Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop. Jane Linfoot
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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.’
‘Chill, Sera, you’ve done the most important thing for the morning. At least you’re dressed now.’ That same old smile is lilting around his lips. And no surprise he’s making a dig about the pyjama blunder. ‘As for the wedding, it’s all in the manual…’ He leans over and taps the file I’m clutching, then glances at his watch. ‘There’s time to whizz you round the rest of the ground floor before I leave for the airport.’
‘About that…’ I say, as we push through a door and I take in a series of simply furnished interconnecting rooms, which might have come straight out of an Elle Deco magazine. ‘How did you know I hated driving?’
‘The ceremony will be in what we call the winter garden, by the way.’ He pauses and points to a room with doors looking out onto the garden, then carries on where he left off. What begins as an elbow nudge, somehow ends up with his arm closing around my rib cage. ‘As for the driving, you’re neurotic about parking and a terrified passenger. I joined up the dots.’ The squeeze he gives me forces every bit of oxygen out of my lungs. ‘At a guess you’d rather fly to the moon than drive to Exeter? Which is why I’m going instead.’
Given I haven’t any air to form words, I nod and offer up a silent ‘thank you’ for what he’s saved me from.
‘You could always come too?’ he says, with a wistful look I can’t quite judge.
For a second the idea of racing across into the next county, even with Quinn driving like a crazy person, is quite appealing. Then reality hits. ‘Someone’s got to stay to let the ceiling guys in.’ How can he have forgotten that? Then another thought. ‘Plus, you’re driving a two-seater, and picking up Alice.’ Not to mention all the work there is to do.
‘Shit, so I am.’ He smacks himself on the forehead. ‘Maybe another time then.’
‘Great,’ I smile. Suddenly I don’t feel so bad about going out in my pjs.
He moves on through the house, talking as he goes. ‘My uncle calls this his “cottage by the sea”. He had it redone to look like a beach house a few years back.’ Quinn’s propelling me through the winter garden into an enormous room with sloping ceilings. ‘This was originally built as a ballroom. It’s perfect for the wedding breakfast and the party afterwards. This is where you’ll bring the guys to install the ceiling, okay?’
I screw up my face as I take in more white criss-crossing beams in the roof space.
Again Quinn reads my mind. ‘I don’t understand why Alice would want to hide this either.’ He gives a bemused shrug. ‘But she insists she wants a ceiling with stars that twinkle. They’re the current must-have. Can’t get married without one. It’s the same with the disco floor’.
‘What?’
‘Tut, tut, you really are behind on your wedding reading.’ His lips twitch into that grin again. ‘It’s a kind of electronic light-show dance floor that changes colour with the music. They’re very cool. It’s coming later in the week, once the sky is up.’
‘I suppose she’s only getting married once…’ I muse, wondering why the perfect uncluttered backdrops aren’t enough.
‘We are definitely doing this for one time only,’ Quinn echoes my thoughts as he whisks me through more rooms. As the white painted walls and floors give way to the polished stone and stainless steel of several interlinked kitchens, we come face to face with a wall of cardboard boxes.
The packaging is familiar. ‘Bedroom supplies, for here?’ I’m pointedly ignoring the tray of mistletoe.
‘I brought them in earlier. I thought you could put them out while you were waiting for the ceiling to arrive?’
‘Sure.’
Quinn must have had a very early start, then.
‘And not being sexist…’
I frown at him, because I’ve spotted an ironing board across the room, already erected. ‘But…?’
He nods at the boxes. ‘Somewhere in that lot there are a few hundred seat covers and bows that all need pressing. Don’t worry, the hire chairs have arrived, and they’re in the coach house.’
As it happened, I wasn’t worrying about chairs, because I don’t even know about them yet. I can’t believe he’s a) got so far ahead of me in the instructions, and b) is dishing out the jobs. Which actually is what I intended to do, but whatever.
‘Before you shoot me down, I can iron…’ he says. ‘I would iron… but I’m off to get Alice.’
Even though this arrangement couldn’t suit me better, I can’t resist staring at the creases on his shirt. ‘Yeah, I can really see how much you like ironing.’
‘Designer wrinkles.’ He laughs as he smoothes his hand over the cotton. ‘I prefer my clothes this way. Just like you obviously do with yours.’
Damn. Just my luck that the flowery silk cami I grabbed from the bedroom floor looks like the original crumple zone. Sometimes it’s best to back down gracefully.
‘Don’t