The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

‘When you do find her though, don’t hang around. Get straight on to choosing a venue; July is a popular time.’ I have no idea why I’m still going, but I throw in a last thought for sisterly solidarity. ‘And remember, modern hens definitely prefer spa days to blow-up willies. Oh, and good luck … you’ll certainly need lots of that!’

I have the whole length of The Style File to listen to my pointy heels clicking on the wooden boards and thank my lucky stars that it’s nothing to do with me anymore. Then I remember I’ve just waved goodbye to a whole wodge of cash. And possibly the attic flat too. But at least I’ve saved myself from six months of wall-to-wall weddings. And I’ll be saved from seeing Nic Trendall ever again. If that last thought is making me feel even a little bit disappointed, I won’t be admitting it. Even to myself.

MARCH

Chapter 6

Saturday, one week later.

St Aidan school gym.

Shark attacks and second chances.

‘You know the best thing about tonight, Milla?’

It’s a week later and Poppy’s shouting at me as we cross the car park to the school, and I’m taking a wild guess and yelling back at her. ‘The roller skates?’

She’s shaking her head at me. ‘It’s that getting this last-minute request for wedding help means you can get straight on with the next job. And wave picky Mr Trendell and his arsey attitude out to sea.’

We both know there’s no comparison between this job and the one I spectacularly failed to clinch last week, but it’s nice of her to say. As for how much I let the side down with that, so far no one’s made me feel bad about it. Jess just said in a very matter-of-fact way that my confidence needed a reboot and we’d talk about it later. Although, I have no idea what she means by that because this is nothing to do with confidence. It’s back to the age-old stumbling block – me not ever being good enough to match up to expectations due to not having qualifications. However hard Phoebe worked at making me just like her, in reality people can tell the difference between the tower of power she was and the squashed-up version that’s me. And Phoebe never missed a chance to point out my abysmal lack of paperwork. And now it’s tripped me up again.

I mean, maybe I didn’t want the job in any case. But despite Nic implying I’m a lightweight, I know I could have done it standing on my head with a blindfold on. At least this way I’m saved from having him looking down on me.

I’m shouting back to Poppy now. ‘And remind me whose wedding it is tonight?’ As we’re pretty much crashing their party, it might be useful to know.

‘Dave and Betty, better known locally as Danny and Sandy. She’s head of Year 12, and the whole sixth form is invited. That’s why they’ve gone with the High School theme and they’re having the party here. But they’re from further along the coast so there won’t be too many people here we know.’ If this is her way of reassuring me we’re not going to run into Nic Trendell, I’m happy to cross that off my worry list.

I have to admit as we bounce along beside excited hordes of girls and women in their full, brightly coloured skirts, and guys flicking their Elvis quiffs, it’s a long way from the quiet Saturday evening I’d anticipated.

Poppy’s best friend, Immie, has also been roped in, and she jabs me in the ribs. ‘And as you’ve kindly volunteered as designated driver, Milla, expect Pops and me to cut loose!’

Immie looks after the holiday cottages at Daisy Hill Farm where Poppy lives with Rafe. I’ve known her my whole life too and she’s always been the same – as wide as she is tall, telling it like it is. Taking on the world for her friends, while drinking Cornwall dry and whooping it to the max – the same way she’s stepped in tonight. Although it sounds like leaving the dads in charge at home has gone to her head. If she’s whirling her Barbour jacket in the air this early, we could all be in trouble.

There’s another jab from Immie. ‘You do know your van’s getting more attention than those swanky American cars parked by the entrance, Milla.’

I laugh. ‘There’s no hiding it, I’m a driving advert for matrimony wherever I go.’ More’s the pity.

Immie wrinkles her nose. ‘I know that pink you’ve painted it is supposed to be feminine, but it does remind me of fanny pads.’ This is Immie. She doesn’t hold back, but that’s part of the whole honesty package. When I was at home with Mum, and not going to school, there was never a day when she didn’t drop by. There was always shopping from her gran, or a snippet of goss from the school bus, or a magazine for Mum, passed on from one of her many aunties. Obviously we had carers coming in and out, and Poppy and her mum always came round with baking too. But along with them Immie was my main link to the outside world. So, after the way she kept me sane then, she can be as rude as she likes about my paint job.

Poppy’s rolling her eyes at me. ‘She won’t be grumbling when you deliver us home. And with that light-up sign right along the roof, however plastered she is, she should get in the right van.’

Poppy said to me earlier, as she hauled me off the sofa, that Immie wouldn’t have been her first choice to serve cocktails on roller skates at a wedding. At Daisy Hill events she’s mostly back-of-house and under strict instructions not to swear in front of the guests. But thanks to the Falmouth Roller Derby team having a dodgy takeaway last night, they’ve been dropping like flies all day. The call for extra bodies to skate around adding atmosphere to the wedding party was less of a special request, more a howl of desperation. And as the bride is a friend of Jess’s from way back, this is a favour rather than a big-money job. So here we are, swishing our ponytails, rocking our red pouts, and literally ready to roll.

As Poppy swings the door open, we can hear the sound of a twangy guitar and the first bars of Baby I Love You. ‘The spare skates and clothes are in the changing rooms, we’ll have to do the best we can.’

I pull a face at her. ‘Seeing as none of us have skated for twenty years, I’d say the dresses are the least of our problems.’

Poppy sniffs. ‘Don’t worry about skating, it’s exactly the same principle as Jilly’s dance spectaculars when we were young. You do remember those?’

‘As if I’d forget.’ Along with every girl in Rose Hill, we spent our Saturdays doing dance classes at the village hall. And at the regular shows, so long as there was one fabulous dancer pirouetting across the stage and sliding into the splits, all the rest of us had to do was arrange our feet and stand still, and people naturally assumed we could all do the same. ‘So we hang on to the walls and leave the flashy stuff to the real skaters?’

Poppy’s grinning. ‘That’s it.’

Except the next ten minutes prove me wrong. The skater dresses turn out to be skimpy stretchy cheerleader dresses rather than 50s-style knee-length ones in unflattering shades of dayglow, which probably wasn’t even invented back then. As for me thinking I’d get the biggest because I’m the tallest by half an inch and the most curvy – wrong! In the end, Immie claims the longest due to having the widest waist, and I’m left with a skirt that’s marginally shorter than my pyjama top and jaw-droppingly pink in the worst way.

Immie’s waving her arms about, wildly shaking the silver foil pompoms on elastic bands on her wrists. ‘These are going to play havoc when I’m sinking my pints, they’ll dangle in the beer.’

Poppy’s biting her lip the way she does when she’s trying not to laugh. ‘All ready to skate into the party then?’

I’m staring down at boots two sizes too small. ‘I might do better if I could feel my feet.’ Then I flick my frown to a beam. ‘But – yay! Let’s go for it!’

As we start to inch our way along, hanging off the changing room hooks, Poppy lets out a moan. ‘This isn’t anything like when we messed around in the village as kids.’

A nanosecond later, my feet whoosh from under me and my bottom thuds onto the lino. ‘It’s the wheels – these pro skates are extra whizzy!’ That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Another thud, and Immie lands beside me. ‘With floors this smooth we’re buggered.’

Put it this way – without one of the Falmouth skaters to open the door for us we’d never have made it out into the gym.

She grins at us as we pass. ‘We’re so grateful. Just leave the fast work to us! Have fun, don’t over stretch!’

‘We won’t!’ We’re crawling past her on our hands and knees, exchanging WTF? glances.

Poppy hisses. ‘Stay like this, and skirt around the edge?’

Immie’s nodding. ‘Head straight for the bar. It’s down the front, by the wedding cake and the drive-in cars.’

No idea how she’s so good at her directions when all we can see are a forest of legs, pumps, and sneakers, but I add my bit. ‘Anywhere near the cherry muffins is good.’

As wedding parties go, it’s a bit back-to-front. During the hot dogs and mass dancing, we sit at a group of tables with black-and-white-checked table cloths, and pretty floral decorations made from pink carnations in sundae glasses. We stick out our skates so people can see them, waggle our pompoms and say ‘howdy’ to the guys, who all seem to be in white T-shirts and tight jeans, making their way for beers and bottles of coke. This also gives Immie a chance to get well ahead on her beer-drinking while I make a dent in the muffin stack and the ice-cream sundaes.

The bride and groom are the spitting image of the stars from Grease and halfway through the evening, Betty/Sandy nips out and swaps her white knee-length lace and tulle wedding dress for some slinky black satin capri-pants that are so tight and shiny they could have been sprayed on. And then, even though they’ve already been rocking all night, they have their first dance, to You’re the One That I Want, wooohooohoo which couldn’t have been any more fabulously choreographed. And it’s so amazing, they do five encores.

By which time, someone’s reminded us there are brake pads on the toes of the skates, so we finally attempt to move. Immie goes closer to the bar, and Poppy and I manage to tiptoe across enough open floor to admire the pastel-coloured buttercream rosette piping and the jiving bride and groom on top of the gorgeous four-tier cake she made, which will take centre stage in the cake cutting ceremony very shortly.

Then we find ourselves a very shiny turquoise blue convertible car, drape ourselves over it, and try to look obvious.

I grin at Poppy as I watch the real skaters swirling between bodies at top speed, skating backwards, spinning to a halt with their trays of drinks and ice creams. ‘This is great.’ My arm’s wedged over the car window so it’s like I’m superglued. ‘If we jiggle our pompoms in time to the music, we look like we’re pros taking a breather.’

Poppy shakes her head in mock despair. ‘We’re marginally better than cardboard cutouts. But we were available, we are here, and better still, everyone knows we’re flying the flag for Jess’s new Special Request service.’

‘And good luck to Mr T, I hope he finds himself the wedding planner he deserves.’ I held it in as we arrived, but now I care less. ‘He might find it hard, everyone decent will already be booked.’

‘Which is why he should have snapped you up when he had the chance.’ Poppy’s eyebrows move up. ‘You do know I saw him earlier?’

My stomach had no reason to drop like a high-speed lift. ‘Really!?’ With the hugest effort I yank my voice down so low I totally sound like I give no shits. Which is exactly the result I want. ‘What the hell’s he doing here?’

‘Same as everyone else except us – he must have been invited.’ Poppy pulls a face. ‘Sorry, I’d have said before, but I didn’t want to ruin your evening.’

‘Like I’d let any guy SPOIL MY NIGHT!’ It would be way more convincing if it wasn’t a shriek. I cover up that I’ve just done a scan right around the hall to check and failed to find him by moving on fast. ‘So, what’s Immie doing?’ I may be wrong, but beyond the cake table, she appears to be zig-zagging across the horizon between the bar and the jukebox.

Poppy’s eyebrows close together. ‘I’d say she’s in that happy place where she’s had enough beer to make her forget she can’t skate – and not enough to stop her legs working.’

I couldn’t have asked for a better diversion. ‘It’s wonderful what people can do when they lose their inhibitions. She’s just picked up a full tray of ice-cream sundaes too.’

‘Wonderful – or maybe not?’ Poppy’s face crumples. ‘Hold on tight, she’s heading this way!’

By some miracle, Immie is accelerating towards us heading straight for the car. But at the last minute she spins around, reverses, wedges her bottom neatly past the open car door and into the empty back seat. And as she sinks down her tray of sundaes comes to rest lightly on her knee.

‘Fancy footwork, or what? Roller skates and Rock Dance beer, what a combo!’

Poppy’s groaning under her breath. ‘Give me strength. She’s so out of practice with her drinking she’s totally off her face.’ Then she hangs onto the car wing mirror and edges forwards. ‘Let me take the tray, Immie.’

Immie lurches backwards into the car. ‘Like toad bollocks you will! These are ALL mine!’

Poppy’s wild eyes say it’s way worse than she thought, but her voice is soothing. ‘No one’s trying to steal your ice cream, Immie.’

Immie gives a snort. ‘Too right!’ A second later, who knows how, she’s back on her feet, tray in hand, sundae glasses still upright. ‘You’ll have to catch me first, good luck with your speed skating.’

From where she was standing Immie could have set off at three hundred and fifty different angles, and skated off into the oblivion of the crowd with no more risk than a splat of ice cream on a T-shirt, or at worst a bill for cleaning a couple of dresses from Iron Maidens down in the village. Except she doesn’t do that. Instead she sets off like she’s in an Olympic pursuit race. But worse still, she’s heading straight for the cake table.

It isn’t like there’s a choice. Either way, something’s going to get very broken here. I’d just rather it wasn’t the cake Poppy spent all week making. So I throw myself forwards and launch myself after Immie. I’m on skates, I’m out of control too, and none of this is precision judgement. But somehow, I’m able to draw level with Immie and hurl myself onto my back and into her path just short of the cake table. As her skates ram into my thigh, she throws her tray upwards and the sundae glasses rise and trace arcs in the air as they start to fall again. Immie’s body thumps down across me, then the sundae glasses and ice cream scoops come raining down on my chest and face.

Immie comes to first. ‘Thundering crab arses, Milla! What the hell are you playing at? You nearly demolished the cake there!’

I’ve got Immie’s full weight crushing my hips, her foil pompom is in my ear. And wiping a lump of ice cream out of my eyes is a lot less fun than it sounds. As for what it’s done to my mascara, Panda-face here I come again. But then someone comes and rolls Immie off, and I’m lying here staring up at the criss-cross strings of hanging flower-stem decorations and fairy lights with the gym ceiling far above.

For a moment I close my eyes. And when I open them again, I’m hoping to see Poppy laughing down at me. But instead I’m looking up at the kind of dark eyes and sooty lashes I’d hoped never to see again.

‘Mr Trendell.’

His lips are twisting. ‘That was a spectacular save you made there, Ms Fenton. You showed a natural instinct for averting disaster back there. Perhaps my rejection last week was a little hasty.’

I’m shaking my head. ‘No Nic, anyone could have done it. I’m just less drunk than everyone else because I’m on effing wheels, that’s all.’

He wrinkles his nose. ‘Maybe you could do my job after all?’

‘Absolutely not.’ On principle, quite apart from anything else. As I lick my lips and the taste of strawberries and cream explodes onto my tongue, I’m making a mental note to head straight for the pink sundaes as soon as I’m on my feet. Then I have a thought. ‘So I take it you haven’t found your perfect planner yet?’

He’s blowing out his lips. ‘Turns out they’re a lot rarer than day skippers.’

I wipe a glob of cream out of my nostril. ‘So, have you checked everyone?’

He blows out a breath. ‘Everyone on the approved list Jess gave me, which apparently is anyone who’s any good. I’ve been at it all week.’

I have no idea why Jess would hand him over to the opposition. As I’m scraping seven sundaes worth of cream off my boobs, I have to point it out. ‘This is how I am at the moment, like a magnet for disasters. Truly, you wouldn’t want me anywhere near your wedding.’

He’s frowning down at me. ‘Sure, the gym is knee-deep in ice cream and bodies. But if this were the Trendell reception, at least we’d still have a cake. For me that counts as a result.’ He blows out a breath. ‘You’re the one who said there’s no time to lose. At least step in and get it going for me. How about you start by showing me those venues you mentioned?’

‘If you were the last man on earth … In any case, it’s not as straightforward as it seems. Venues will be the same as planners; anything worth having will already have gone.’

‘I’ll pay double.’ Don’t you just hate these people who think qualifications and money make the world go round?

‘Cash isn’t everything.’ I’m about to add, sorry, but I’m not for sale when another voice cuts in.

‘Make it triple and I think we can confidently call that a deal, Mr Trendell.’ It’s Jess, and her laugh is husky. ‘Monday morning at nine. Don’t be late, we’ll make a start.’

‘I’ll be at the shop.’ He’s holding out his hand to help me up.

But I’ve already rolled over. And by the time I’m pushing myself up from all fours to wobble onto my skates he’s gone, and I’m face to face with Jess’s legs.

‘Brilliant save, Milla, marvellous work.’ Even though Jess has gone as far as navy cigarette pants and a tailored denim jacket, she still looks exactly the same as she does every day in the shop. ‘And I see it’s game on with Nic! Well done for that too.’

My heart’s sinking. ‘Really? After everything he said?’

‘He needs us and we’re going to come through for him.’

‘We are?’

‘What’s more, when you ace it you’ll feel so much better.’ She’s smiling down at me. ‘You’re not on your own, Milla. We’ll all be here to help you.’

And I need this like a hole in my tights. Because after all my efforts to avoid it, here I am helping organise a short-notice wedding that’s guaranteed to be a disaster, which won’t be great for my reputation. If this is what Jess meant about talking about it later, well I’m the fool again. Because worse than all of that, I’ll be working for Nic Trendell. And from the way my pulse was racing when he looked down at me just before, I’m really not sure that’s a good idea.

Chapter 7

The next Monday.

The Harbourside Hotel, St Aidan.

Long legs and long stories.

‘So we knew the Harbourside Hotel might not be “the one”. But seeing it gives us a good baseline to start from.’

Even if the morning sunlight has turned the sea to a shimmering carpet of turquoise sequins, I can think of better things to face first thing on a Monday than Nic Trendall at a wedding venue. And I admit, acing it with the first viewing would have been too much to ask for as well as a sunny day.

If I was worried that once we were on our own Nic might bring up our unfortunate Valentine’s night encounter on the harbourside, I needn’t have been. If he hasn’t mentioned it by now, I seriously doubt he will, so it’s a relief to know it was as insignificant for him as it was for me. That he’s put it firmly behind him, and forgotten it as much as I have. It’s also good to note there’s not the tiniest a hint of flirting on his part either. Today’s version is full-on serious groom.

Jess was as good as her word with the help, too – she’s set up today’s itinerary so all I have to do is drive us from one place to the next, then state the obvious. Easy-peasy. As Jess says, with the great hourly rate, how can we go wrong? But it’s not the next five months of her life she’s giving away.

‘So onwards and upwards!’ And I know I’m talking like an arse – it always happens when I’m nervous. ‘Any more reactions from you, Nic?’

My handbag’s between us on the bench seat of the van and Nic’s looking like he’s pretty close to puking into it. I have to say, if he did I’d happily join him. I’ve had this really unnerving sensation in my stomach ever since we set off which has to be down to how anxious I am. Like a million dragonfly wings fluttering just above my dress belt, crossed with how you feel those times you have too many coffees and your heart starts racing.

He fiddles with his seatbelt as I pull out of the car park. ‘I hate to sound picky.’ Which is exactly what people say when they’re going to be. ‘But it just felt very ordinary. And there were a hell of a lot of steps.’

‘Unfortunately, that’s what you get with a cliff-top hotel with access to the beach.’ Just saying. In my cheeriest voice. As for it not being special, it’s all relative. Realistically, if he’s used to yacht clubs in the Caribbean, we’re going to struggle to surprise him in St Aidan.

‘So, anything you’re looking for especially?’ More information now could save us a lot of unnecessary miles, which could be a factor as I glance sideways at his dark hair and strong jawline. When you think of all the grooms in Cornwall, it’s just my luck to get a sizzler. Not that I objectify. But while a hottie will be great for my portfolio pictures, what’s less great is my immediate – and very uncharacteristic – animal impulse to leap on him and bonk his socks off. I’m personally blaming that bit on the snog we’ve completely forgotten about and won’t ever be thinking about again. While simultaneously wanting to shake him for being such hard work so soon after we’ve begun.

He wrinkles his nose. ‘You show me all the best places and I’ll know when I see the right one.’

Which is about as much use as a chocolate tea pot. If this is how cooperative he is, the search will be endless.

Luckily there are lots of options at Poppy’s place where we’re heading next. If we pull in Rose Hill Manor which belongs to Jess’s partner Bart, we’ll have offered a whole array of viewings at a variety of price points. Okay, it’s an insider job, but the masterplan is that we look super-efficient. And with so many fab places on offer we may even clinch a booking.

As I steer around the station roundabout and out along the coast road, I’m blinking past the sun visor at the shine off the water. ‘So the next venues are twenty minutes inland.’ And I won’t be sharing that that’s where I grew up. But the drive is a great chance to do a spot of digging. If he won’t respond to straight questions, I need to try another way.

‘So you’re in the boat business.’ I’m wracking my brains for the right name for what he does. ‘Did you mention a nautical piloting agency?’

He looks like he’s woken up at last. ‘Nicolson Trendell is run from my phone and one small office near Penzance.’ He gives a shrug. ‘I have the same slogan as Jess – no job too small or too large. We do everything from rowing tourists across the harbour to taking millionaires and their super yachts around the southern oceans.’

I’d expected to be yawning but instead my jaw’s sagging with surprise. ‘And Snow Goose?’

A grin flashes across his face. ‘That’s one job I fitted in myself. Her owner wanted her brought back from the States, and now he wants me to stay onboard until he uses her again.’

‘And you get paid for that?’ As I take in his nod beyond my elbow I can’t hold in my shock. ‘So has Snow Goose got a bathroom then?’ I’ve always wondered how Captain Jack Sparrow managed, I might as well find out.

‘The facilities onboard are basic, but mostly I use the very nice shower block behind the harbour master’s office.’ Out of the corner of my eye his lips could be twitching. ‘There might not always be a power shower, but I have total freedom and worldwide travel, plenty of fresh air and challenges, and no two days are ever the same.’