still balanced half way down her nose. Probably left there from when she was scribbling in the appointment book. She might hang out in trendy cocktail bars, and have the latest apps on her phone, but she hasn’t quite got her appointments on screen yet.

‘Sorry?’ There’s no point pretending. My sinking stomach knows exactly what she’s coming to. I just wish she wasn’t.

‘That dress of yours. The one we don’t talk about …’ She swirls the ice in her drink.

I know exactly the dress she means. Of course I do. It’s the dress I bought when Sera had a very exclusive private sample sale in The Studio a few months ago. I popped in for a teensy peep before it all began. And ended up buying the wedding dress of my dreams.

In my defence, I’ve been aching to be a bride my whole life. It goes right back to the time when my besties, Cate and Immie, used to dress me up in net curtains when we were kids, and I’d parade around the garden in my Barbie tiara. That was before we went to infants’ school. I wonder now if my lifelong wedding obsession had something to do with me not having a dad around. But whatever, I’d waited so long to be a bride, no-one could blame me for getting ahead of myself. Brett and I seemed so secure. I had no clue my life was going to come crashing down as it did. One minute I thought my wedding was definitely on the very near horizon, the next the groom was … Well, maybe best not to go there. Enough to say, Brett and I didn’t get married.

My main excuse is that on the day I fell in love with the dress, I really did believe it was about to be my turn. I’d waited so many years for Brett to propose. And that week, although he hadn’t exactly got down on one knee, for the first time ever, he had said we should be thinking about getting married. When I came across the perfect dress only hours later, it felt as though it was meant to be. As if all my planets were suddenly colliding in a spectacular piece of auspiciousness, or coincidence or whatever it’s called.

And although it cost a mind boggling amount, it was a sample dress, so it was amazing value for money. And because I sold my cakes though the shop Sera gave me a special deal. Obviously back then, I didn’t live here, because I was still living with Brett.

I scrunch up my face, silently praying that Jess isn’t about to whisk my wild impulse purchase out of the storage room. Wild as in wildly expensive, wild as in wildly misjudged, wild as in wildly over optimistic. Wild as in wildly wide of the mark in every way possible, given what came after. And a very well-kept secret, that only Jess, Sera and I know about.

‘What about my dress?’ I suddenly wish I’d sloshed more gin in my drink. It’s hard to compare the giddy rush of the day I bought it with the troughs that came after.

Jess and Sera understood at the time that it was very early days for me and my wedding plans. It wasn’t as if I’d even had time to share the news with anyone. We hadn’t even got as far as the engagement ring. Luckily we’re known for our discretion at Brides by the Sea. To give Jess credit, the day I bought the dress she said it would stay between the three of us. And Jess and Sera have both kept their word on that one. My best friends, Cate and Immie, don’t even know about it. And Jess kept the dress safe, hanging in the dress store, all this time. Fully insured too.

‘Your dress is one of the most beautiful dresses Sera has ever made.’ Jess purses her lips, and out of the corner of my eye I take in Sera’s echoing nod.

‘It is a totally beautiful dress,’ I agree. If you saw it, I promise you’d completely understand. Silk cut on the bias, simple yet with the most exquisite lace detail, it flowed over my curves as if I was barely there. ‘But I can’t even bear to look at it.’ It’s a relief to get that confession out. I sometimes wonder how one dress could have had so many tears cried over it.

‘I know that dress is very emotionally charged.’ Jess knocks back another slug of gin as she makes that understatement. ‘But when Sera hits the spotlight, you’ll see a good return on your investment.’

Sera sends me a nod of solidarity over the top of the mint sprig I stuffed in her G&T.

I take it Jess is referring to the financial kind of investment. Ever the good businesswoman, she usually sees things in terms of the bottom line, and she grins and rolls her eyes when I wince at the word. I sometimes wonder how someone who does such beautiful things with flowers can be so financially minded, but Jess has been around the block. She insists that going to hell and back with her ex-husband was what toughened her up. Believe me, she must have been playing hard ball to extract a building like this out of her divorce settlement. Freehold, mortgage free. Just don’t tell anyone I told you that.

‘Wait until Josie’s had her celebrity wedding and then sell. You’ll make a killing,’ she goes on.

‘B-b-b-but …’ The word ‘sell’ sends a chill through my chest. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’ I’m not sure I can even bear to sell it at all. I mean I’m hardly going to get another one am I?

‘You’ll have at least a couple of months to get used to the idea.’ She pats my hand gently. ‘What else can you do? That dress is spoiled for you, you’ll never use it.’

I have no idea how she can sound so matter of fact about something that wraps my stomach into knots.

I pull a face at Sera, who’s gnawing at her thumb nail. ‘I don’t want to turn into the woman in the attic wearing my abandoned wedding dress.’ I let out a half laugh. After the way Brett let me down, that’s the only way I’ll ever get to wear a wedding dress now. I won’t be getting involved with a guy again any time soon, that’s for sure. ‘I know you’re right, Jess, it just hurts.’

Jess tilts her head. ‘Think of it as your nest egg. It’s always good to have one.’

I gawp at her middle aged thinking. ‘I’m thirty two, I’m way too young to think about stuff like that.’ My squeal of protest fades as I remember exactly where the dress came from. Bought with the money my mum gave me just before she died. ‘A nest egg’ was exactly how she put it too. I swallow back the lump in my throat. My mum would have loved to see me marry in that dress. In any dress for that matter. I squeeze my arms around my chest as I take a reality check. No family. No Brett. I’m completely on my own. If it wasn’t for Jess and her attic I’d be homeless and jobless. I support myself entirely by baking cakes and helping in the shop. I can’t afford to shy away from this.

Jess drains her glass. ‘Our scars make us who we are. Wear them proudly, and move forward.’ Her smile acknowledges that she’s said that same line to me more times than I can count in the last six months, then she narrows one eye. ‘Moving forward being the important thing now.’ She waggles her glass at me. ‘As soon as you’ve got me a refill that is.’

As I rush off for another pint of gin, deep inside I know she’s right.

2
In Rose Cross village: Ice breakers and a handful of hounds

‘Bolly, Brioche stop pulling!’

The wind whooshes away my wail as I stagger after two lurching honey-coloured bottoms and wagging tails. Dog walking is never like this on the IAMS adverts.

‘Brioche, Bolly, heel pleeeeeeease!’

I’m doing my best to be in control, but channelling my inner dog-charming goddess is impossible this early in the morning. The extra early start is because Cate, Immie and I have a big shopping day ahead of us. They don’t come much bigger than shopping for bridesmaids’ dresses, especially when we’re shopping for eight. And if you think eight bridesmaids sounds excessive, you should see the rest of Cate’s plans. Her wedding is shaping up to be the Cornish country wedding of the decade.

As an in control dog walker, I score an epic fail every time. You’d hardly think I’d been doing this most Saturdays for six months, which is how long it is since I decided to dedicate my scarily empty Friday evenings to a babysitting sleepover, so my bestie, Cate, and her soon-to-be husband, Liam, can have a weekly night out together. With four kids, two lively labradoodles and full-time jobs, they find it hard to spend any quality time together. Although sometimes when I’m tucked up on their sofa with little George, and the three older kids, it’s more as if they’re the ones looking after me.

As a cake maker I like to match people with their perfect cake. Cate’s cake is a delicious Moroccan orange sponge, with a covering of perfectly piped buttercream, and crystallised orange trimmings. Cool, yet sophisticated. Sometimes I still think of Cate as she was when we were six, when we were at Dancing Jillie’s tap class in the village hall. Cate was the one who could do all the steps, not a blonde curl out of place, tapping away like she could give Ginger Rogers a run for her money, while I was the one getting my legs in the arm-holes of my lycra all-in-one, and losing my shoes. But Cate’s luck ran out at twenty five when her husband ran off with a woman from the reprographics department. Left with three kids under four, she grappled her way through the next few years. Now she’s finally found the guy she deserves, and had another baby, I couldn’t be happier for her.

Back to the labradoodles, I swear we crossed the last three fields without my feet touching the ground. Although today fast is good. When I get back, Cate will have finished giving George his breakfast. And then we’ll meet up with Immie, whose signature cake is either a donut or a double chocolate muffin. She’s had the same stocky build and no-nonsense short hair since we were kids, and however much we try to persuade her into other outfits, she always wears jeans and a sweatshirt. We’re heading to Brides by the Sea, which is where we all know Cate’s going to buy the bridesmaid dresses. It helps I get mates’ rates.

My feet finally make contact with land again as we come to a stile. The dogs bound over into a muddy puddle the size of St Aidan Bay, making tidal waves as they leap. As I follow them Bolly does a double bounce that soaks me, then yanks me off the hillock I’m balanced on.

‘Nooooo Bolly …’

I let out a wail as my left Ugg plunges deep under water. Blinking, I scrape the mud splat out of my eye with my fist, and let out a deep sigh as cold oozes round my toes.

Whereas a mud pedi on a Tuesday morning in a salon in St Aidan would be bliss – not that I can afford them these days – I could do without a DIY Cornwall countryside version. The same goes for the leopard print pattern of mud, dappled all the way up my jeans. We’ll all be in line for a hose down from Cate when we get back home. It’s completely my own fault. If I’d taken a removal van instead of a flight bag when I left Brett in a hurry, I’d be wearing my beloved purple festival wellies, and my feet would be dry now.

As we work our way back along the lane towards the village, Rose Cross, the dogs are beginning to flag, but the cluster of house roofs peeping over the hedges, and the promise of some civilisation perks me up no end. This is the village where Cate, Immie and I grew up. But whereas they love the countryside, I think of it as wilderness. At eighteen I couldn’t wait to leave for London. Even coming out here from St Aidan on a Friday night gives me a culture shock, and not in a good way.

Taking advantage of the slack leads, I slide out my phone to check I’m not running late. Then, as we round a bend, we come across a grey Land Rover Defender parked on the verge ahead. Impressed by my car knowledge? All gathered when I had to make a Land Rover fortieth cake for a 4x4 obsessive, with full detail and chocolate mud splatters. I inherited the cake baking gene from my mum, picking it up because she did so much of it when I was little. My earliest memory is standing on a chair in our cosy kitchen, licking out cake mix bowls, and drawing shapes with my finger in the dusting of icing sugar on the kitchen table. Give me a sponge and some icing and I can work wonders Whether it’s fairy castles, dumper trucks for birthdays, or the multi-tiered wedding cakes I make so many of now, they come easily. Sadly, if icing isn’t involved, I have a great talent for stuffing up.

I’m in my own world, thinking about mum as a guy in faded jeans saunters from behind the Land Rover. Two words pop into my mind.

Perfect ten.

Talking about the guy here, not the car, obviously. Although that’s definitely not a compliment. More of a warning to myself to avoid at all costs. When they have it on a plate like that, they rarely learn to be nice.

My gaze slides past a cashmere sweater, and comes to rest on what has to be one of the most cross looking mouths in the south west. This guy might be a straight ten, but he looks way too bad tempered to be working those good looks. Yes, Immie, who’s studying psychology at university, would have a lot to say about me honing in on the lips, but in this case I’m only reading the situation. I don’t need a degree to recognise obstinate when I see it.

A sharp tug from Bolly and Brioche jolts me back to reality, knocks my phone out of my hand, and as it skids across the dirt track I see why they’re pulling.

Somehow I’ve failed to notice the guy has a dog with him. It’s huge and black, and it’s bounding towards us now. Before I can scramble to reach for my phone, I’m in mid-air as the dogs lunge. Whereas Bolly and Brioche are careful where they put their gigantic paws in the house, when they’re in midflight they don’t give a damn.

‘Look out!’ I shout, but my warning comes too late. They collide with Land Rover Hunk, who staggers, waves his arms, and topples backwards onto the verge.

Man down! Literally. There’s no time to wince at the thought of cashmere hitting mud, because the dogs bound on.

As the dogs all come face to face, there’s a blur of dog limbs, and excited yelps. They tumble and roll, thump into me at knee height, and I slither sideways. As the barking subsides, I come to a soggy and chilling halt in the gully below the hedge.

‘Bolly, Brioche …’ It’s hard to sound masterful when I’m on my back, bum deep in the ditch. More icy water, this time seeping up my spine. On the plus side I’m actually pretty proud that I’m still hanging on to the leads.

A stream of angry swear words comes from the guy as he scrambles to his feet.

‘No need to panic, they’re only playing.’ Mr Land Rover is hauling Black Dog out of the heap by the collar. He shoulders the dog back into the car. ‘They’re wagging their tails, see? But seriously, you need to get those dogs of yours better trained. It’s completely irresponsible to let dogs run wild in the countryside.’

Excuse me? I’m the one who kept hold of the leads here.

‘At least they haven’t killed each other.’ I mutter. ‘It might have helped if yours had been on a lead.’

He ignores that and is looming over me now, holding out his hand expectantly.

Shit. Introductions. I remember my manners and stick out my spare hand. ‘Pleased to meet you too …’ I realise I’m mumbling as well as lying. And why the hell am I rubbing the mud off my face with my sleeve and trying for a smile?

He lets out a low laugh. ‘It’s not an introduction, I thought I could pull you out. Unless you’d rather stay there?’

Anywhere else I might have shrivelled at my mistake, but when you’re soaking wet in a hedge bottom there’s not much point. A moment later, he’s yanked on my arm, and I’m back on my feet by the roadside, dripping for England. I’m not sure my festival wellies would have saved me here either.

‘Your phone …’ He hands it to me. ‘You’re very wet …’

This guy goes in for stating the obvious. As he passes over the phone I’m distracted by how his rugged hand doesn’t fit with his expensive jumper.

‘Although if you go rampaging around with two mad hounds, hurling yourself into ditches, you can hardly expect to stay dry. I’d offer you a lift, but …’ He trails off awkwardly.

The way he’s screwing up his face, we both understand. ‘But’ is the meaningful part of that sentence. No way is he inviting me and two sopping dogs into his precious Land Rover. He needn’t worry. Even if I did accept lifts from total strangers, I’m not about to ruin his up-market seat covers with puddles and labradoodle splatters.

‘I’m so sorry … don’t worry … it’s completely fine … we don’t have far to go …’ I’m doing it again. Babbling. And apologising. Both things that Immie’s trying to train me not to do. Anyone else but me would have managed to laugh it off by now with a witty quip about mud wrestling.

‘It’s no-one’s fault.’ He shrugs as he reaches for the car door. ‘Sorry all the same. I bet you didn’t plan on mud wrestling when you set out?’

There you go. Why couldn’t I do that?

As he moves back to the car his expression softens. ‘I guess I’ll see you around then.’

If he’s glad to see the back of us, the feeling’s mutual. ‘See you.’ I say this airily, safe in the knowledge that I absolutely won’t. Ever.

I know I should be over being embarrassed about stuff like falling into a ditch. And I’m working on it, okay? As long as the clean up doesn’t delay the shopping trip, the girls will most likely wet themselves laughing about it.

‘C’mon dogs.’ Two furry faces instantly turn to me. Mud up to their ears, but still looking like butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Hurry up, there are dresses to try on …’ As we set off, my wet jeans are stiff, and the water in my Uggs sloshes with every step, but for some reason my mouth still curls into a broad smile.

Land Rover Guy might have avoided me and the dogs muddying up his Landy, but from the mud slick on the back of his jeans, I’d say he’s going to leave a pretty good bum impression on the driver’s seat.

3
At Brides by the Sea: Dimples and Saturday girls

Saturday is the busiest day at Brides by the Sea. As Cate and I push through the door on the dot of nine, the shop is already buzzing. We manage to pass the chaise lounge and the shoe cabinet without getting waylaid by any rampaging bridezillas. Then just as we reach the stairs Jess comes hurtling towards us, a dress in a cover in one hand, and a tiara and veil in the other.

‘Cate, lovely to see you.’ As Jess flies past she tosses us air kisses. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve sorted this pick-up.’

Cate, phone in hand, looks doubtful. ‘Sorry, it’s only me at the moment, apparently Immie’s running late.’

When she’s not studying for her psychology degree, Immie works at the local farm, running the gorgeous barn conversion holiday cottages. We know she’s delegated most of her jobs for today so she can come to the fitting so this must mean she’s tied up with her family. Immie has a shed-load of brothers who she hauls of trouble. Saturday mornings at the police station are a regular thing.

Dodging a large display of freesias, I call over my shoulder. ‘We’ll grab a coffee upstairs while we wait for Immie.’

Jess calls back through a cloud of tulle. ‘No worries. Come down to the Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut as soon as she arrives and we’ll go through the dresses.’

As we finally finish our climb to my attic, I drop my bag in the flat hallway, and lead the way to my kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’

One look at Cate’s pained face, and I turn on the oven.

She groans. ‘I’m ravenous, more so now I’m up here with the permanent smell of baking.’ She’s still battling to lose the baby weight from George in time for her wedding, although the curves really suit her. She gazes up at the shelves groaning under the weight of mixing bowls and wooden spoons and cake stands and recipe books.

‘I know it isn’t a tenth of the size of Brett’s place’ I say, assuming she’s making the comparison. ‘But I don’t miss getting the cake mix splatters off his expensive, polished surfaces.’ My baking things were the one thing I brought with me when I left.

Cate pulls up a stool. ‘This kitchen suits you way better.’ She leans to sniffs the daffodils in the red tin jug. ‘I love it because it feels so like your mum’s. When I think of all the wonderful cakes that have come out of your kitchens over the years, I’m drooling.’

‘How about I make pancakes while we wait for Immie? Or better still, muffins.’ I grab a bowl from the stack on the shelf, and I’ve cracked the eggs and added the oil and milk before she can argue.

Cate, Immie and I grew up together, breathing in the delicious smell of my mum’s baking. Cate’s mum worked at the bank and paid my mum to look after Cate from when she was a baby. Immie and her brothers all piled into the cottage next door where their gran lived, but from the day Immie learned toddle, she invariably ended up at ours. Not that my mum minded. She was on her own with me, so two extra made us more of a family.

‘Chocolate or blueberry?’ I ask, knowing Cate takes her five-a-day very seriously. She’ll always go for the healthy choice. As I whisk in the sugar, the batter begins to turn creamy.

Cate leans forward to sneak a finger into the mixture. ‘Pops, are you sure you’re okay with all my wedding stuff?’

As I tap my hand on the side of the sieve, the flour lands in a dimpled pile on the batter. ‘I work with brides every day, I can hear the word wedding without getting break-up wobbles.’ The funny thing is, when weddings do give me that lump in my throat it’s more because my mum isn’t here, than because Brett and I broke up. ‘It’s not as if Brett and I were even engaged,’ I say, to emphasise the point.

‘You may not have had the ring, but you were together a long time.’ Cate’s pats my hand on the way in for another dip. I’d have banned her from the kitchen for putting her fingers in the mixture if I were baking for a customer, but this morning I look the other way.

‘The trouble with the break up was when Brett went, my whole life went with him.’

I push a couple of baking trays and a stack of muffin wraps towards Cate. She knows how it feels to get dumped, so she goes out of her way not to flaunt the deliriously happy bride thing. Even though she had her heart truly trampled back in the day, she never gave up on love. Now she’s found Liam, who’s truly her Mr Right, she deserves a wonderful day. Cate has booked her dream wedding at Daisy Hill Farm just outside Rose Cross, where Immie looks after the holiday cottages. When they started doing weddings last year Cate was first to book. Believe me, she’s going to need acres for the size of wedding she has in mind.

‘Blueberry then?’ I grab a handful from the fridge.

‘How did you guess?’ She passes me the tins.

I spoon the mixture into the cases, then there’s a rush of hot air from the oven as I open the door, and push in the muffins. ‘Twenty five minutes, then we’re good.’

Her eyes light up expectantly. ‘Can I lick the bowl out?’

‘One condition.’ I grin. ‘No pink bridesmaids dresses. When you’ve got orange hair like mine you have to be very careful what you put it next to.’ Taking the scissors to my blonde ponytail was my way of rebelling after the break up. But I still get palpitations every time I catch sight of my spiky pixie cut. As for the home colouring, it’s nothing like as easy as it looks on TV. Last time I missed pillar box, and ended up vermillion. Seriously, Johnny Rotten in the butter advert was not the look I was aiming for.

Cate tugs her fingers through her layered bob as she ponders. ‘Pink dresses would look fab in a hay meadow, but there again …’ She grabs the mixing bowl. ‘Okay, you’ve got a deal.’

Cate’s still scraping her spoon around the bowl five minutes later when there’s a clattering on the stairs, and Immie bursts in.

‘Dean, drunk and disorderly, no charges, enough said.’ She throws her bag onto the table. ‘Sorry I’m late … can I smell muffins?’

‘Blueberry ones, they’ll be ready in twenty minutes.’

‘Okay, so where are these dresses then?’ She’s already got her ‘disgusted of Rose Cross’ face on. ‘With my short legs and my beer gut, I know I’ll look like a duck’s arse in most of them.’ She gives a determined jut of her chin. ‘Although Freda from the Goose and Duck says I’ll be fine so long as we stick with navy.’

‘Right.’ Cate purses her lips. ‘Blue is out because the boys have nabbed that.’

Immie gives a groan, and I’m ashamed to say I’m doing silent cheers. Navy’s not really my colour.

‘Actually there’s something I need to tell you before we get onto dresses.’ Immie’s frown lines deepen. ‘I’m so sorry, Cate, you might want to sit down. The word at Daisy Hill Farm is that Carrie the wedding planner has quit.’ Immie leans back against the work top, hands on her hips, to let the news sink in.

‘No.’ Cate’s face falls.

Immie’s looking grave. ‘It gets worse. Big boss Rafe is talking about pulling out of weddings altogether … as of now.’

Under her blusher Cate’s cheeks have gone three shades lighter. ‘He can’t … can he? We’ve already paid the deposit?! The wedding’s barely seven months away.’

Immie shrugs. ‘Who knows? The wedding planner went back to London for Christmas, and she’s decided not to come back.’

‘She took her time, it’s February now.’ Cate lets out a moan.

Immie carries on. ‘Rafe’s tried to replace her, but there aren’t many bookings, and the hours are erratic. Not to mention he’s not the easiest person to work with. Anyone decent runs a mile.’

Cate’s sigh is long. ‘Right. I’m not giving up on this. This is my wedding day.’ Her mouth hardens into a determined line. ‘I need to find someone to save the day and fast. I need a wedding coordinator.’ She turns on Immie and me. ‘Who do we know?’

This is why Cate has zoomed up the ladder at the council in her day job. She won’t take no for an answer, and when the going gets tough, she fights.

I screw up my face and think. Who could take over the wedding coordination at the farm? Jess would be amazing but she’s got her hands full with the shop. I come up with zilch. As I open my eyes again, Immie and Cate are both staring at me.

‘It’s obvious.’ Cate says.

‘It bloody is,’ agrees Immie.

I blink at them. ‘Am I missing something here?’

Immie rounds on me. ‘You’re the perfect person for the job.’

What? It’s a moment before I take in what she’s saying. ‘But why me?’

Cate jumps in now. ‘I need the help, please Poppy. I work a fifty hour week in a highly stressful job at the council, and I’ve got a house and four kids to look after. And Liam, and the dogs too.’ She looks desperate. ‘This is my wedding day at stake.’

I turn to Immie. ‘Well you’re at the farm now anyway, managing the cottages, why can’t you just add in weddings too?’

You know those no-can-do stares that builders have? That’s what Immie rolls out here. ‘No way.’ She folds her arms. ‘I love you Cate, and I want your wedding to be perfect, but Morgan’s running wild now he’s fourteen. If I’m not around he’ll be balls deep in trouble in no time. Then there’s my degree. Final year is full on. I’ve got all the holiday cottages to manage and clean. Plus my stand-in shifts at The Goose and Duck. Weddings would be the last straw.’

I try once more. ‘Your final year at uni isn’t until next year.’

She dismisses that. ‘I’ve still got assignments coming out of my ears.’

As I look from Cate to Immie, I can’t help feeling they’re ganging up on me.

‘Whatever.’ Immie shrugs. ‘You know you’d be awesome at this, Pops. You’ve always loved weddings.’

‘And you’ve had so much experience with the brides at the shop.’ At least Cate has the grace to look guilty about pushing me into this. ‘Not just with your cakes either. You know the wedding business inside out. It could be the perfect career move.’

Immie chimes in again. ‘Out of all of us, you’re the one who could nail this.’

When they put it like that, I need to go on the defensive.

‘I can’t organise weddings. I’ll end up ruining them!’ There’s a squeal of panic in my protest. ‘I left my London job years ago.’ Once upon a time I was a food designer, working in food development. Remember hedgehog flavour crisps? They were my baby. And my salmon en croute for a certain famous supermarket scooped all the awards. As did one extra special luxury Christmas pudding, with almonds and Cointreau. And my Huggie Bear Birthday Cake was a huge best seller. But that was another life. Since I moved back to Cornwall all I’ve done is run around after Brett and play at making cakes.

Immie jumps in. ‘You could easily fit the Daisy Hill job around your cakes, and the extra cash would come in handy.’ As a single mum at uni, Immie knows all about juggling jobs to make ends meet. And she’s not wrong about the money either. I’m ashamed to admit how much I’d come to rely on a well-paid boyfriend.

‘Seriously, Poppy, you could do this in your sleep. You deal with brides all the time.’ Cate’s tone is persuasive. ‘It’s only until the autumn. And I need you.’

My mind flashes back to the fields in Rose Cross, and the mud. A job on a farm would be my worst nightmare, even if it did involve weddings.

‘But I’ve got no actual experience.’ I might as well point it out.

Cate brushes that aside. ‘If we’re going to save my wedding you’re damn well going to have to blag it.’ Her cheeks are flushed now. ‘You’ve had the insiders view from so many brides, you’re practically an expert already.’ She gives a triumphant shake of her fist.

‘Exactly.’ Immie is cheering her all the way. ‘And I’ll be there for back up, if it all goes tits up.’

‘Tits up?’ I echo. If I had any sense, this is the moment I should have run. But Cate is my best friend, and she needs me.

The look Cate flashes Immie for the tits up mention is filthy. ‘We’re talking a few tiny weddings here. There won’t be any problems.’ Her voice is soothing. ‘Please Poppy, give it a go, just for me?’

Cate’s been like a big sister to me all my life. The last few months she’s really looked after me, and this is one way I can show how truly grateful I am. I need to man up, and save the day for Cate.

4
At Daisy Hill Farm: Nothing personal

‘I can’t believe I’ve been working up here all this time and you haven’t visited before.’ Immie is hurrying across the cobbled courtyard of Daisy Hill Farm to meet me, as I clamber out of my car next morning. She’s arranged an interview for me with the owner of the farm, Rafe.

‘Maybe it’s because I avoid farms like the plague.’ I point out. ‘Fields and cows and windy days are why I live in town, remember?’

Immie and Cate weren’t going to hang about. They abandoned all thoughts of bridesmaids’ dresses yesterday, and got straight onto beautifying my CV. But whoever heard of an interview on a Sunday?

Immie flashes me a grin. ‘So don’t mind Rafe, he’s like a bear with a sore head, but it’s nothing personal.’

‘What?’ If she’d leaked this information any earlier I might have had an excuse to resist. She’s hurrying me past a faded Georgian farmhouse, with rows of dusty sash windows, towards a range of stone out-buildings.

‘He doesn’t do charming, but don’t let it bother you.’ Immie, telling it straight again. ‘No need for nerves, you’re going to walk this.’

I give a shrug. Even though I’m going to give this my best shot, I’m not worried. I know I don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance here. However much they tarted up my CV before they emailed it over to this grumpy Rafe person, it’s obvious that icing is the only thing I’m qualified to smooth over.

‘The office is in here …’ Immie pauses outside a grey painted plank door. ‘Play your cards right, and he’ll probably offer you a cottage to live in too.’ She raises an eyebrow, clicks the latch, and pushes me into a warm, white-washed room. ‘Rafe, this is Poppy, I’ll leave you two to it, have fun.’

She sweeps out, and as the door slams shut behind her I take in a desk that looks like a recycling skip got tipped out on it, a guy in a grey jumper standing by the filing cabinet, and a black dog lying in the corner, giving gentle wags of its tail. My heart beat is louder than the wagging thumps as I wait by the desk. As the guy whips around and holds out his hand I choke.

Oh.

‘Poppy, great to …’ His voice grinds to a halt. From the way the guy from yesterday’s ditch is suddenly lost for words, I’m guessing we’re both equally gob smacked to see each other again. When he said ‘see you around’, I’m sure he didn’t intend it to be this soon.

I dig deep. Actually I’ve nothing to lose here. There’s no need to give a damn at all. I simply have to spend a few minutes not getting this job, and I can be off.

‘Hi again.’ I jump forward, and grasp his hand. ‘No mud wrestling today for me.’ I get that in early and throw out a tentative smile, hoping my smartest black jeans and the white shirt Immie lent me will cut it. With Cate’s borrowed wellies to show I mean business, now I’ve got this far I might as well go for broke. ‘And I left the labradoodles at home too.’ Hopefully he won’t recognise the Barbour jacket is Immie’s too.

I turn my full beam smile onto him, and try to put the brakes on any babbling. ‘Brill, shall we get on with it then?’

He takes back his hand, rubs his chin and gives a deep sigh. ‘Remind me again why you’re here?’

The dark circles under his eyes suggest he’s as tired as he sounds. Probably knackered from having sex all night. Not that it’s anything to do with me. I shove that thought away, and try to pick up my bounce where I left off.

‘The wedding coordinator job … Immie sorted the interview …’ Given he isn’t reacting at all, I recklessly go on. ‘Immie emailed you my fabulous CV yesterday?’ My ‘tada’ arm flourish wilts as he fails to react, although it does get a raised eyebrow from the dog.

‘Weddings … right.’ He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I’ve been in the barn all night with a difficult calving.’

Fine. So now we know there wasn’t any hot sex.

‘And how did that go?’ I toss in another smile.

Land Rover Guy exhales again loudly, and drops into his swivel chair. ‘We lost the calf.’

I carry on smiling, determined to see the positive side here. ‘Great. Or at least it will be when you find it again.’

‘Lost, as in died. The calf died.’ He says, as if on remote control, and leans back and taps on his keyboard. Finally getting round to reading my application.

I kick myself for that blunder. ‘Sorry.’

He clears his throat, but doesn’t look up from the screen. ‘It happens. There’s a big vet’s bill, but at least we saved the mother.’ If he’s reading my CV, I take it from the way the corners of his mouth are turning down that he’s spectacularly unimpressed.

He looks up momentarily. ‘Okay, you’re hired. Welcome to the team.’

‘What?’ If my voice has gone all high, it’s because I’m astonished. Even the dog has pricked up his ears in shock.

‘Start tomorrow …’ He’s already focusing back on the screen in front of him. ‘How does nine sound?’

Talk about bish bash bosh. ‘This isn’t how you interview people.’ I have to tell him, I can’t let this go. ‘Excuse me for asking, but what part of my background and experience makes you think I’m qualified to be a wedding coordinator … on a farm of all places?’

‘Your background?’ He stares vaguely, then looks at his computer screen and his lips twitch into some twisted kind of sardonic grimace. ‘I’m not reading about you here. I don’t even know where your CV is.’

Worse and worse. ‘So how do you know I can do the job?’

He finally bothers to turn his attention to me. ‘To be honest, I don’t.’ He rests his chin on his knuckles, and pauses long enough for that blinder to sink in. ‘But Immie thinks you can, and I trust her.’ He sits back, locks his fingers behind his head. ‘And to be brutally honest a second time, you’d have to be a complete imbecile to make a bigger mess of the weddings here than they are in already.’

I take in the way his voice resonates over the word trust. Those hazel flecked eyes. And that scar on his right cheek bone. Then I move on swiftly, and focus instead on a gaze that is as direct as any I’ve ever met. My breath catches.

‘Thanks for coming.’ With one swoop he’s on his feet and grasping my hand again. ‘But I have to rush. I’ll deal with contracts and questions in the morning, although from what you’ve said I doubt if you’ll be in any position to bargain, given your lack of experience.’

If he wasn’t already out of the door, I’d shut my gaping mouth and call him on that. As it stands I’ll have to wait until tomorrow. He’s still shouting as he disappears across the yard.

‘Oh, and don’t look at this as long term, it’s strictly temporary and it definitely won’t develop into anything more permanent.’

And that’s fine by me. The sooner it’s over the better. I just hope Cate appreciates what I’m doing for her here.

5
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Comfy chairs and neat freaks

‘So the previous wedding coordinator, Carrie, didn’t have an office, and she shared the desk and computer with you?’ Despite me swivelling in Rafe’s swanky up-market chair, and him perching on the inferior – folding Ikea, in case you’re wondering – chair opposite, by the end of the first morning I’m beginning to see every reason why the wedding business is in trouble.

Rafe frowns. ‘I’m rarely here, and this way you can cover the phone too. Think of it as hot desking.’

Hot desking? If he’d said that with the tiniest bit of humour, I’d have laughed. As it is his morose expression hasn’t cracked once, although every time I mention Carrie, his scowl gets worse. Whatever Immie’s psychology books say about body language, I’m picking up tension over the absent Carrie.

Lunchtime has arrived without me noticing, and as my stomach rumbles I finally take a slurp of cold tea and a bite of the carrot cake I got out for elevenses. ‘As for hot desking …’ I’m spluttering through my crumbs. ‘We’re in rural Cornwall, not central London.’ Pointing out the obvious here, but sometimes you have to. And space is definitely not at a premium, given there are out buildings as far as the eye can see. ‘And hot desking only works if you follow strict rules.’ I scowl at the paperwork piles collapsing across the table. ‘Like tidying up, for example.’

He’s straight in there, snapping my head off. ‘Well you’re the one dropping cake. Eating is taboo at a shared desks unless you clean up afterwards.’

How did I imagine farmers were relaxed? Just my luck to meet one the only one in the world who’s anal about crumbs.

‘Sorry, would you like some cake? It’s carrot with almonds in.’ I offer, kicking myself for letting my hunger get ahead of my manners. ‘Trial baking is the up-side of being a cake maker.’

Only when he looks bemused do I realise that he hasn’t got the foggiest idea about what I do when I’m not here. He still hasn’t bothered to read my CV.

He shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m not big on cake.’

Sorry for being judgmental, but that explains a lot.

‘I’m only scratching the surface with the paperwork.’ I begin tentatively, not wanting to drop Carrie in it. ‘But the record keeping seems pretty chaotic.’

This is the nice way of saying there’s no diary, no list of bookings, no client details, and as yet, no record of transactions. All I have to work with is a carrier bag of scribbles on scraps of paper. As for Cate’s booking, so far there’s no trace at all.

He gives a dismissive shrug. ‘Nothing more or less than I expected.’

Despite my fears about fighting for desk space, something tells me that bad mood bear Rafe might not be around that often. If we’re seriously doing questions and answers, this might be my only chance to go for it. ‘So last year was your first round of weddings.’ I take in his slow nod. ‘How many did you do?’

He grunts. ‘Three … maybe four.’

‘And how did they work out?’ I’m pushing now.

He narrows his eyes. ‘They were chaos.’ For the first time there’s a hint of ironic humour behind his morose mask. ‘But apparently people still enjoyed themselves, despite the mess ups.’

I can’t help myself – the next bit spills out before I can stop it. ‘You make it sound more like Daisy Hill Disasters than an aspirational wedding venue. If you have no interest, why the hell are you carrying on for another year?’

He drums his fingers on the table. ‘Good question.’ He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back in his chair. ‘Let me give you the back story. Farming is currently in the shit, we need to diversify to survive. Personally I’d have chosen a wind farm every time, but in response to local opinion, I agreed to try weddings first.’

‘Okay.’ I nod.

‘We also have holiday cottages, which are thankfully running smoothly and bringing in a decent income. As for why I’m carrying on with the weddings – if I don’t I’ll lose my holiday cottage manager, and I can’t afford to do that.’

My eyes widen as I take that in. ‘Immie’s holding you to ransom, to secure Cate’s wedding? And you’re going along with it?’

He looks me straight in the eye. ‘We choose our battles Poppy. Seriously, would you want to fight Immie?’

An image of Immie flashes into my mind. She’s seven, she’s standing square in the playground with her feet apart, and her face scrunched up, and she’s ready to take on all the big boys who’ve been pulling my hair and making me cry because I haven’t got a dad. One look at that intimidating scowl of hers, and those bullies melted away. And she hasn’t changed since. She’s fiercely loyal, and she battles tooth and nail on behalf of all her friends, and Morgan, her son, and her brothers, a lot of whom don’t actually deserve it.

‘No.’ I have to admit. ‘I couldn’t take on Immie. Have you seen the way she bunches up her mouth like she’ll fight to the death?’

He nods again. ‘So the upshot is, I’m stuck with weddings, and you’re stuck with hot desking, until this Cate has her big day.’ He slaps his hands on his thighs, as he gets up. ‘And then we can shut it all down and I can get back to running my farm without any interruptions. Any other questions?’

Shit, he’s going. There are still a million things I don’t know. I begin to blurt. ‘Where are the weddings held? What about the electricity? What shall I say to enquiries?’

‘I’ll show you round, sometime soon.’ He’s doing that thing again, talking as he walks out the door, and it’s already annoying the hell out of me. ‘I just hope this Cate’s worth it.’

‘Oh she is,’ I say, but a gust of wind has already caught the door and slammed it shut.

6
At Brides by the Sea: Dashes and dots

The up side of having different jobs is the variety. Yesterday I was sorting out the chaos in the farm office. Whereas today I’m putting the finishing touches to the icing on some cupcakes for a Vintage Tea Dance themed wedding, when I’m called down to the shop to help Sera with a hem.

Right now Sera’s on her knees, working her way around a bride in a gorgeous lace sweetheart-neckline dress with a very full skirt. And while Sera’s sorting out the final length of the exceedingly long hem and train, I’m handing her the pins, and making sure the bride doesn’t pass out by chatting to her. We’ve been going half an hour, and Sera’s nearly back to where she began when Jess appears.

‘Almost done? Not too stiff from standing, I hope?’ Jess beams at the bride, then turns to me. ‘Poppy, I’ll take over here, Immie’s come for a quick word. I sent her up to your attic.’

Knowing Immie has a soft spot for cake, I don’t hang around. I make a dash for the stairs and reach the kitchen just in time.

‘Cupcakes, my favourite.’ Immie’s leaning over the table, drooling.

‘Hands off!’ I whisk the cakes across to the work surface, counting the pastel coloured tops waiting for final decoration. I heave a sigh of relief when I see they’re still all there. ‘Put the kettle on, there’s a new chocolate mocha cake I’d love you to test.’ Hopefully this will more than make up for the disappearing cupcakes. ‘You can have some with your tea.’

‘Sounds like a deal.’ Immie squeezes behind the table, heading for the sink.

I take it this is a social call, although Immie normally prefers to socialise over beer rather than tea.

‘And while I finish icing these cakes …’ Cath Kidston themed, in blues and pinks, with polka dots, bunting and roses, in case you’re wondering. There’s a three tier wedding cake to match the cupcakes, and they’re being collected later, which is why I’m pushing on now. ‘… you can tell me what I’m going to do about Rafe.’

Immie frowns. ‘Rafe? What’s the matter with Rafe?’ Something tells me she’s faking the surprise.

‘Where shall I begin?’ I pick up my icing pipe and a cupcake, and begin to add white polka dots to the duck egg blue buttercream topping I spread earlier. ‘He hates weddings, he doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t like cake, which is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. If he’s not snapping, he’s totally disinterested.’ I’m ticking the points off on my fingers as I go. ‘He walks away when I’m talking to him. And although he objects to my crumbs on his desk, his tidy obsession doesn’t extend to the rubbish he leaves on my desk.’ I spent the whole of yesterday battling with Rafe’s towers of papers. ‘There has to be some way to bring him into line. I’ll never make it through to October if I can’t bribe him with sugar.’

I break off to get Immie’s cake. As I open the tin and cut a huge wedge, her eyes light up.

‘You’re a woman with wiles.’ She wiggles her eyebrows at me. ‘I’m sure you’ll find some other way to manage Rafe. Playing the damsel in distress in a ditch didn’t do you any harm did it? I mean it landed you the job. You’re the heroine who came out from under the hedge and saved Cate’s wedding. It almost has a Cinderella ring to it’

If that’s what she thinks, I’ll let her carry on. If I tell her saving the wedding was all down to her being intimidating, it might go to her head.

‘Count my feminine powers out of this one.’ I put a pink sugar rose in the centre of the cupcake, and move on to the next. ‘If I have to resort to persuasion with Rafe, I’ll be using savoury flans not sex. I’d rather flash a broccoli and tomato quiche than my assets any day.’

Immie chortles as she drops tea bags into the cups. ‘And cooking isn’t feminine manipulation?’ She gives a burst of her throaty laugh, watching as I arrange pea sized icing circles onto a cupcake covered in bright pink buttercream.

‘So what are you doing in town then?’ I’m concentrating on the bunting string of icing I’m piping across the next cupcake.

‘I’ve been clearing Carrie’s cottage all day. I came into town to post her the stuff she left.’

‘What?’ My icing string wiggles to an abrupt halt as my head jerks up. ‘Are you sure she wants you to do that?’

‘If I had Agent Provocateur undies, I’d want them sent on. Especially the thongs with rubies on.’

I’m impressed that Immie, with her throwaway attitude to men, even knows what Agent Provocateur is.

‘I’d have thought she left her things here so she had an excuse to come back?’ It slips out before I can stop it.

A slow smile spreads across Immie’s face. ‘And are you speaking for yourself here Pops, or for Carrie? You still haven’t picked your things up from Brett’s, have you?’

This is typical Immie. She’s always reading the subtext. As for Brett and I, we’re well and truly over, whatever she’s implying.

‘Sorry but you’re wrong there, Mrs Freud.’ I move things on. ‘Actually I wish someone would send me my stuff.’ I say that in the hope it’ll shut her up, although in reality I’m not sure I even want it any more. ‘No wonder Rafe’s grumpy though, if Carrie dumped him.’

Immie’s voice rises in surprise. ‘Carrie and Rafe were never an item, what made you think that?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe the way Rafe has smoke coming out of his ears whenever she’s mentioned?’ Although now I come to think of it, I seem to have that effect on him too.

Immie gives an eye roll. ‘Carrie was Rafe’s mum’s latest attempt at matchmaking. Carrie planned to make herself indispensable doing weddings, and grab herself some landed gentry into the bargain.’

‘Rafe is landed gentry?’ I’ve temporarily stopped picking up icing triangles for my cupcake bunting.

‘He’s not short of a few acres. That was good enough for Carrie.’

‘You don’t sound as if you like her much?’

‘I know Rafe’s a grumpy bugger.’ Immie gave a rueful grin. ‘But taking an all-round view, I reckon he deserved better.’

I’m trying to work out if this is Immie ‘seeing things as they truly are’, or if, underneath her gruffness, she’s hiding a soft spot for her boss.

‘I’m not sure which he hated most,’ she says, ‘bridal parties processing all over his best grazing fields, or Carrie with her Knightsbridge ideas and her red lipstick.’

I try to sound neutral. ‘It’s no fun having a meddling mother when you’re his age, even if she does choose you women with jewels on their knickers.’

‘His mum was only trying to help,’ Immie goes on. ‘Rafe used to live with a nice girl called Helen, but she dumped him and married his best friend.’

‘That’s tough.’ At least I got cheated on, then did the dumping, although when you’ve sunk to ranking getting left, it’s pretty sad.

‘It was years ago, she left because Rafe refused to get married. It’s time he manned up and moved on.’ Immie gives the tea bags a last vigorous dunking and pushes a mug towards me.

Given the tea is the colour of tar, I go back to my bunting instead. Picking up some triangles, I line them up along my icing line.

‘Which reminds me …’ Immie grins at me over her mug. ‘Rafe said he’ll throw in a cottage as part of your employment package.’

The shock of that makes me push my last flag into completely the wrong place. If I splodge this cupcake any more I’ll have to give it to Immie.

‘I told you he would.’ Ignoring my reaction, she takes another bite of cake. She’s enjoying a free tenancy in one of Rafe’s cottages down in the village. And she’s determined I should do the same.

I sigh, pick up two more cupcakes and pop a sugar rose on each of them. Then I go back to dots.

‘Thanks, but I really don’t want a cottage.’ Jess came to my rescue by offering me the flat above the shop when I left Brett. My attic may be little more than a cupboard, but I pick up a lot of orders by being on the spot at Brides by the Sea. What’s more, I’m finally beginning to feel settled. ‘Even if it’s bigger than here, who’d want a cottage in the middle of nowhere, tied to a temporary job?’

‘Whatever.’ Her disgusted sniff suggests she disagrees. ‘Anyway Rafe said tomorrow’s good for the grand tour.’

‘What?’ I look up blankly from the spots I’m arranging.

Immie laughs. ‘Keep up Mrs. The tour of the farm he’s supposed to give you – the wedding area, the cows, remember?’

Cows. My favourite. Not. ‘Couldn’t you show me round instead?’ It’s a plea.

She shakes her head. ‘Rafe’s adamant. He said be there for two, and wrap up warm.’

Another afternoon with the world’s most joyless farmer and I might just lose the will to live. ‘I’m not going to get out of this?’

‘No point trying.’ She laughs. ‘But the good news is this mocha cake is delicious. Is there any more?’

If only I’d stuck to cake making.

7
A Tour of Daisy Hill Farm: Do cows eat cake?

First things first. Please don’t look at what I’m wearing or I might just die of shame.

‘You can’t go out in a flimsy little thing like that to see a farm,’ Rafe says, pointing to my thickest warmest fur-lined winter parka, as I arrive in the yard the next day. ‘I’ll find you a Barbour.’

The way he says the B word, he makes it resonate, as if it’s full of spiritual significance, and then he rushes off to the house. ‘Great,’ I say, remembering the short almost on-trend jacket Immie lent me on Sunday. Except what he brings back isn’t anything related to that at all. It might go by the same name, but it’s definitely not the same species. Somewhere along the line it’s mutated, which is why I’m currently doing an impression of a yurt on legs.

‘Thanks.’ I’m not wanting to sound ungrateful, but a marquee would have fitted better. Although I have to admit there’s something immediately addictive about the smell of the wax oiled fabric.

If news on the style front is disastrous, as long as you ignore that we are not travelling by car, we are not even travelling by Landy, we are actually travelling by tractor – and that is the kind with four wheels all approximately the size of the London eye, where you practically need a ladder to get on board – the rest is better.

An hour later, my brain is popping with information on feed prices and milk quotas, not to mention every fun fact there is to know about organic farming methods, past and present. What’s more mind boggling still, it seems that Rafe’s family collect land and farms at approximately the same rate I collect Kate Moss dresses from eBay. But on the plus side I’ve discovered that the way to soften up Rafe is by talking cows not cake. We’re standing in a drafty barn, but the good part is there’s bouncy yellow straw on the floor, and we’re watching some very cute black and white calves with wobbly legs, skittering around.

‘The last time I saw straw like this was in a nativity play when I was at infant school.’ This is the extent of my conversation on the subject of straw, I just hope the man appreciates it.

‘Come over here …’ Rafe’s voice is low.

A calf is sticking its nose through the railings, and is nuzzling his hand.

‘If you put your finger in its mouth, it’ll suck,’ he says.

I shudder, and not in a good way. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’

‘You might find you like it. People do …’ Rafe is rubbing the calf, tickling the tufty hair between its ears

Cow slobber? I steal myself, and creep towards them. The next thing, there’s a slimy wet nose pushing against the palm of my hand.

‘Oh my.’ Waxed jackets were obviously designed with slobber in mind. I’m just totally relieved this isn’t happening to the front of my best parka.

‘Not so bad is it?’ Rafe’s letting out the nearest thing to a laugh I’ve heard, but then I realise he’s talking to the calf, not to me.

‘Awww … his eyes are blue … and look at his lashes …’ I might sound besotted, but it’s always the eyes that get you with babies. According to Immie we’re biologically programmed to react to them, and kick into care and protect mode.

‘Here.’ Rafe takes my hand and gently guides my fingers into the calf’s mouth.

Its tongue is raspy and sticky, warm on my hand. As it begins to suck I let out a gasp.

‘We don’t do this too often, or they give up drinking from the bucket,’ he says. ‘But it’s a good way of making the humans less nervous.’

How the hell did his voice get this chocolatey without eating any brownies?

‘You might want to visit at tea time, they knock you over to get to their milk.’ His lips twitch into a semi smile. ‘Not all farming is this cosy, but it’s a good place to start.’

Everything I had to say about weddings has gone. Which is a pity, because while Rafe is all relaxed and chatty, it might be an ideal opportunity to run a few things past him.

‘Daisy Hill Farm needs a website you know.’ I blurt out the first item from my list of priorities as it pops into my head.

A second calf is sniffing now, and before I know, Rafe grasps my other hand, and what do you know, I’ve got two calves sucking on my fingers.

‘Set one up then.’ He says not even bothering to look in my direction. Blunt as that.

‘Me?’ Now I’m warmer and out of the wind, I can smell a hint of delicious aftershave wafting up from the corduroy collar of my borrowed coat. I try to block out that it might be his.

‘You’re the one that wanted the job. It’s down to you. Do whatever you have to.’

‘Great.’ This should be easy, so why is he making it sound hard?

‘One condition –’ this time he does look at me, and it’s almost a glare. ‘– don’t bother me with it, because I don’t want to know.’

‘Right.’ So what about the other hundred items on my list that all need answers?

‘If that’s clear, when you can bear to drag yourself away, I’ll take you to see the wedding field.’

I’m strangely reluctant to detach myself from the snuffly noses, but I do. Slowly.

After a long goodbye, he hands me a towel, which is good because I’ve never known slime like it. I’m still wiping my hands on the back of my jeans as the barn door clangs shut behind us.

‘As for your contract, Wedding Coordinator doesn’t adequately describe the responsibility you’ll be taking here. You won’t just be planning, you’ll be the one everyone turns to on the day. The one in total charge. In other words, it’s your head on the block.’ He’s ushering me towards the tractor, and shouting over the roar of the wind. ‘You’d better change your job title to Events Manager.’

Immie was so right when she said this guy has no idea.

8
A Tour of Daisy Hill Farm Continued: Red boots and spring rain

‘So if you were having a birthday cake, I think either a tractor, or a cow would suit you.’ I’m musing here. Allocating cake designs to people? It’s a thing I like to do as soon as I get to know a little about someone. Even if they are blowing hot and cold.

We’re bowling along rutted tracks back to the main farm, and to be honest there’s simply no space left in my head for another fact about cows or sheep or fertilizer or slurry. Slurry? It’s the most disgusting thing out. Take it from me, you DO NOT want to know details. And don’t write me off as an air head, but my brain is officially rammed. There’s enough agricultural information in there to last at least two lifetimes, which is why I decided I have to fill the space as we drive back to the farm with a conversation about normal stuff.

‘Why the hell would I want a birthday cake?’ Rafe sends me another of his disbelieving sideways glances. I’ve noticed he resorts to these a lot when it’s me doing the talking not him.

I’m torn between frustration at him being so unreceptive, and a horrible pang of sympathy for someone who obviously hasn’t blown out any candles in a very long time. How can a guy be so out of touch with the fun side of life?

‘When did you last have one?’ This is less rude than it sounds, I’m only trying to keep the conversation on topic. And asking questions will save me from what Immie calls my nervous splurging.

‘How do I know? Probably when I was about five.’

Probably not true at all. Isn’t it a typical guy thing to dismiss what doesn’t interest them?

‘My mum made the most awesome birthday cakes,’ I say. It’s out before I can stop myself, because usually I’d rather not talk about my mum, especially not with strangers, so I move on swiftly. ‘For my fifth birthday I had the most amazing merry-go-round cake, with prancing horses and barley sugar twists holding up the roof.’ Growing up in a kitchen with the table covered in icing bowls and piping bags definitely rubbed off on me, but there’s no point sharing that with a cake hater.

‘So I grew up with cows and tractors, you grew up with cake. That explains a lot.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh. ‘It’s always the kids who have easy childhoods who grow up to be annoyingly happy adults.’

Two side swipes in one breath. I doubt that my mum bringing me up on her own counted as easy for her, not that I’m going to tell Rafe that. My dad died when I was too young to remember, we never had much money or owned a home, but my mum made up for it in every other way. Our home might have been tiny, but it was filled with warmth and love and colour. If those digs were meant to shut me up, I’m not letting him get away with it.

‘Whereas you had so much, and still turned out moody and bad tempered,’ I snap back. That came out more harshly than I intended, but maybe someone needs to tell him.

He comes straight back at me. ‘Well, sorry I don’t go round wearing spotty wellies and thinking the whole world should be made of sugar, but some people have responsibilities.’

I had no idea he’d even noticed Cate’s red boots. What kind of guy takes offence at wellies?

He gives a snort. ‘And just so you know, in-your-face red hair might match your name, and it might be fine if you want to scream “happy hippy”, but I’m not sure it sends out the right message for a Wedding Coordinator.’

I’m wearing borrowed wellies, have go-wild-after-break-up hair, and I’ve been thrown into the job. I take a minute to collect myself in the face of that attack.

‘Actually, I’m not a Wedding Coordinator, I’m an Events Manager according to you.’ I throw that at him for starters. And whereas I might have been thinking along those lines myself about the hair a couple of weeks down the line, now he’s been so rude, I’m damned if I’m going to tone it down. ‘As for my name, I’m called after the blue poppy, not the red one.’ My mum’s favourite flower, our garden was bursting with them. ‘Known as meconopsis.’

His only reply is to lean forward and flick on the stereo, and we roar up the lane back towards the farm. Oasis blasts away the silence, and the beat is loud enough to make my head throb. As we pass the farmhouse Immie is there waving her arms, and there’s lucky respite as Rafe cuts the music and slides open the window.

‘You two getting on okay? No more falling in ditches I hope?’ She asks with a breezy laugh.

I’d say overall it’s a big fat ‘no’ to both those questions, but she isn’t waiting for an answer.

‘By the way Rafe, Morgan texted, says he’ll be round to help with the engine rebuild later,’ she adds.

‘Fine.’ Another monosyllabic reply from Rafe.

Immie’s fourteen year old son, Morgan, has morphed from a sweet boy to a monster overnight due to a testosterone rush. That’s Immie’s description, not mine. But if Rafe is an example of Immie’s choice of fun male role models to keep Morgan out of trouble, I feel sorry for poor Morgan.

‘We’re just off to see the venue field, I’ll be back for him in a bit.’ Rafe says, as he slams the window shut, and then we’re bouncing off down the lane again.

As he turns through a gateway with an open five bar gate, I’m a) still fuming b) thinking we need some signage.

‘So what would yours be then?’ His question comes from nowhere as we skid down a field.

‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.

‘Your birthday cake. What kind would you make for yourself?’

Who’d have thought he’d ask that?

‘A summer garden, bursting with flowers.’ Easy to answer. ‘And I might not have a cake, I’d probably make a cupcake tower.’

Too much information there obviously, given he’s shaking his head again, but then he pulls to a halt in front of an open barn, and my eyes go wide.

‘This is it,’ he says, with a ‘take it or leave it’ shrug. ‘Ceremony in the building, marquees anywhere on the grass, and car parking in the next field beyond the trees. Nothing more to it than that.’

I know I shouldn’t be gushing, but my surprise whooshes any remaining crossness away. ‘It’s so pretty.’ Even on this grey winter’s afternoon it’s beautiful. With the carved wooden pillars across the front of the open barn and the ancient flag floor, I can imagine it festooned with garlands of summer flowers. As I take in the field rolling gently down past a fairy wood to a stream, I can suddenly see why Cate has set her heart on marrying here.

Rafe flings open the tractor door and jumps out, and cold air floods into the cab, along with the most disgusting stench.

I bury my nose in my sleeve as I clamber down after him. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘The smell?’ His expression suggests amusement, but on second glance it’s more of a grimace than a smile. ‘Muck spreading in the next field.’ He folds his arms. ‘Is there a problem?’

Obviously he doesn’t think so, despite the stink being enough to make me retch. I peer over the hedge. The grass is covered with a thick brown mat of what looks like cow poo.

‘You aren’t going to …’ My voice is coming out as a squeak. ‘You aren’t going to do that in this field are you?’

‘It’s next on the work sheet,’ he says, as if it’s the most matter of fact thing in the world.

‘Are you mad? You can’t have brides wading through …’ I man up and say it. ‘… cow shit.’

He doesn’t flinch. ‘Don’t worry, a bit of spring rain, and it’ll soon soak into the ground.’ Spoken like a farmer talking to a townie, not a wedding venue owner talking to his Events Manager.

My brain whirrs. This is another thing I needed to tell him. ‘The first booking is at Easter.’

He looks unruffled.

‘Which is the 25th of March.’ As I count back in my head my hands go clammy. ‘That’s only five weeks away.’ I might just be shrieking now. It’s going to take a deluge of rain to clear this lot by then.

The way his mouth is set, he almost looks jubilant. ‘As I said before, it’s over to you now. That’s your problem, not mine.’

Last week I might have let that go. Ten minutes ago I might have shied away. But thanks to the cow shit, something’s shifted inside me. I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my Barbour and clench my teeth.

‘Fine.’ I stick out my chin, begin to take a deep breath, then think better of it and take a small sniff instead. ‘If I’m in charge, I say, we won’t be having muck spreading in this field, and we won’t be having it in the surrounding fields either. Is that clear?’

I reel at how decisive I sound.

‘I’ll stop it then,’ he mutters. ‘But it won’t be good for the soil in the long term.’ With a loud sigh he turns away and gets out his phone.

‘Soil isn’t my problem,’ I hiss.

No, my problems are way bigger. Like how to deal with the nightmare known as Rafe Barker. And how to prepare for a wedding, in only five weeks’ time, when, thanks to the chaos left behind by Carrie, I don’t have the first clue how to get in contact with the bride and groom.

9
In my flat at Brides by the Sea: Anyone like a cupcake?

After the shock of the news that her wedding venue was under threat, Cate didn’t want to tempt fate and look at bridesmaids dresses last Saturday. But now her wedding’s back on track, we’ve arranged to look at the bridesmaids’ dresses after work today. And to put us in the country wedding mood, I’m making a last minute batch of cupcakes. So I’m in my cosy, pocket handkerchief size kitchen, sprinkling sugar daisies on top of swirls of lemon buttercream when Immie’s text arrives.

I’m here, I’m early, are you in? xx

She’s not kidding about early. I was counting on another half an hour to finish the cupcakes, and to get changed. Dragging off my apron, I clatter down four flights of stairs, and fling open the door to find Immie, legs bowing under the weight of a huge box.

I waft her into the hall with a couple of air kisses. ‘I didn’t know you were bringing dresses.’

‘I’m not.’ Her frown is uncertain. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to kill me for this, but I had a tutorial in Falmouth, so I’ve been round to see Brett.’

‘What …?’ I open and close my mouth, as I collapse quietly against the door frame, but nothing more comes out.

‘After what you said about Carrie’s stuff, I thought it was time you had yours.’ Immie blows out her cheeks. ‘Actually the car’s rammed.’

What …? At least she has the decency to look slightly shame faced, which doesn’t happen often with Immie.

‘I’m sorry Pops, but someone had to do it.’ She dumps the box by the stairs. ‘Come on, the car won’t unload itself.’ Before I can open my mouth to protest, she grabs my arm, and the next thing I know we’re shuttling up and down the cobbled mews behind the shop, with bags and boxes.

By five when Cate arrives, Immie and I are red and sweating, and my tiny top floor bedroom is piled high with bulging black sacks.

‘Packing up to move to the farm already?’ Cate takes off her Alice band and shakes out her hair. Then she slips off her mac, strides over a stray bag, and lays her coat on the bed.

‘No, this lot is on its way in, from a certain penthouse.’ Immie explains for Cate’s benefit. ‘I’m re-uniting Poppy with her festival wellies,’ She gives me one of her tough love stares. ‘It’s time to accept that you and Brett are over, Poppy.’

‘I see,’ Cate sounds doubtful. She’s left work early to do bridesmaid shopping not a house move. It’s Friday afternoon. After a hard week she’s looking forward to a glass of prosecco, and a cosy session in the shop downstairs.

I twiddle with the edge of a black bag. ‘I think leaving my things behind was a way of playing for time.’ With my things here, the break up suddenly feels very concrete and final. And it’s not about losing Brett, it’s more about accepting that from now on, I’m on my own. And that’s me on my own forever, because I’m done with relationships. ‘It’s hard to think I might never be part of a couple again. Or a family.’

Cate’s arm lands round my shoulder. ‘Move to the farm, and be nearer Immie and me. We’re your family.’

Immie nods in agreement.

The thought of leaving my cosy attic in the heart of St Aidan is bad enough, but anywhere near Rafe Barker would be my worst nightmare at the moment. ‘What? And live next door to the boss from hell?’

Cate scours my face for clues. ‘You and Rafe aren’t getting on?’

Immie laughs. ‘Understatement of the decade. The good news is our meek mouse Poppy has finally found her inner lioness.’

‘I’m so sorry, Pops, it’s all my fault you’re in this situation.’ Then suddenly a beam spreads across Cate’s face. ‘But the lion bit sounds good, what happened?’

‘Anyone like a cupcake?’ I try to distract them. ‘There’s fizz in the fridge too.’

They don’t move. When were they not bribed by the promise of prosecco?

‘Come through, and I’ll tell you while I open the bottle?’ My last attempt works, and we all cram into the tiny kitchen as I pop the cork. I wait until the girls have wine in hand and mouths full of cake, so they can’t interrupt too much, because between you and me, I’ve been asking myself the exact same question. Why am I jumping down Rafe’s throat all of a sudden, when I can barely say boo to a goose?

‘I’m winging it here,’ I begin, not quite knowing what to say. I’ve inadvertently taken a bite of bun, and as I talk through my cake, the crumbs falling down my front remind me of Rafe picking me up about crumbs on the desk. And suddenly I know. ‘I always bit my tongue with Brett because I didn’t want him to dump me. I never told him what I thought, because I was scared I’d lose him.’

‘So you concede you were a bit of a doormat then?’ Immie is grinning. I’m not sure if it’s the sugar, or the first wine of the day going to her head.

Immie’s glass is already empty, so I top her up, ignoring the doormat bit. ‘Brett acted like he was the boss, and that was fine because he was better than me.’ I ignore Cate and Immie’s matching appalled looks and blown out cheeks, and carry on. ‘I gave up a good job to live with him, but once we were together here, he was the one with the big salary, the flat, the fast car. All I did was bake a few cakes.’

‘I’ll let that amazing piece of self-dismissal go …’ Immie is shaking her head. ‘But how come you tell Rafe exactly what you think?’

‘Ha, that’s easy.’ I don’t hesitate. ‘To start with I was really angry that he nearly robbed you of your wedding, Cate. And fighting your corner is way easier than doing it for myself.’

‘Go Poppy!’ Cate cheers. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘The wedding side is in complete chaos.’ I have to be careful here, because I don’t want to alarm Cate. If she knew there was no trace of her booking she might just lose it. ‘In confidence,’ I meet eyes with Cate, ‘to give you an idea, there’s a wedding booked for a month’s time, but I’ve got no clue at all who made the booking, and no way of getting in touch with them.’

Cate’s eyes go wide. ‘Oh crap …’

I go on. ‘But then Rafe’s not even apologetic, and he’s so so rude all the time, and so damned annoying.’ Even as I think about him the back of my neck begins to prickle. ‘He’s got it all – looks, a rich family, a great place to live. All that, and he can’t even be bothered to be civil. So for the first time in years I didn’t hold back when he pissed me off, I said exactly what I thought.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Immie sounds impressed.

Cate waves her glass in the air. ‘Yay Poppy!’

I slosh out more wine all round. At this rate it’ll be taxis home.

‘And although we’re having all-out war, for the first time in years I feel like I’m being true to myself.’ I slug back my own wine so fast, the bubbles sting my nose. ‘And you know what, I like saying what I think.’ I glance at my watch. ‘Sorry to rush you, but we’d better head down to the shop. Jess will be waiting. Take your glasses, I’ll grab another bottle or two to take down with us.’

‘It’s nice to have our feisty Poppy back.’ Cate grabs a last cupcake as she heads off down the white painted stairs. ‘I’m going to need all the strength I can get if you’re both saying it like it is. Have you got any hard hats in those bags of yours, because I have a feeling we might need them? Bridesmaid wars here we come.’

10
The Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut, at Brides by the Sea: Counting on fingers

The Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut is the upstairs shop area dedicated to bridesmaids, but you probably guessed that already. Jess recently gave it a beachy make-over, hence the name, and as we troop in across the artfully scuffed floorboards she’s straightening the pink striped fitting room curtains.

‘Wow.’ Cate’s eyes light up when she sees the love seat decked with fairy lights. But when she spots the long rail of dresses beyond, her beam stretches the width of the bay.

‘Cate, Immie, come on in,’ Jess purrs. ‘You both know Sera don’t you?’

Sera, her back jammed against the rough planks of the fitting room wall as she sketches, leans into view and gives a wave. ‘I’m working on some designs for bridesmaids dresses now, so I hope it’s okay if I give you guys a hand? Get a feel for what bridesmaids want?’

‘Of course,’ Cate flashes a momentary smile at Sera, then looks straight back to the dresses she’s hovering next to. As she skims past the bright colours and comes to a halt next to the pastel, extra-floaty dresses, Immie groans and makes a silent throat cutting sign behind Cate’s back.

Ignoring Immie, I grab some glasses from the tray on the pale pink dressing table, and pour Sera and Jess some wine. In my hurry to get this started, I’ve come down in my Uggs and jeans rather than the black pumps, black trousers and black top that Jess likes us assistants to wear when we’re helping out in the shop. But given we’re all friends, I doubt she’ll mind this once. When I was at my worst after the break up, slurping about in my pyjamas all day, Jess thoughtfully provided me with a black pair, so I could wander round the shop without the customers realising I wasn’t really dressed.

‘So, make yourselves comfy.’ Jess waves Cate and Immie to a couple of Louis XIV chairs with ice blue linen cushions and white rope tassels. ‘I’ll let Poppy show you the different dresses, and then you can decide which you’d like to try.’

‘Great.’ I tentatively flick through the dresses, wondering where to begin. ‘So, we’ve got a selection of styles here, but all the dresses can be ordered in lots of different colour ways.’ I’m trying to keep to the simple styles, given Cate’s buying for eight here. As my hand comes to rest on a short plain silk one, Immie gives it the thumbs up by waving her wine so hard it sloshes onto her jeans.

‘Definitely not.’ Cate mops Immie with a tissue, and vetoes the dress with one determined head shake. ‘In fact I can see the one I want from here.’ She gets up and reaches towards the floaty chiffon.

‘These are at the expensive end,’ I say, turning to Jess for back up.

‘We sell a lot more of these,’ Jess says diplomatically, whisking out an almost identical, much cheaper dress. ‘How about this one?’

‘No way.’ Immie gasps under her breath, and slumps down in her seat.

‘The first one’s definitely the one I want.’ Cate sounds decided.

‘Are you sure?’ I ask. We bridesmaids had mentioned paying for our own dresses, but we couldn’t afford these. She’s picked the most expensive bridesmaid dress in the shop. ‘Those are £595 each.’ That’s after the friends and family discount I’ve negotiated, too. ‘Times eight,’ I say, desperately trying to do the maths.

Jess holds up yet another dress, offering her an out. ‘Here, this one’s similar, but half the price. Not that I’m supposed to say it, but other dresses are just as well made for a lot less than the make you’ve picked out.’

‘Nooo, I’ll look like a pregnant fairy in all of these,’ wails Immie.

‘We’ll try the first one,’ Cate insists. ‘I’m only doing this once, I’m damn well doing it with bridesmaids looking how I want them.’ She reaches out, and smiles as she runs her hand over the fabric. ‘Dreamy isn’t it? I haven’t finally decided if I want them in cream or nude. It’ll depend which wedding dress I finally go for.’

Which reminds me, we haven’t even started on Cate’s dress, but that’s a whole other story. I pretend not to notice that Immie’s miming being sick over the arm of her chair.

Jess turns to Sera, who’s blinking at what she’s witnessing, and whispers, ‘Brides with firm ideas are a dream to work with, Sera. When you try to please all the bridesmaids everyone ends up compromising. It’s fabulous when a bride decides to please herself.’

Cate sends Immie a firm frown, then turns back to me. ‘This dress was in the wedding magazine I bought the morning Liam proposed.’ She folds her arms decidedly. ‘I’ve known all along those are the ones I’m having.’

What’s she talking about? She got engaged months ago. ‘So why are we even looking at others?’ I ask. What’s worse, I’m going through my own agonies here. My blotchy orange hair is going to look so cheap and trashy beside this upmarket dress.

Cate gives another grin. ‘It was to show Liam that we’d explored every option before we settled on this one.’

Immie’s aghast. ‘Times eight, and I’ve run out of fingers. I hope you’ve got something spectacular up your sleeve for when Liam finally does his calculations and finds out how much this is costing, Cate.’ Immie’s given up on her glass and she’s drowning her bridesmaid sorrows straight from the bottle.

‘I’m the accountant in the family. If Liam ever does the sums, he’s in for the dirtiest night of his life.’ Cate laughs. ‘Although this is nothing compared to the other thing I splurged on this week.’

Immie and I both squint at her. When did careful Cate turn into a cash splasher?

‘The marquee company got in touch with a special offer on the most gorgeous open sided tents. I couldn’t resist so I ordered two.’

‘What, instead of the main marquee?’ I’m not sure ‘open’ is a good idea, as for two …

From Cate’s airy waft of her hand, she might have been talking about tenner-a-go pop up tents, not three grand a time event venues. ‘No, I’ve ordered these as well, I thought they’d make a nice extra.’

I’m still picking my jaw up off the floor, but Immie’s covered it. ‘Liam’s going to be up to his boxers in filthy sex when this shit hits the fan.’ Eloquent as ever, she takes another swig.

Jess looks at her watch. ‘Time to try on then?’

She’s got a bride coming in for a final fitting at six, so she’ll have to go downstairs for that. Given Immie’s stroppy scowl from behind the prosecco bottle it may be no bad thing.

‘You go to your bride,’ I say to Jess. ‘Sera and I can carry on here.’

I knew I should have given Immie twice as much fizz before we started. With Immie the line between making her compliant and keeping her standing is indiscernible. She goes from saying no to falling over, with barely a second to catch her saying yes.

As Jess slips away, Immie’s starting to rant.

‘Do I look like I’m ready to be transformed into a trifle?’

To be fair, she’s a committed jeans and sweatshirt girl, so I’m not sure how this is going to go. The last time she wore a skirt out of school was probably when she was a carnival rosebud, thirty years ago. I don’t have to dig too deep to come up with the kind of bribe she’ll go for.

‘You try on the dress, Immie, and we’ll send Sera for another bottle of fizz.’

Sera grins at me and heads for the stairs.

Immie rolls her eyes, and sighs, but she gets up. As soon as she’s on her feet I shoulder her into the fitting room, shove the dress in with her, and whisk the curtain closed.

Cate and I take deep breaths as we retire to a safe distance.

Cate frowns and turns to me. ‘I’ve been thinking, you can’t struggle with a man as difficult as Rafe from now until September.’ She runs her fingers through her hair. ‘There must be something we can do to soften him up.’

I shrug. ‘He doesn’t respond to cake.’

Cate sniffs. ‘He probably needs a good roll in the hay, we’ll have to find him a woman.’

After Immie’s rundown on the history of his nonexistent love life, I grin. ‘Good luck with that one.’

‘There is one person he doesn’t object to.’ Cate’s lips are flickering. ‘Immie has him eating out of her hand. That has to mean something.’

I’m not sure I agree with Cate here. ‘It means she scares the bejesus out of him.’

‘But he spends a lot of time with Morgan,’ Cate observes.

She’s right about that. Morgan’s always dragging what I assume to be bits of broken tractor round the farmyard after Rafe.

‘Rafe wouldn’t take an interest in Morgan if he wasn’t interested in Immie, would he?’ Cate leans in, and she’s whispering. ‘In the interest of smoothing the way for my wedding …’ She says those two last words very close and very loudly. ‘I think you might need to sprinkle some cupid dust on Rafe and Immie, okay?’

I reel. Cate’s not usually this forceful. ‘Hold it there Bridezilla, how exactly am I supposed to do that?’

‘Organise a Daisy Hill Farm night out, and we’ll work on it together.’

‘Night out?’ I query, as I sink onto a stripy director’s chair. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Cocktails here in town might be good?’ Cate gives a satisfied nod, as if it’s already in the bag. ‘You’ll thank me for this. It’ll make the run up to the wedding easier for all of us.’

Cate’s wiggling her eyebrows excitedly. ‘We could start at Jaggers.’

‘You go to Jaggers too? So does Jess.’ If I hadn’t already sunk into a chair, I would do now.

‘We often call in there on Fridays, they do great mojitos, you should try them.’ She shakes her head at me. ‘You need to get out more, Poppy. Starting this week. I’ve been too easy on you, giving you the excuse of babysitting for me. I shouldn’t be taking advantage. You need a life too.’

And here’s me thinking that Cate and Liam barely get further than the village pub. Has the whole world gone mad while I’ve been hiding under my duvet?

‘Everything going okay here?’ Jess breezes through the doorway that leads to the shoe department, a pair of rhinestone stilettos balanced on each hand.

‘Immie’s currently trying the Miranda, in blush,’ I tell her. Every dress in the shop is allocated a different girls name, and that’s how we refer to them.

‘Well done, we don’t often get bridesmaids as reluctant as Immie,’ Jess raises her eyebrows. ‘There’s good news from downstairs too, Poppy.’

‘Celebrity gossip?’ Given the fall out after last week’s Josie Redman Twitter storm and Sera’s huge spike in popularity, I’m not sure I can cope with more.

‘No, no much closer to home … I think I’ve found your lost couple.’ Jess flashes a triumphant beam. ‘My six o’clock bride just mentioned she’s getting married at Daisy Hill Farm the week before Easter. I’ll give you her number later.’ Jess gazes doubtfully at the shoes in her hands. ‘I’m not sure these will mix with mud though. If you’re going to be putting on lots of weddings in fields we’ll need to order in some sparkly wellies.’

Before I have time to tell Jess that any weddings in fields will be strictly short term she’s sped off back to her bride, and Immie is pushing her way out of the fitting room, face like a stormy sea.

‘Great news, we’ve found our missing Easter bride.’ I say it brightly to take her mind off what she’s wearing.

Immie’s talking through gritted teeth. ‘Well my news is, I’d rather wear the curtains than this dress.’ She’s wading through waves of chiffon.

As Cate and I stand back to assess, I’m ready for the worst.

We both hold our breath.

‘It is a bit long,’ I say, ‘but actually you’ve got curves for the first time since … forever.’ It’s surprising to think Immie’s been hiding that hour glass figure under her baggy T-shirts. ‘You have to admit, you’re looking pretty sassy.’ Despite her cropped hair, the pretty dress suits her.

Immie’s holding her hand in front of her chest, screwing up her face. ‘You know I hate fitting rooms,’ she protests. ‘I refuse to look, it’s too humiliating.’

Cate bites her lip. ‘If you lose the anger, and have a yard chopped off the bottom, you’ll look amazing. Maybe with a little tiara too …’

Immie lets out a yowl. ‘I’m not wearing a fucking …’

Cate laughs. ‘Okay, no tiaras.’ She bites back a grin. ‘How about floral crowns made from daisies?’

‘Worse and worse.’ Immie’s pulling her vomit face again.

‘There’s no such thing as a happy bridesmaid,’ I say to Sera. Given she’s brought up three bottles of prosecco, I’d say she’s catching on fast.

‘Okay, my turn next.’ I grab a Miranda in cream, and head into the empty fitting room.

I’ve helped with enough bridesmaid fittings this last few months to know the majority of bridesmaids walk down the aisle in a dress they would prefer not to be wearing. But they all love their brides too much to argue. I’m already cringing at how the scoop back is going to show off my muffin tops. But that’s a minor worry when I think that next week I’m going to have to make contact with a bride and groom to plan their special day and admit I know nothing about it. And somehow I have to persuade the worst tempered guy in Cornwall to come out for cocktails. Cate might think throwing Immie and Rafe together is the recipe for true love and an easy year, but from what I know of both of them, tiaras or no tiaras, it’s more likely to cause World War Three.

11
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Monday blues and craggy trees

Things to do first thing Monday …

Chase up the missing Bride and Groom, who’ve had their phone off all weekend

Tackle Rafe about sharing office with chickens!!!!

Chase up Portaloo company

Organise work trip to Jaggers

Sort out Daisy Hill Website

Daisy Hill Farm Weddings Facebook Page??? :(

‘Morning Pops!’ Immie dashes into the office, trips over a chicken, and sends us both into a spin as she saves herself by grabbing onto the padded arm of my executive swivel chair. As she comes to a halt, she’s practically sitting in my lap. ‘Oh my god, you’re on Facebook …’ Her squawk echoes in my ear, as her chin bumps against my shoulder.

So this is me with my self-imposed Facebook embargo, caught red handed. It’s the first time I’ve logged on since the morning I had the second most horrible shock of my life – being faced with Brett, tagged right left and centre in a friend’s stag night photos, his mouth surgically attached to some bimbo. It wasn’t as if it was just the once. This tonsil hockey was on a tournament scale, and they looked like they were playing for England. And enjoying it. Even thinking about it now brings the sick into my throat. Two days later we’d broken up, and I’ve stayed away from Facebook since.

‘Happy Monday to you too.’ I take a slurp of the coffee I made when I arrived half an hour earlier, and try to change the subject. ‘Drink?’ Brett was full of excuses, but with thirty odd guys all posting their take on the party, his cheating was covered from every angle. I scoured the photos frame by frame. I pieced the whole sordid evening together before you could say ‘hangover’. There’s nowhere to hide when a thousand people around the world have seen the pictures.

‘No time for tea, I’ve got lots of cottages to sort after weekend checkouts.’ Immie slides back to standing, addressing me, then the bird. ‘Sorry for squashing you, Pops. Sorry for kicking you, Henrietta.’

We’ll have words about her talking to the poultry later, not to mention the whole ‘hens in the office’ issue. As for Brett, in the end he put the blame on me, and at the time I went with that, because I wasn’t in the habit of disagreeing with him.

‘So why Facebook? After all this time?’ Immie screws up her face as she puzzles. You have to give her full marks for persistence. ‘You vowed you’d never go on again.’

I sigh. ‘The farm needs a Facebook presence.’ We both know that’s true. ‘And when I looked down today’s work list, making a Facebook page for the wedding venue was the easiest job.’ I’ve rushed the page together, using a picture of calves from my phone, from last week’s farm tour, and added in some dreamy half focused photos of lace and sparkles I took in the shop yesterday. Somehow using Facebook for work is okay. The last thing I’m going to do is stalk Brett. ‘The rest of my jobs for today are worse, believe me.’ Explaining to the bride that we’d lost her details is bad enough. Reassuring her that she can trust us with her wedding is something else.

‘Nice photos.’ Immie nods as she scrolls down the screen looking at the new Facebook page. ‘I think you should call the page Weddings at Daisy Hill Farm though.’

‘Brilliant idea,’ I say. ‘I wanted to get the page up and running, to catch people who might have fallen through the holes in Carrie’s booking net. If we get everyone we know to share the page, I can offer a gift for every couple with a booking who get in touch via the page.’

There’s a flurry of wings and feathers and squawks in the corner, as Henrietta flies onto the top of the filing cabinet.

‘Good thinking Mrs.’ Immie scratches Henrietta’s head as she settles herself down next to the broken document shredder.

I’m cringing at the thought of touching feathers, when there’s a knock, and the door pushes open. Immie and I turn. As a guy in a soft grey parka walks in, muffled against the cold with a bright stripey scarf, our mouths open in a silent, but collective, ‘wow’.

There aren’t that many guys around here who look like they’ve escaped from some high fashion magazine, complete with the expensive clothes. True, there are some good looking surfer types at the beach, but none of them go in for the kind of grooming we’ve got here.

‘Hi.’ He shakes his perfectly cut, artfully messy, nut brown hair, and holds out his hand. ‘I’m Jules, I’m here for the photo shoot. Rafe said to come on in.’ His gaze is a startling topaz blue. ‘I take it that’s okay?’ As his coat slips open to reveal a chunky knit that might have walked off the pages of Telegraph Living, there’s a delicious waft of expensive aftershave.

He has to keep on talking, because Immie and I are still gawping. We’re halfway between being lost for words, and convulsing in giggles.

No surprise that Immie recovers first. ‘Fine, come on in.’ Immie leaps forward and grabs his hand which looks clean and buffed. ‘I’m not sure you’re at the right place though,’ she adds doubtfully ‘Definitely haven’t seen any cameras or lights anywhere round here this morning.’

That makes him smile, and when he smiles his cheeks crack into deep lines. You know those long ironic dimples you get on guys like Johnny Depp? The ones that make your legs dissolve? That’s what I’m talking here. And from the way Immie has sprawled against the desk, I’m guessing in her case, dissolving is fully complete.

Then he gives a long low laugh that bounces off the whitewashed office walls and leaves me helpless too.

‘No, I’m bringing the cameras, I’m the photographer.’ The smile he flashes is luminous enough to suggest he’s on great terms with his dental hygienist.

‘Remind me what you’re taking pictures of?’ Immie’s doing well here, given her legs are all floppy, and she hasn’t got a clue what he’s talking about.

‘The engagement shoot for Lara and Ben’s wedding … back in December we booked to have it here this afternoon …?’ Those blue eyes are full of hope as they search our faces.

I struggle to make my expression less blank as he goes on.

‘I say engagement shoot, it’s really just to get the happy couple relaxed in front of the camera before the big day. Some people do their engagement shots in New York or Paris or somewhere exotic, but these two went for Cornwall in February. I came early to check out the best shots. Let’s hope the weather’s improved for the real thing at Easter … it’s only four weeks away now.’

And finally the penny drops. He’s a wedding photographer. And the couple he’s talking about are the bride and groom I’ve been trying to get hold of all weekend, and they’re coming here this afternoon. If ever I wanted a fairy godmother moment, this is it. Not only has a hunk of a guy been delivered to my office – not lusting, just admiring here, you understand – but my most dreaded task of the morning just melted away.

‘Of course, I’m so sorry,’ I begin. ‘We’ve had staff changes, you’re down in the book for later.’ Shhhh, I know it’s a porky, but he’s not to know there isn’t a book yet. ‘It’s absolutely fine for you to be here now.’ I can tell Immie thinks I’m gushing, but I’m so damned relieved. ‘I’m Poppy Pickering, Events Manager, tell me what you’d like me to do, and I’m all yours.’

I grab Jules’ hand and give it a vigorous shake, ignoring Immie, smirking behind her fingers.

‘I’m in my 4x4,’ Jules voice is half purr, half growl. ‘If you could possibly spare the time to show me a few locations …? With the weather as it is, we’ll be working to big up the rugged side. I’m on the lookout for five bar gates, craggy trees, backdrops of sky, picturesque barn doors, stuff like that.’

‘No problem.’ Immie is straight in there. ‘I know this farm like the back of my …’

Whatever happened to those pressing weekend check outs she was off to? Not to mention her disdain for men in general. No doubt if she stopped to think about it with her uni head on, she’d have a lot to say about how her reproductive instincts are completely over-riding her sensible brain, when she’s faced with this vision of genetic male perfection. I’m guessing Jules’ resemblance to an over-sized puppy probably swung it for the animal lover in Immie too.

I jump in before she has me sidelined completely. ‘It’s fine, I know you’re busy Immie, I’ll handle Jules.’ Wincing a bit at the word choice there, but I’ve been to so many weddings, and poured longingly over the pictures afterwards, wishing it were me, that I know exactly what he’s wanting. And this is my first real taste of my new job. ‘Promise I’ll shout if I need you Immie.’ I sweep across the office to grab my jacket, noting that the fairy dust hasn’t extended as far as the yurt coat. With luck and a following wind Jules might read my over-sized Barbour as extreme boho chic. ‘Shall we go?’ I’m suddenly tingling with excitement at the thought. And it’s nothing to do with any hot guy hormone rush, it’s all about getting Daisy Hill Farm Weddings up and running.

12
On Location, at Daisy Hill Farm: Step ladders and panda bears

As the day goes on, Jules proves to be a lot more than a pretty face. He’s scarily organised, meticulous about his work, and he’s brilliant at putting people at their ease. And I don’t only mean the happy couple, Ben and Lara here, I also mean me. Somehow the morning disappeared as we whizzed around finding suitable gateways and hilltops for the shoot. And the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to swap my afternoon plans to work on the website for Daisy Hill Farm, and go and be a photographer’s assistant instead.

‘It’ll be a great way of getting to know Lara and Ben,’ Jules promised. ‘And in return, I’ll help with that website you seem so stressy about.’ Given he offered to provide me with an unending supply of wedding pictures, in return for credits, and that I’m shooting in the dark as far as websites go, the only answer was ‘yes’.

I also took my notebook, and jotted as we chatted. So I now know that there will be forty guests in the day and a hundred in the evening. At night they’ll be dining on hot dogs, served from a retro burger van. The ceremony is booked for midday at the church, which means I don’t have to deal with registrars this time, and they’d love Morgan to help with the parking. I also got the names of the marquee company, the caterers, the florists, the stylists, and the furniture hire people, not forgetting the band. All of whom will be arriving to set up.

The downside for me was the twang in my chest as Lara and Ben chatted about their excitement, and all the details for the day. At Brides by the Sea, when I’m discussing cake orders or helping with dress fittings, I see brides with their friends, or their mums, and that’s fine. But being so involved in helping a couple realise their wedding dreams is something else. Ben dropping devoted kisses onto the top of Lara’s head, untangling the hair on her forehead, gently twisting her engagement ring round so the camera would catch it. Lara digging her elbow in his ribs and teasing him about his wedding spreadsheet. All the coupley love I’ve lost is being paraded under my nose. Whereas in normal life if I see it I can simply look the other way, here it’s part of my job. There isn’t a Wedding Coordinator in the world who wouldn’t get involved. Yet when I see the easy way his arm flops over her shoulder, as they put their heads together and share a joke about for better or for worse, I’m there thinking how close I came to doing the same. That this was almost me.

‘Let’s just do it.’ Those were Brett’s exact words, the last time we talked about us getting married. If someone said that to you, you’d think it was happening wouldn’t you? You would feel safe to build up those expectations you’d held in check so carefully for so many years. And a week later he’d stuffed it all up.

I hadn’t expected being a firsthand spectator in someone else’s wedding build-up to hurt quite this much. And in the next few months I’m going to be faced with couple after couple, all about to tie the knot, and every time it’s going to make me feel like shit.

‘Are you okay over there, Pops?’ It’s Jules calling, and he’s already fast forwarded to Immie’s nickname for me. More scarily, he’s also picked up that I’ve dropped out of the game momentarily. ‘Any chance you could bring the steps over?’

Judging by the pictures Jules has been flashing at me on the screen of his camera as we’ve worked our way around the picturesque places on the farm, he’s a hot shot photographer.

‘So, for this one last picture, how about you both climb up onto the wall.’ Jules yells to be heard above the wind.

I whisk the step ladder in place right on cue, help Lara and Ben into position, then whip the steps out of shot. As Ben and Lara shuffle uncomfortably on top of the wall, I pull my woolly hat over my eyes, and haul up my coat collar.

‘We’re going for wild here, sit facing each other, let your jackets flop open, and let the wind blow you.’ Jules leaps around, his movements fluid and easy, snapping from all angles, constantly checking his shots. ‘Camera bag please, Poppy, I’ve a feeling the sun’s about to break through those clouds.’

I lug the holdall across to him, and he swaps cameras, and seamlessly swoops to take more shots of the couple laughing amidst chaotic strands of windswept hair, silhouetted against the sudden brightness of the sky behind. He’s been like this all afternoon – exhausting, yet exhilarating to watch, working with what was there, seizing every opportunity, catching Lara’s surprise when a flurry of rooks rose from the trees. The moment when Lara fell off the gate and Ben instinctively dived to catch her in his arms.

‘Okay, got you. Everyone into the car, we’ll head back to the farm.’

His voice is throaty, as he swigs from a bottle of water as he jumps into the driving seat, and throws a flask of coffee to Ben and Lara in the back seat. ‘Here, warm up with that, you’ve both been stars out there.’ His nonstop praise has definitely kept Lara going when she looked like she was flagging.

‘Phew, I’m exhausted, and all I’ve done is watch.’ I heave myself into the car, and flop into the passenger seat beside him. It’s been amazing to watch how this guy took this inhospitable afternoon, and somehow managed to warm up and coax these freezing cold lovers into beautiful moments he could capture. ‘Hardly ideal weather for a photo shoot either.’

As Jules turns on the engine, the music starts too. I forgot to mention the whole afternoon has been played out against the most romantic soundtrack in the world ever. Earlier we were bouncing down the lanes to Hozier’s Take Me To Church, and right now Nothing Compares 2U is coming and going in the background. I deliberately don’t listen too hard to the words, or I’ll have to swallow back the tears.

‘You’ve done a whole lot more than watch. I certainly asked the right person to help.’ Jules gives a low laugh. ‘And actually the weather’s perfect – extreme conditions make the most interesting pictures.’

It may be unfair to make comparisons, but I can’t help think of Jules with his can-do attitude, and easy coaxing manner, beside grumpy Rafe, and his tractor load of negativity. As if to underline the impression, Jules flashes me a wide, warm smile.

‘Is that the last stop?’ I ask with a sigh. Even though it’s exciting to see Jules at work, after three hours I could kill for a mug of sweet tea and a chunk of chocolate shortcake.

‘I think we’ll call it a day at that,’ Jules confirms to all of us. ‘I’m confident I’ve got some pictures you’ll like.’ He shoots a satisfied beam over his shoulder to Lara and Ben in the back.

In my head I’m already putting the kettle on and opening the biscuit tin.

‘Ohhhh.’ A groan of disappointment comes from Lara.

This far I hadn’t got her down as whiney.

‘What’s wrong, Panda?’

And this is something I forgot to mention earlier. Panda Bear is Ben’s slightly annoying pet name for Lara. Whoever thinks I only mind because I’m jealous is totally wrong. As I’m basically only meeting them for a day after this, I don’t need to stress about it, but to be honest, if someone started calling Immie Panda Bear in public, Cate and I would have to put a stop to it. Immediately. With physical force if necessary.

‘I was hoping to have just one picture in the dress I was wearing the day we met.’

I wonder if Jules has picked up the same winsome note in Lara’s voice that I have.

Ben grunts. ‘For chrissakes, Pand, we met in Greece, it was forty eight degrees, and you were only wearing a thong, that’s why I noticed you.’

Panda’s hiss is indignant. ‘I had my dress with me, one picture is all I’m asking for.’

Jules raises his eyebrows. As he steers into the farm courtyard, and the car swoops to a halt Rafe marches out of the office, and stomps over to the car. If I had a hard hat with me, I’d reach for it now.

‘Great shoot.’ Jules’ electric window slides downwards. ‘Thanks for some amazing locations.’

‘Any time.’ Rafe backs away with a shrug. Two words and he’s reached the limit of his engagement.

‘I don’t suppose …’ Jules is trying his luck here. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have an inside space we could borrow for ten minutes?’ Seemingly oblivious to Rafe’s dismissal, Jules switches his gaze pointedly to the farmhouse.

As Rafe pauses, a pained look passes across his face. ‘The house won’t be suitable, it’s empty and mostly falling apart.’

Jules is straight in there. ‘It sounds perfect, thanks, we won’t bother you for long I promise. Come on guys.’ He’s already out of the car, grabbing his cameras, and striding past a stormy-faced Rafe, towards the front door. Rafe shakes his head, but all the same he goes to open up from inside.

Why didn’t I think of acting like an over enthusiastic dog to get Rafe to roll over?

‘In we go …’ Jules loses no time, ushering us all into the hall the moment Rafe opens the front door a crack.

Beneath the glow of a bare bulb, it takes a second for my eyes to get used to the gloom as I step in out of the wind. Despite the shredded wallpaper, and bare floorboards, it’s the broad staircase with its beautiful swooping handrail that has us all gazing. It could have come straight from a shabby chic magazine, which is probably why Jules’ grin has turned from triumphant to ecstatic.

‘Great stuff, we can definitely work with this …’ Dust rises, as Jules drops his bag and turns to Rafe. ‘Is there anywhere Lara can go to slip her dress on?’

I’m holding my breath. This free pass into Rafe’s private domain is an unexpected bonus. I’d imagined him climbing into a king sized bed with a smart new painted brass bedstead, but that doesn’t fit with the patina. Shocked that I’ve imagined his bedroom? Me too, to be honest, but cake icing can be a repetitive business. There’s plenty of time for your mind wander to places you had no intention of visiting. There’s nothing more to it than that.

‘Sure, she can change in here.’ Rafe sighs loudly, pushing on the nearest door, and clicking a bank of switches. ‘You can take pictures here too, if you must.’

We follow him into a big empty room, where the floor is flecked with flakes of distemper that has fallen off the walls. There’s a clatter as he moves down the room, opening shutters as he goes, letting the last of the afternoon light seep in through four tall, small-paned sash windows.

‘What a fantastic fireplace.’ Jules breaks the stunned silence, and says what we’re all thinking. ‘And a fabulous room.’ And he’s seriously understating it here. The fireplace is huge and square with the most intricate carvings in the pale stone surround. My head is doing a quick reshuffle, and flashing up images of Rafe’s huge Jacobean four poster.

Rafe gives a grunt, and breaks the dream. ‘It’s a bit big for a farmhouse, my Georgian ancestors obviously had delusions of grandeur.’

‘And delightfully empty …’ More positive spin from Jules, overlooking the dust sheet covered piles around the room.

Before we have time to take it in, Rafe has pushed through some double doors in the central wall which open into yet another room. Tentatively we follow him into an ancient conservatory, with glass so misted and cobweb covered, it’s hard to see through.

‘This is the orangerie, which like the rest has seen better days. It opens onto a walled garden behind the house.’ Rafe says, with a nod towards the glass structure. ‘Not sure how many oranges it’s seen, certainly none in my time.’

‘A truly fabulous place to live.’ Jules is gushing now. Not surprising given the locations Rafe has just handed him.

In the interests of fairness, and to prove there’s no favouritism going on, I force myself to picture Jules’ bedroom. Definitely in a loft apartment, with chunky wood hewn furniture. I hastily add in a massive wardrobe, and a bright coloured quilt with a chunky knit throw.

Then, back in the farmhouse again, I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets as I suppress a shiver. Lara’s going to be almost as cold in here as outside, but they’ll get some great shots. Let’s hope they’re quick.

‘This is no place for me on my own, and anyway, I prefer modern. I keep to the end wing, hence the cobwebs here.’ Rafe shrugs again, as he backs away towards the hall. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it, knock yourselves out. Give me a shout when you’re done.’

Which leaves the Rafe in my head bouncing on a retro fifties ash bed from Habitat, while he shouts about ancestors and house wings. I mean, what planet does this guy live on? Certainly not the same one as the rest of us.

‘Bloody hell …’ Ben is shaking his head, gazing up at the sagging ceiling.

My thoughts exactly.

Jules rubs his hands together, and they’re slightly less pristine than earlier. ‘Right Lara, pop next door and get your dress on. Five minutes of freezing at most, I promise the pictures will be fab.’ He turns his smile on me. ‘Poppy, tea would be awesome, biscuits or cake would be a big bonus, we’ll be with you before the kettle boils.’

I’m reeling at the way he tells it as he wants it, but the way he half closes one eye softens the dazzle of his smile to something much more personal and intimate. Anyone in a more susceptible place than me might have swooned on the spot. As it is, when I rush to fill the kettle in the office kitchen and catch sight of myself in the mirror on the door, there’s a distinct red patch on each of my cheeks. Almost like I’m burning up, not freezing cold.

I just hope Immie doesn’t walk in and spot the afterglow.

Meanwhile, I’m whizzing around the office waiting for the kettle to heat up, still in my tent coat, grabbing mugs from the shelves, and sneaking a cheeky chocolate shortbread out of my drawer when I come face to face with Henrietta. Or more aptly, beady eye to beady eye with Henrietta. If hens roosting on the filing cabinet was beyond the pale, a chicken sitting on the biscuit barrel and snuggling up next to the clean cups is a million miles off the scale of what’s acceptable. And sorry to disappoint Jules, but cake’s off today.

Which reminds me that somehow I’ve got to get down off my cloud, and address my Monday list. Much more pressing than the problem of unwelcome livestock in the office, there’s my biggest burning question of the week.

How the hell am I going to get Rafe on a work night out?

13
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Light bulbs and snowballs in hell

I’m not sure this hot desking idea of Rafe’s is working. As I walk into the farm office the desk is stacked so high with Farming magazines, I can barely see the man himself behind them.

‘What are you doing here?’ Rafe looks up from the letter he’s reading, making what sounds more like a complaint than a welcome.

‘Delivery in the next village,’ I explain. Taking in his glazed stare, on balance I decide not to tell him about the three tier silver-wedding cake I’ve been slaving over. Or that it’s left my fingers tingling from hours of squeezing icing out of piping bags.

‘I thought I’d pop in and put some text together for the website as I was passing.’ Good thing I have too, another day out of the office and I get the feeling I might have been re-located into the yard.

Rafe carries on flicking through the pages of the letter he’s reading. It’s only as he reaches behind the stack of magazines for a pen that a flash of russet coloured feathers makes me gasp.

‘Omigod, is that Henrietta sitting on the bloody desk?’ I hear myself shrieking.

He looks up slowly, with a pained expression. ‘Sorry, do you have a problem with that?’ It’s not an apologetic kind of sorry. It’s more the ‘don’t have a clue what you’re going on about’ kind of sorry.

‘Livestock in the office.’ It’s certainly on my list of issues to tackle this week, I just wasn’t fully prepared to do it right now. ‘It just isn’t right.’ Even I know that was lame, so I blurt out the next thing that comes into my head. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be out milking cows or something?’ I’m surprised how fast I’m learning to talk like a farm person. ‘For a farmer you spend a remarkable amount of time indoors.’

He gives an exasperated sigh and slams the letter down on the desk. ‘Haven’t you got a wedding to go to?’ then with a bad tempered snarl, he scoops up Henrietta. Two flaps later he deposits her on top of the filing cabinet, then turns to me with a sneer. ‘Happy now?’

As the letter hits the table, I glimpse the edge of a bank logo. No doubt he’s been counting up his millions again. I might have been happier if he’d opened the door and put the hen outside. I’m trying to think of a stinging verbal comeback that covers health and safety, office tidiness, bad temper in the work place, and male territoriality when my phone beeps.

I momentarily suspend the argument, to open a text from Cate.

Immie and I both free 2nite. Bring Rafe to Jaggers for 7. Operation #HappyFarmer is live! ;) xx

Damn. If the text had come five minutes earlier, I’d have been less snarky. Although looking at Rafe’s stormy frown, even a Strawberry Daiquiri wouldn’t sweeten that to happy. As for getting him to Jaggers, I’m thinking of snowballs in hell. Not a chance. My phone beeps. Cate again.

This has taken a LOT of organising, it’s the only way forward for an easy year for ALL of us!!! Think of my wedding, get Rafe here ASAP! DO NOT BAIL ON ME!!! ;) xx

So like Cate to send a second message, just to be sure. If you ask me, she’s been on too many motivational courses. I grit my teeth, which is exactly what she meant me to do. As for her wedding, it’s come from nowhere, and now it’s ruling my life. Somehow I’ve got to do this, I just don’t know how. It’s pointless making comparisons, but if Rafe had even a tenth of Jules’ charm and positivity, this would be a walk over. And suddenly, remembering Jules, I have a light bulb moment. Jules didn’t have any problem making Rafe do what he wanted. Maybe I need to be more like him?

14
At the Goose and Duck, Rose Cross Village: Pointers and pork scratchings

‘Works drinks with Rafe? How did you manage this then?’

Immie’s unwinding her scarf as she marches down the bar towards me. I shrug, and hope that the mention of Jules isn’t going to put her off the main objective. I don’t want her swooning at the thought of that ‘photographer from heaven’ – her words – when we’re here to get her together with Rafe. Not that we’ve told her that part.

‘So I took a few pointers from Jules.’ I admit. ‘I didn’t ask Rafe or suggest, I simply told him. “Drinks down the pub. Get in the car. Now” ’ I can’t believe how well it worked, although to be fair, Rafe was pretty short of excuses. It all happened in a bit of a rush. ‘My main tactic was surprise. With the implied threat of force thrown in too.’

The Goose and Duck has been given a makeover since Brett and I last came here with Cate and Liam and the kids for Sunday lunch. As I take in the wall to wall checked taupe decor, I can’t remember when I was last in a bar. Drinking and falling off stools might be the perfect antidote to heartbreak for some people, but I never quite reached the wild nights out, drowning my sorrows under the table stage.

‘Rafe hasn’t exactly got a lot going on in his life.’ Immie points out. ‘Apart from the odd cow giving birth, he’s completely uncommitted.’ Good point well made. She plumps up a grey tartan cushion, and settles into a substantial oak chair. ‘Remind me why we’re doing this again?’

Now I’m the one who’s short of excuses. ‘Cate thought it would be a nice if we all got together.’ I’m bluffing here. ‘Smoothing the way for her wedding …’ One mention of the ‘w’ word, and Immie gets it.

‘So this is a first.’ Immie beams at Rafe incredulously as he delivers her pint of lager, and two cokes. I’m wishing she’d cut back on her ‘what-the-hell?’ stare. This is only part one of the plan. Starting down the village pub is the easy bit. The hard part is going to be making the move to Jaggers. I’m already shifting in my tweed arm chair, psyching myself up for that part.

‘Am I the only one drinking?’ Immie downs half her pint with the first gulp.

Take it from me, this woman could drink for England.

‘I’m designated driver,’ I say, although Rafe has no idea we’re about to whisk him to St Aidan for a drinking fest at Jaggers. Cate’s plan is that if Immie and Rafe down enough cocktails, they’ll fall drunkenly into each other’s arms. Job done.

Rafe lifts up his coke. ‘And I’m driving too.’ Despite Gav the barman’s jokey banter, and the free pork scratchings by the till, Rafe still hasn’t cracked a smile.

‘That’s a very nice jumper you’re wearing,’ I say to Rafe. Given he has more cashmere sweaters than anyone I’ve come across, and that he also keeps sheep, I reckon wool’s a good subject to start with. And it works, because his mouth twitches into an almost smile.

‘A present from my mother.’ His embarrassed shrug softens him. ‘She’s always turning up with them.’

‘Trying to make you presentable no doubt, so you’ll catch that elusive woman she’s so desperate for you to meet.’ Immie laughs, and gives him a surprisingly free and friendly pat on the knee.

‘Does she live nearby?’ I ask. Somehow, despite Immie talking about her, I can’t imagine Rafe having a mum.

‘We built her a bungalow at my brother’s farm, but right now she’s travelling in the States.’ From the grimaces he and Immie exchange, it looks like a relief all round.

‘She loves country music,’ Immie chimes in. ‘At least it gives you a couple of months off from her matchmaking.’ She follows that with a loud guffaw as she sinks the rest of her drink, and adds a matey dig in the ribs for Rafe. ‘Anyone for another?’ She raises her glass, gets up and sets her sights on the bar. So far so good. Immie and Rafe are surprisingly relaxed with each other, and it looks like Immie’s hell bent on drinking enough for both of them.

I glance at my phone, knowing we should be moving this into town.

‘The next one’s on me.’ I jump to my feet. ‘And I promised to meet Cate.’ I rack my brains, imagining how Jules might put it if he wanted everyone to drive ten miles to the next drink. The knack is to say it like there’s no alternative. ‘We’re having the next round at Jaggers.’ Despite my inner doubts, I manage a big grin, and it comes out pretty damned forceful. ‘I hope you like mojitos.’ Whoop, I’m on a roll here.

No idea if this is going to work, but I don’t wait for them to argue. Immie’s banter is getting a great response from Rafe. Cate’s right, if we can pour enough cocktails down him, he’ll soon feel the friends to lovers vibe.

‘Jaggers it is then!’ Without a looking back, I pick up my coat and head for the door.

15
In Jaggers Bar: Lost property

‘Great evening then, thanks a lot for dragging me along.’ Rafe’s cheek is almost rubbing on mine as he puts his mouth up to my ear, and he still has to yell for me to hear him over the shouting and the techno music.

Thursday night’s Cocktail Happy Hour was in full flow when we got here, and the place was heaving. I have no idea about the hour, because it already seems to have lasted forever. As for the cocktails, they’re strong enough to make your head spin with the first slug. Then you man up. Unlike everyone else in the place, I’m just having the one. But you know those times when the more you drink, the more you want?

‘Quick, grab those seats!’ Rafe’s grip is tight on my shoulder as he steers me through the crush of bodies, and shoves me up onto a purple plastic bar stool.

I take it he’s being ironic when he says about a great evening. No-one could actually be enjoying this mayhem.

At some point he’s stripped off his jumper, and now I’m sitting beside him, I can see that under his ragged T-shirt, he’s pretty ripped. I squint as I try to make out the logo on the fabric folds.

‘If found return to the farm,’ Rafe says helpfully, then sighs. ‘Not what I’d usually wear out, I wasn’t expecting anyone to even see it, it’s supposed to be a joke.’ Which is so funny for someone as un-funny as Rafe that it sends me into a fit of giggles.

I know what he means though. I wasn’t expecting anyone to see my skimpy vest either, but it’s so damned hot in here, it was a choice between stripping down and showing off half my bra, or expiring.

‘Top up of margarita?’ Cate squeezes in from behind with a jug as I put down my glass. One slosh later, my glass is full again.

So much for not drinking. The last thing I remember eating is a banana at breakfast time, which is probably why I’m feeling a bit light headed now. ‘Last one.’ I yell, as Cate whirls out of view. As for Rafe getting legless, he hasn’t actually started drinking yet.

‘That has to be the sixth time you’ve said that.’ Rafe’s lips twist into a smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll carry you home.’

‘No.’ That really doesn’t sound right. Seven cocktails? Maybe that’s why the neon signs around the walls are beginning to blur. I lean over a little unsteadily to Rafe, and end up grabbing his arm to get my balance. ‘You’re supposed to be carrying Immie home, not me.’ As I release my grip on his biceps, it’s the most natural thing in the world to share this with him. I grab his knee, as I push myself back into position on my stool, and stage whisper. ‘You know, you two are supposed to be an item,’ I confide.

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