Four Weddings and a Fiasco

I laugh, a bit hysterically if I’m honest, and fold my arms. ‘Fine, thanks. Just – er – scaling the fence. Always good to keep active.’ I nod at his running shorts, hoping to indicate a common interest.

‘Active?’ His grin is incredulous and I feel myself blush. ‘I think you might need a bit more practice.’ He indicates the fence. ‘Unless you want to go around actively maiming pedestrians.’

He rotates his right foot, a little gingerly, then tries putting his weight on it.

Oh, shit! He’s obviously injured.

‘Did I do that?’ I wince. ‘Sorry.’

He dismisses this with a little shake of his head. Then he bends to retrieve my parcel and I swear I hardly notice his bum and his long, beautifully flexed thighs.

He hands me the brown bundle, which is now a water-logged, soggy mess. ‘Hope it’s nothing too important?’ His expression softens into a smile.

I smile back as a surprising feeling trickles through me, making my eyes widen in a ‘hey, I remember that sensation’ sort of a way. (It’s been a couple of years, at least.)

I’m vaguely aware I should be upset about the album, but what comes out of my mouth is, ‘God, no. It’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I swallow hard, imagining how horrified Rose would be if she could see her album now.

‘Nice piano.’ He nods as the men slam the back doors of the van and climb in, preparing to move off. ‘Are you selling it?’

‘Yes. Do you want to buy it?’

He frowns at me. ‘No.’

I give myself a swift kick in the shins. Metaphorically speaking. Do you want to buy it? Chrissakes, where did that come from? No wonder he’s looking at me like I’m one leg short of a baby grand. Apart from anything else, I’ve already sold the bloody thing. It’s currently bouncing on its merry way to a Mrs Turner in Easthaven.

‘Right,’ I mumble, feeling escape is my best bet. ‘Got to pet to the ghost office.’

‘Sorry?’ His brows knit in further confusion.

‘Post office!’ I yelp. ‘Got to get to the post office.’

Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me?

Cheeks well alight by this time, I raise my hand and march off with the soggy parcel under my arm, painfully aware I’ve left him bemused. Probably wondering what sort of a halfwit climbs over the fence instead of using the gate like most normal people.

It’s only when I’ve turned the corner at the bottom of the street that it occurs to me I can’t possibly send the album off in this wrecked brown paper packaging.

But I can’t just do a U-turn. What if Runner Man is still watching? What if I have to cheerfully explain that I actually hadn’t noticed the shagging dirty marks and the wodge of something revolting that’s completely obscuring the address?

I sidle back to the corner and, feeling like a total fruit loop who’s been allowed out for the day, peer furtively along the street, clutching my damp parcel.

Phew! The coast is clear.

He must have run the other way.

‘I’d use the gate next time,’ says a voice behind me, making me jump.

Runner Man speeds past me with a cool, backwards wave, and slows to cross the road.

He half-turns his head and grins. ‘A fence can get caught in all sorts of tricky places.’

TWO (#u8e9ed7bc-89ce-59da-b6c9-7cad0abacc9b)

It’s almost March.

Every day this week, the residents of Willows Edge have awoken to blue skies and a silvery frost on the trees at the edge of the village green and on the roof of the cricket pavilion.

But as I walk the familiar route to the little row of shops that borders the green, I can see signs that spring is on its way. Little clumps of crocuses, in brilliant shades of violet and egg yolk yellow, are bravely defying the cold snap, and the daffodils are beginning to push through.

As a child growing up in the idyllically pretty village of Willows Edge, I took my surroundings completely for granted.

I wasn’t especially interested in the way the houses in the village centre were ranged so picturesquely around the village green and how the row of stylish and colourfully painted shops lured customers in with their tempting window displays. People came in from neighbouring villages to shop for their weekend croissants and Danish pastries at the family-owned bakery; to sip hot chocolate in the welcoming warmth of Rosa’s coffee shop; eat their ploughman’s at The Bunch of Grapes, just off the main street; and to wander into the pretty church with its ancient bell tower and low porch, set back from the green and shaded by willow trees.

The greengrocer’s on the main street was forced to close when people started shopping at the new express supermarket, but apart from that, the village has managed to retain all its charm.

It wasn’t until I moved away, first to college then to London for work, that I started looking at Willows Edge in a new light and realising how special it actually was.

This afternoon, my destination is the florist’s.

The shop owner, appropriately named Daisy, greets me with a cheerful smile.

Daisy is about my age with long dark hair in a ponytail and her one-year-old, Luke, almost permanently welded to her hip. Like the bakery, the florist’s is a family-owned business and Daisy recently took over the reins.

‘Hi Katy. How’s things? Are you doing Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’

‘I am indeed.’ I smile at her. ‘Three weeks on Saturday. You?’

Daisy has a crack of dawn start on wedding days, driving up to the London flower markets to buy her blooms dewy-fresh.

She nods and hoists Luke higher on her hip. ‘It’s going to be a wedding with a difference by all accounts.’

Luke gurgles and holds out a pudgy fist towards me.

‘It certainly is, Lukie,’ I say in a sing-song voice, bending towards him and tickling his cheek.

He biffs me smartly on the nose. It takes me by surprise and makes my eyes water.

‘Celebrity-style, I hear,’ says Daisy, after gently reprimanding Luke. ‘Are you going in fancy dress?’

I grin. ‘No, thank goodness. I’ll be blending into the background, as usual.’

‘Well, what can I do you for today?’ She places Luke in his bouncy chair and clips him in.

I glance around at the floral displays, breathing in the heady mix of scents and wondering how much a small bunch of freesias will cost. I hate having to skimp when it comes to my best friend’s birthday, but I know Mallory understands. In fact, she’d tell me off if I spent too much on her.