Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop. Jane Linfoot
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‘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.
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