The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea. Jane Linfoot
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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