Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!. Jane Linfoot
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street. ‘There’s still one surf shop we haven’t been in yet.’
‘Phew, I thought you’d never ask’ Becky blows with relief. ‘Shopaholic Nate can catch us up later.’ She’s through the door and ordering faster than you can say salt caramel swirl.
As we sit on high stools, scooping whipped cream off the top of cups the size of plant pots, Becky’s blinking happily. I can’t resist one last close up. And best of all, she doesn’t even flinch.
‘Well, I think we’ve found a way of making you relax in front of the camera.’ When I push the mini screen towards her, with a lovely dusk shot of the two of them silhouetted against the masts in the harbour, her delighted smile makes me glow inside. ‘Less than three weeks to the big day now.’ I know the stress on the day will make it adrenaline filled. But after this afternoon, it feels like we’re as prepared as we can be.
She sighs as she runs her fingers through hair that’s surprisingly tidy for a surfie. ‘You know, I think you did the right thing running away when Luc brought your engagement ring out.’
My spoon of cream stops in mid-air, halfway to my mouth. ‘What?’ She has to be joking, doesn’t she? ‘Are you okay, Becky?’
She pulls a face. ‘A lot of days lately I wish I’d run when I caught sight of mine.’
I give a rueful sigh. ‘For what it’s worth, if I could turn the clock back, I wouldn’t run a second time around. I’d definitely handle it differently.’ In a way that didn’t wreck my relationship, for starters.
She scrapes the grated chocolate off the top of her cream. ‘When I dreamed of Nate proposing, I had no idea getting married would be so draining.’ The sigh she lets out is long and weary.
Poor Becky. I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll feel better when you’ve drunk your chocolate.’ Wedding fatigue hitting the woman who has the stamina to ride the waves from dawn until bedtime comes as a surprise. Whereas when I legged it, the wedding itself hadn’t even crossed my mind.
If we hadn’t been staying with Luc’s parents it might have all panned out differently. In Madeira they would have been in the holiday mood due to downing vast quantities of Poncha. As it was, three days into our stay in the Highlands, when his dad’s dour expression hadn’t lifted and his mum’s mouth was still the same hard line, it finally dawned on me. Luc’s serious side was probably an inbuilt part of his gene pool that was only going to get worse as he got older. Down the line, I might not be able to tease it out of him.
My family lost a child and still manage to be jokey, so permanently long faces are an alien concept to me. I mean, who, faced with Prosecco popcorn says, ‘Sparkling white gives Keith heartburn’? And all my cute reindeer crisps got was a resounding, ‘We don’t do wild game.’ In the split second when Luc went down on one kilted knee in front of the Christmas tree and his entire, unsmiling, extended family all that flashed in front of me was a lifetime without laughing. Although, to be fair, I haven’t exactly been splitting my sides since then. And I suspect it was a complete overreaction. When I look back on our times in London, Luc did smile. Just not as much as me.
‘Today is the first fun we’ve had for ages.’ Becky’s meticulously sinking every marshmallow with the back of her spoon.
Somehow, I feel I need to share more here. Make it clear our cases aren’t the same at all. ‘My trouble was, Luc made his proposal sound like we’d only be getting married so I could get a US visa.’ Announcing he was leaving for a fabulous new job and life in the States, then popping the question in the next breath. What’s worse, it was like my whole world being hit by an earthquake. I wasn’t even aware he was up for promotion, let alone a leap across the Atlantic. If we’d discussed it in advance, I might have been more ready for it. I can see now, it was only natural that someone so work orientated would be super-excited about saving his news for a big reveal. For someone like me, who hates surprises, it couldn’t have been worse. It was my fault too. I should have made my phobia about surprises clearer. And the size of the audience made the outcome all the more cataclysmic. Had it just been the two of us, Luc might have forgiven me for taking fright. But so many cousins and aunties seeing me vote with my feet was the ultimate in public humiliation. Everyone understood that. A proud man like Luc couldn’t marry a person who’d done that to him. Even if I was mortified afterwards, there was no clawing my way back, no matter how much apologising and begging I did.
Becky shrugs. ‘Luc’s doing well over there.’ This is just the kind of snippet I’ve been aching for. Now it’s come without prompting I’m not sure I like it.
‘He would be.’ Most days I try not to think about it. I pick up my cup to cover up that one tiny fragment of news about him has my pulse racing. ‘Although, actually, I’d rather not talk about him.’ A deep draught of dark cocoa is just what I need to slow my heart rate again. Who knew I’d feel this uncomfortable?
‘He’s still on his own, too.’ She tilts her head to gauge my reaction. ‘It’s a shame he can’t come to the wedding. Second chances and all that?’
If spluttering with my face in my mug is a bad move, sloshing hot chocolate right down my coat is worse. The amount of drink I’ve lost, it’s a good thing I’m cold rather than thirsty. But at least the wipe-up gives me time to regroup. Leopard print is so forgiving, that’s why you have to love it every time. I’m frantically dabbing my soggy fake fur with serviettes, racking my brain to move on to an easier topic. ‘So how are the wedding plans going?’
Becky rolls her eyes. ‘There are so many decisions to make. Nachos or tacos for the burger van. Do we want hog roast or fish and chips for the main. We even need council permission to erect our own beachside marquee.’ She gives a guilty squirm on her stool. ‘We haven’t even begun to choose groups for the photos from the lists on Pinterest.’
‘Absolutely no worries on that one.’ Although organised group photos don’t fit with the kind of informal wedding she’s talked about before.
She lets out another sigh. ‘The only thing Nate’s looking forward to is getting his hands on our own Roaring Waves beer, with Mr and Mrs Croft labels on.’
‘No surprise there.’ Another reason for my heart to sink. Let’s just hope the brewer’s not on the guest list. ‘So how many people have you invited?’ As Becky’s repeatedly using the word ‘small’, I’m confident this won’t be an issue.
‘Not many. Although weddings have this awful tendency to grow.’ She thinks for a second, then looks up brightly. ‘A hundred and forty-seven, tops.’
The way that number makes me lurch, it’s a good thing I’ve already tipped most of my drink away. What’s that expression? Three steps forward, two steps back? Or in my case, fifteen steps back, ending up with falling off a cliff top.
Which just goes to show, your blindsides don’t always come from where you expect them. Here I was, assuming I’d be thrown off track by hearing about Luc, when all along I should have been worried about an out of control guest list. I was expecting twenty, tops. Add in an extra hundred and twenty, I’ll be needing to find a lens with a wider angle.
Sunday, 3rd December
At Brides by the Sea: Hidden cameras and flash photographers
‘So how did it go?’ Jess asks, as I come down into the half light of the White Room later, clutching my laptop. If I wasn’t blanking Christmas this year, the fairy lights playing on the lace, making the wedding dresses in the window glisten against the night outside would make my heart flutter.
Jess turning up again and calling me downstairs to show her my pictures isn’t quite what I’m expecting on a Sunday evening. But as this is her shop, I can hardly argue.
‘It was a bit stiff to start with.’ I’ve had