Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

Poppy frowns. ‘Immie said she’d have been happy to put up the usual cottage decorations, but Alice wouldn’t hear of it.’

I pull a face. ‘I’m sorry Alice is a bit fussy. She wants every cottage themed, to match the wedding and the occupants.’ This won’t be the last time I apologise for her. ‘Actually I came to check if it’s okay to take the pig pictures down?’ Another of Alice’s specific instructions.

Poppy’s face breaks into a grin. ‘We’re all with Alice on that one. Those pigs are hideous. Leave them in the office, with any luck they won’t go back up again.’ She puts three mugs on the chunky wood table and piles a plate high with gingerbread men. ‘Is there much left for you to do in the cottages?’

Sliding onto a chair, I slip off my jacket, then grab a tea and dunk my biscuit. ‘Loads.’ I sink my teeth into a delicious gingerbread leg to stem my panic. Because ‘loads’ is a huge understatement. Each cottage has an individual tree with hand-made decorations. Then there are bespoke toiletries, wicker wreaths, pillow chocolates, rose petals, scented candles, boxes of Turkish delight, hampers, fruit bowls and a mistletoe sprig. And tasteful pictures to replace the pigs. And Christmas garlands. ‘The job’s so massive, if I hadn’t had a gingerbread intake at exactly this minute, I might actually have given up.’ I’m not joking either.

Poppy stares at me over the top of her mug. ‘Maybe Immie and I could help?’

‘No, I couldn’t possibly expect you to do that. You haven’t even met Alice yet.’

‘Really, it’s fine, Sera. We’re all here for each other. Look how you stepped in with my bestie last summer. The dress you lent Cate gave her the wedding of her dreams.’

‘But Cate let us use her photos for publicity…’ I’m hesitating, knowing the difference more hands would make.

Poppy comes over and squeezes my shoulder. ‘Think of this as payback for you making Cate’s day wonderful. That wedding might not even have happened without your dress.’ She’s being very persuasive.

‘You really have time to help?’ If I didn’t have my mouth full of gingerbread man, I’d kiss her.

She smiles. ‘I’m just back from London, with no cake orders, and no weddings to sort out. And who doesn’t love Christmas decorations?’

‘You might not be saying that when you get to the end,’ I groan. ‘But if you’re sure, I’d be so grateful.’

‘Call in first thing, show us exactly how you want things. Then leave it with us.’ Poppy’s still patting my hand when the door opens.

‘Can I smell gingerbread?’ Quinn’s rugged face appears as he dips under a heart garland. ‘I let myself in, I hope that’s okay?’

This is the measure of the guy. He’s laid back and confident enough to walk right in like he owns the place. And he gets away with it every time. Unless there’s a parking warden involved.

Poppy’s pushing crumbs into her mouth. ‘Sit down, grab some tea and tell us how the biscuits are.’

‘The good news is Poppy and Immie are going to help with the cottages.’ I say, knowing he’ll be ecstatic.

‘Amazing,’ he says. ‘Thank Christmas for that.’ He folds himself into a chair, helps himself to a biscuit and takes a bite. Then takes a few seconds to deliberate. ‘Delicious,’ he says eventually, turning to Poppy, waving his biscuit. ‘But look, you’ve bitten off the head of yours, which is pretty cruel.’ He sends me a wink. ‘Whereas Sera and I are both eating ours feet first.’ He leans over and gives me another significant nudge. Which makes four today. If you count the one where we had hysterics because I dropped the Christmas tree on his foot.

I pick up what’s left of my gingerbread man – just the head – and pop it into my mouth. Not that I’m trying to eat the evidence, but I’m not sure it’s that significant. I help myself to another and try to start at the top, but I can’t. So I begin to nibble the toes, except this time I’m eating more slowly, because I feel like I’m being watched.

‘It’s the same with chocolate teddy bears,’ Quinn goes on, chomping his way up to chest level on his biscuit. ‘The world is split into two groups – people who start with the head. And people who start with the feet. There’s no switching sides. You are how you are.’

‘When did eating gingerbread men get this complicated?’ I twist my sleeve around my fingers, take another bite and try to work out what he’s getting at here. Or if he’s just bullshitting. Which he might be.

Quinn carries on eating until only the head’s left, then he holds it up. ‘Twelve out of ten for taste.’ He nods at Poppy. ‘I’d score even higher if he had a grin.’

‘Waiting for icing pipes,’ she explains, even though Quinn probably has no idea what she’s talking about. ‘I think what Quinn’s trying to point out, Sera… very subtly…’ Poppy’s nipping back her smile. ‘… Is that you two have quite a lot of common ground.’

‘Excuse me?’ I say. I’m not sure this is what I need to hear. Because it’s patently not true.

Quinn’s waggling his next biscuit at Poppy. ‘Twelve out of ten for observation there, Pops.’

Listening to this, I’d say they’re the ones with the common ground. She didn’t even flinch when he called her Pops and she usually hates it.

‘It’s not just the gingerbread. Look at you both.’ Poppy’s laughing now. ‘The same ripped denim, the same sun-streaked hair, your sweaters are practically identical…’

Pretty appalled, I look down to remind myself what jumper I pulled off the bedside chair this morning. Yes, it’s one of my favourites. Burnt orange, sloppy. I chose it as my comfort blanket because I was stressed about this random best man I was going to meet. With good cause, as it happens. Was that really only this morning? The end of my sweater sleeves are fraying where I’ve been tugging them over my hands, which is what I’m doing now. As I turn my gaze onto Quinn, my tummy sinks.

Shit. ‘So, we’re both wearing orange sweaters.’ I’m praying Poppy won’t pick up on his ragged cuffs. ‘And your point is?’ As I push back my sweater sleeve, because actually I’m getting a bit hot here under all the scrutiny, Poppy lets out a yelp.

‘Omigod, you’ve got the same leather wristbands too.’ She gives a guilty shrug. ‘I’m sorry, Sera, but it’s much more than what you’re wearing. Your expression is so similar, it’s unreal.’ She chews her thumbnail as she studies us. ‘You’re like a couple of beachy twins.’

I pull in a long breath. Twins I may be persuaded to go for. Non-identical ones, obviously. Where the siblings disagree over most things. It’s the ‘couple’ bit that has me lifting off the chair.

‘Actually we have really different views on practically every subject.’ Even as I blurt it out I can see Quinn smirking behind his hand.

‘Really…’ Poppy sounds unconvinced.

‘Yes,’ I’m determined to fight my case here. Quinn and I have been together for less than a day and we’ve been at odds right left and centre. ‘Like I really disagree with inconsiderate parking… which Quinn does all over the place.’ I stick out my chin. One to me. ‘And I completely disagree with guys walking around the cottage nine-tenths naked…’ It’s out before I think. This is how crap I am under pressure. And it’s way more embarrassing for me than anyone else, which is why those roses in my cheeks have now spread to the tips of my ears. Dammit.

Poppy’s elbow is on the table and she’s propping her chin on her hand, widening her eyes at Quinn in mock horror. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been walking around without clothes, Quinn?’

He grins, but looks entirely unashamed. ‘I have. But only to put the sausages on.’

Poppy blinks at that. At least the sausage part slowed her down a bit. But then she turns to me. ‘Not wanting to put you on the spot, Sera, but what about that string bikini you walk round in the entire summer? The one that covers a whole lot less than a tenth of you. The one you wear all the time. In the studio, down the mini market, in the Cats’ Protection shop. Basically everywhere, except if there are customers around?’

Quinn laughs. ‘So we park in different places. But it sounds like we definitely both like to chill…’ He pauses, and the skin at the ends of his eyes crinkles as he smiles. ‘…Nine-tenths naked, that is.’

I’m kicking myself for coining that phrase. And although I’m hungry enough to eat for an army, if I have one more crumb of gingerbread man I might just choke.

‘Talking of chilling…’ Quinn’s suddenly much more serious. ‘If I see another fairy light, I might just explode, so it’s probably time for some down time.’ He claps his hands. ‘I’ve got wine and supper waiting across at the cottage for anyone who’s interested.’ He switches his gaze to Poppy. ‘We were thinking it might be easier if Sera stays over at mine tonight.’ Smooth as anything. Just like that.

My eyes practically pop out of their sockets in shock. What part of ‘no’ does this guy not understand?

I take a deep breath and count to nine… ‘Actually, I was hoping to get back to St Aidan, if anyone’s going that way?’ The look I send Poppy is pure desperation. What’s more, she did create the opening for Quinn here, although I’ve a feeling he’d have made it regardless. ‘I’ve got too much reading and designing to catch up on to spend time… chilling.’ Naked or otherwise.

‘Maybe another night, then.’ Poppy smiles at Quinn, then turns to me. ‘No problem, I’ll pop you back home, Sera. Let’s face it, I can hardly ice a Christmas cake without my piping bags. And I might grab some cupcake cases too.’

Now she’s talking. Right now I could kill for one of Poppy’s cupcakes. Plain sponge. With lashings of vanilla buttercream. All white, like the wedding dresses. Just in case the crumbs get in the wrong place in the shop.

As for tomorrow, I’m going to need all the calories I can get, to keep the Naked Chef in hand. There I go again. Definitely not in hand. Anything but that.

9

Sunday, 18th December

At Brides by the Sea: Blaring horns and short circuits

Sera, Pls can you bring me some pieces of lace – working on Christmas cupcake designs – cd always make a few Chrissy cupcakes for Alice’s cake table? Poppy xx

I’m in the studio the next morning and as Poppy’s text pings into my phone, I can hear Jess’s loafers clattering up the stairs. Although, if Poppy imagines there will be a place for unscheduled cupcakes at Alice’s wedding, it’s because she doesn’t know Alice.

‘How long have you been here?’ Jess pops her head around the doorframe, frowning, her voice high with surprise. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on wedding duties today?’

Poppy’s text gives me the perfect excuse. ‘I just called in to get some lace scraps for Poppy.’ I’d rather Jess didn’t know I’ve been here since five, bent over the sewing machine. Having hit a brick wall with my as-yet non-existent designs, I’ve gone back to basics. I’ve been messing around with silks and satins and scissors, trying to free myself up by skipping the drawings and working very fast, straight onto the mannequin. If I stop worrying and work entirely instinctively with the raw materials, like I used to do when I was a student, maybe, just maybe, I’ll short-circuit my creative block. Come up with some entirely new ideas and shapes for wedding dresses. Although thus far, all I’ve got are a line of limp shifts, dangling from hangers. Like ghosts waiting for a Halloween party.

‘Are you okay? You’ve got very dark circles.’ Jess motions to her eyes, although if she thinks I’m looking sleep-deprived, she should find a mirror.

‘I was up late, reading up on the wedding strategy,’ I say. It was well after midnight when I crawled into bed, my head throbbing with wedding facts. I definitely don’t need to admit the pre-dawn start to work on my collection. ‘What’s your excuse?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Jaggers until four.

‘Again?’

‘It was the “Grab a Granny and a Cocktail” Christmas do. Believe me, some of these forty-year-olds really know how to whoop it up. Jules was there, with his mum.’

‘That was nice.’ Jules is Jess’s tame and very talented photographer, who hasn’t actually untied the apron strings and left home yet. As for age, Jess’s is a closely guarded secret. Between us, forty is a long way short of the real figure, but she talks a good job. And she swears by what she calls her ‘hope in a jar’ products – anti-gravity potions and wrinkle repair creams. She keeps them in the prosecco fridge and slaps them on by the gallon.

‘Actually Jules’ ma was drinking like a bloody fish, I couldn’t keep up with her at all.’ Jess gives a grimace. When it comes to alcohol, Jess is the original hollow-legged woman, so who knows what Jules’ mum is like. ‘So many Christmas parties, I’ll be damned relieved when it’s January. What are you doing today?’

And now she has me. Alice rang last night to say she’s finally got a flight into Devon later on. Which is brilliant news, because that’ll take the heat off me. Right now I’m actually putting off the awful moment when I have to leave the building and drive to the airport to pick her up. Exeter’s a bloody long way when the furthest you usually drive is to the launderette, once every two years, when the washer breaks down.

‘As I said, I’m taking Poppy some pieces of lace.’ I recap, for both our benefits. ‘Then she and Immie are helping with the cottages.’

If Jess gets a sniff of the truth about where I’m heading she’ll go into overdrive. If she starts reeling off road numbers and asking if I’ve got life insurance, I’ll get so hot under the collar, I’ll melt into a pool of grease. Driving round St Aidan I’m fine. But dual carriageways and turning-right arrows in the road give me the willies. And somehow I have to get all the way to Exeter. And it’s no good saying ‘use your sat nav’, because that just confuses me even more. And half the time there’s no connection anyway.

A car horn beeps down below in the mews and makes me jump. Omigod, this is how nervous and wound up I am. That’ll be me in half an hour. Getting lost. Causing hold-ups because I don’t like driving over forty. Everyone beeping me because I’m in the wrong lane.

When I peer past my fabric samples and magazine piles to see out of the window at the car roofs three floors below, I seem to be looking down on a log jam. Except these are cars not logs. There are three or four horns blaring now, their discordant notes clashing. At first I think I’m having some weird fast-forward see-into-the-future vision of me, having a mid-road crisis, en route to Exeter. When I blink myself back to the present and force myself to calm down, even from above I can tell the car at the front is sleek and low. Even though it’s one of those cold, murky, December mornings, when the daylight never really takes a hold, the highly polished, metallic granite paintwork of that car sticks out a mile. Given that by rights Quinn should be miles away, I’m bracing myself for something. I’m just not quite sure what.

‘Sera…’ It’s the Sunday girl calling up. ‘There’s a guy waiting for you downstairs. I put him in the White Room.’

If this is Quinn, it’s an entirely unscheduled visit. Right now he should be at Rose Hill Manor, taking delivery of the starry ceilings for the ballroom. Thank goodness he didn’t do his usual trick of walking right on in like he owns the place, and make it all the way up to the studio. I hurl myself down the stairs, and thirty seconds later I’m skidding to a halt on the bleached floor of the White Room, gasping.

‘What the hell are you doing here? What about the heavenly ceilings?’

From the way Quinn’s holding back his smile, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh ‘Nice to see you too.’ His hands are deep in the pockets of a well-worn duffel coat. ‘Poppy told me I might find you here.’ He’s really rocking the laid-back thing this morning. Which is really damned annoying, when I’m in such a razz.

I pull out my phone and check the time. ‘Well I’m in a hurry, even if you’re not,’ I snap, and give him the most threatening stare I can drum up at short notice. ‘Some of us have to get to the airport.’ Between us, this is the kind of move I usually practise in front of a mirror for a few weeks before I let it loose on the outside world. But we all know there’s no time for that here. ‘If you miss the Celestial Ceilings people…’ Alice will go apoplectic/through the roof/ape – or maybe even all three.

But before I can get that far, he interrupts. ‘Okay, take a chill pill, Sera…’

If he knew how patronising he sounded, he really wouldn’t say that.

He carries on. ‘The flight’s not in until this afternoon, there’s no need to set off yet.’

I’ve done the calculations and I know better. ‘At forty miles an hour it takes…’

He cuts me off mid-sentence. ‘That’s what I came to say. Given you said yesterday how much you hate driving, maybe we should swap jobs. You stay at Rose Hill and I’ll do the airport run.’

‘Right…’ I’m not sure how he picked up on that, but I’m relieved enough to go momentarily floppy. ‘That would be so brill,’ I say weakly, propping myself up on the tilting mirror as my knees collapse with gratitude.

‘But then I got side-tracked by your flamingos.’

‘Flamingos?’ I really have no idea what he’s talking about here.

He lets his smile go. ‘On those very smart pyjamas you’re wearing…’

For a second I think he’s joking, then I look down. As I catch sight of my favourite Topshop shorts sleep set on top of my woolly winter-night tights, my tummy takes a nose dive. How the hell did I forget to get dressed before I came out?

As I squirm in embarrassment, my mouth is gaping, but no words are coming out.

Jess, who’s arrived without me noticing, swoops to my rescue. ‘Sera often wears leisure wear in the studio. Basically talented designers have to feel relaxed or they can’t come up with the goods.’ She’s beaming at Quinn, extending her hand. ‘We haven’t been introduced yet, lovely to meet you, I’m Jess.’

I wince at how horribly close Jess is to the truth there. She’d have a complete hissy fit if she knew about the state of my current non-collection of wedding dresses.

‘So this is your shop? What a fabulous place.’ Quinn’s turned all his attention onto Jess now. ‘I’m Quinn, by the way, Alice’s best man.’

‘Lovely.’ From the way Jess’s purr has switched on, she’s warming to Quinn. ‘Do come through and have a peep at Sera’s room, while you’re here.’ As Jess steers him through, the heat’s right off me, because, true to form, she’s pretty much taken him over.

In a last-minute move, she grabs my wrist and yanks me with them. Before you can say petticoat, there’s a flurry of tulle and lace and whispering voile and she’s whipping dresses off the rails right left and centre. In thirty seconds flat she’s whisked Quinn through the key pieces in the Seraphina East collection, and she’s onto the celebrity pictures.

‘And this is the couture dress designed by Sera, which Josie Redman wore for her celebrity wedding.’ She sounds like a cat that got double cream.

‘The Josie Redman?’ Just this once Quinn is gobsmacked enough to look shocked. ‘Impressive…When you said you made wedding dresses, Sera, I had no idea you meant real ones.’

Even though I hate being around when people see my dresses, I’m indignant enough to chime in here. ‘What other kind are there, Quinn?’

For a moment he’s chastened. ‘Okay, what I mean is, I had no idea they’d be this beautiful… or high end.’

‘Well thanks a bunch for that.’ Talk about wrapping a compliment up in an insult.

He frowns. ‘I can see I’m digging a hole for myself here. But even when you’re not in your jim jams, there’s a big gulf between Sera’s holey denims and Seraphina’s exquisite dresses.’

Even though I think he just said ‘exquisite’, he’s still coming over as pretty insulting, overall.

‘You’ll see.’ I stick out my chin in protest. ‘I scrub up.’ It’s complete bull. The furthest I go is black silk shorts rather than ripped denim. But I can’t let him talk down to me like this.

He laughs. ‘I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s a surprise, that’s all. In a good way.’

As a particularly long and loud blast on a horn in the street resonates around the room Jess hangs up the dress she’s holding and covers her ears. ‘Whatever’s going on out there, it’s playing havoc with my head.’ She pushes back a swathe of tulle and fairy lights and peers down the mews. ‘Looks like some kind of traffic jam…’

Quinn puts his hand to his mouth. ‘Ooops… I think that might be me…’

Jess is at the window in a flash. ‘No, it won’t be, it’s actually a sports car causing the trouble. Dark grey. There’s a traffic warden too.’

Dark grey? I groan. It’s the traffic warden that’s the real giveaway. ‘Quinn, what did I tell you yesterday?’

‘Sounds like my free parking’s over.’ He pulls a face. ‘Sorry to rush you, but we’d better run. Sera, I’ll take you home to get some clothes and drop you at Rose Hill…’

‘But why didn’t you tell me Quinn drove a Ferrari?’

Actually I told her as little as I could. Not that she needed my info, after she’d pumped Poppy dry. As if I noticed the car make. ‘Maybe I was too busy counting the parking tickets.’ As a reply it’s completely true. One blingy car is very much like another, after all. Let’s face it, they’re all totally impractical on the roads round here.

‘Sera’s not the only one full of surprises.’ Quinn’s laughing over his shoulder at Jess, as he heads towards the door.

As I hurtle off towards the stairs to grab my coat and satchel I can’t help hoping there won’t be any more surprises today.

10

Sunday, 18th December

At Rose Hill Manor: A cottage by the sea

It’s no surprise that Quinn drives at the speed of light, all the way to Daisy Hill Farm, where we show Poppy how Alice would like her cottages. Then we head over to Rose Hill Manor, which is quarter of a mile down the lane. Yesterday, in the van, we went around the back to the coach house, but today we roar all the way up to the front door.

‘The great thing about this house is it’s relaxed rather than starchy and grand.’ Quinn leaps out of the car and digs deep in his duffel coat pocket for a key. Seconds later he’s pushed open the wide oak door and his arm’s sliding around me, as he shows me into the hall.

It’s a shame he wasn’t this efficient with the cottage keys yesterday, but whatever.

Blinking as I spin away from Quinn’s grasp, I take in a tall white hallway, washed with pale light from high leaded windows. A staircase that’s wide, but definitely more ‘Sleeping Beauty in the country’ than ‘Cinderella at the ball’. Given he smells of something manly and expensive rather than salt, I’m guessing he hasn’t been for a dip in the sea today yet.

‘See what I mean?’ He leans a shoulder on the stair post as he gazes around. ‘Small, yet perfectly formed.’

I’m not sure where Quinn hangs out if that’s how he sums it up. There’s nothing small about the rooms I’m glimpsing behind the half-open doors. But despite the lofty ceiling and the expanses of white walls, the warm pine-drenched scent of the house immediately wraps itself around me. I feel welcomed rather than intimidated.

‘And what a whopper of a Christmas tree.’ I get a crick in my neck as I look up at the branches, tapering up the stair well. It has to be the largest I’ve seen outside Oxford Street. For a moment it spins me back to the last Christmas at uni when one of the guys from the upstairs flat hauled in a tree from someone’s garden that was so big and spiky we couldn’t get down the hallway.

‘And like the rest of the house, it’s still waiting for its decorations.’ Quinn raises one eyebrow. ‘How are you on step ladders?’

I don’t reply, because right now I’m remembering that somewhere upstairs there are bedrooms for the entire bridal party, and more, plus all the ground-floor rooms, where the wedding celebrations will take place on Christmas Eve and roll straight on into Christmas next day. With everything still to do, I can’t believe we’re hanging around in the hall. ‘Maybe we’d better hurry up.’ My voice rises as my chest tightens with the stress. That’s possibly the understatement of the year. ‘We haven’t got time to stand around chatting.’