The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea. Jane Linfoot
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try once more. ‘Your final year at uni isn’t until next year.’
She dismisses that. ‘I’ve still got assignments coming out of my ears.’
As I look from Cate to Immie, I can’t help feeling they’re ganging up on me.
‘Whatever.’ Immie shrugs. ‘You know you’d be awesome at this, Pops. You’ve always loved weddings.’
‘And you’ve had so much experience with the brides at the shop.’ At least Cate has the grace to look guilty about pushing me into this. ‘Not just with your cakes either. You know the wedding business inside out. It could be the perfect career move.’
Immie chimes in again. ‘Out of all of us, you’re the one who could nail this.’
When they put it like that, I need to go on the defensive.
‘I can’t organise weddings. I’ll end up ruining them!’ There’s a squeal of panic in my protest. ‘I left my London job years ago.’ Once upon a time I was a food designer, working in food development. Remember hedgehog flavour crisps? They were my baby. And my salmon en croute for a certain famous supermarket scooped all the awards. As did one extra special luxury Christmas pudding, with almonds and Cointreau. And my Huggie Bear Birthday Cake was a huge best seller. But that was another life. Since I moved back to Cornwall all I’ve done is run around after Brett and play at making cakes.
Immie jumps in. ‘You could easily fit the Daisy Hill job around your cakes, and the extra cash would come in handy.’ As a single mum at uni, Immie knows all about juggling jobs to make ends meet. And she’s not wrong about the money either. I’m ashamed to admit how much I’d come to rely on a well-paid boyfriend.
‘Seriously, Poppy, you could do this in your sleep. You deal with brides all the time.’ Cate’s tone is persuasive. ‘It’s only until the autumn. And I need you.’
My mind flashes back to the fields in Rose Cross, and the mud. A job on a farm would be my worst nightmare, even if it did involve weddings.
‘But I’ve got no actual experience.’ I might as well point it out.
Cate brushes that aside. ‘If we’re going to save my wedding you’re damn well going to have to blag it.’ Her cheeks are flushed now. ‘You’ve had the insiders view from so many brides, you’re practically an expert already.’ She gives a triumphant shake of her fist.
‘Exactly.’ Immie is cheering her all the way. ‘And I’ll be there for back up, if it all goes tits up.’
‘Tits up?’ I echo. If I had any sense, this is the moment I should have run. But Cate is my best friend, and she needs me.
The look Cate flashes Immie for the tits up mention is filthy. ‘We’re talking a few tiny weddings here. There won’t be any problems.’ Her voice is soothing. ‘Please Poppy, give it a go, just for me?’
Cate’s been like a big sister to me all my life. The last few months she’s really looked after me, and this is one way I can show how truly grateful I am. I need to man up, and save the day for Cate.
At Daisy Hill Farm: Nothing personal
‘I can’t believe I’ve been working up here all this time and you haven’t visited before.’ Immie is hurrying across the cobbled courtyard of Daisy Hill Farm to meet me, as I clamber out of my car next morning. She’s arranged an interview for me with the owner of the farm, Rafe.
‘Maybe it’s because I avoid farms like the plague.’ I point out. ‘Fields and cows and windy days are why I live in town, remember?’
Immie and Cate weren’t going to hang about. They abandoned all thoughts of bridesmaids’ dresses yesterday, and got straight onto beautifying my CV. But whoever heard of an interview on a Sunday?
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.’