The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

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.