The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

‘Whereas you had so much, and still turned out moody and bad tempered,’ I snap back. That came out more harshly than I intended, but maybe someone needs to tell him.

He comes straight back at me. ‘Well, sorry I don’t go round wearing spotty wellies and thinking the whole world should be made of sugar, but some people have responsibilities.’

I had no idea he’d even noticed Cate’s red boots. What kind of guy takes offence at wellies?

He gives a snort. ‘And just so you know, in-your-face red hair might match your name, and it might be fine if you want to scream “happy hippy”, but I’m not sure it sends out the right message for a Wedding Coordinator.’

I’m wearing borrowed wellies, have go-wild-after-break-up hair, and I’ve been thrown into the job. I take a minute to collect myself in the face of that attack.

‘Actually, I’m not a Wedding Coordinator, I’m an Events Manager according to you.’ I throw that at him for starters. And whereas I might have been thinking along those lines myself about the hair a couple of weeks down the line, now he’s been so rude, I’m damned if I’m going to tone it down. ‘As for my name, I’m called after the blue poppy, not the red one.’ My mum’s favourite flower, our garden was bursting with them. ‘Known as meconopsis.’

His only reply is to lean forward and flick on the stereo, and we roar up the lane back towards the farm. Oasis blasts away the silence, and the beat is loud enough to make my head throb. As we pass the farmhouse Immie is there waving her arms, and there’s lucky respite as Rafe cuts the music and slides open the window.

‘You two getting on okay? No more falling in ditches I hope?’ She asks with a breezy laugh.

I’d say overall it’s a big fat ‘no’ to both those questions, but she isn’t waiting for an answer.

‘By the way Rafe, Morgan texted, says he’ll be round to help with the engine rebuild later,’ she adds.

‘Fine.’ Another monosyllabic reply from Rafe.

Immie’s fourteen year old son, Morgan, has morphed from a sweet boy to a monster overnight due to a testosterone rush. That’s Immie’s description, not mine. But if Rafe is an example of Immie’s choice of fun male role models to keep Morgan out of trouble, I feel sorry for poor Morgan.

‘We’re just off to see the venue field, I’ll be back for him in a bit.’ Rafe says, as he slams the window shut, and then we’re bouncing off down the lane again.

As he turns through a gateway with an open five bar gate, I’m a) still fuming b) thinking we need some signage.

‘So what would yours be then?’ His question comes from nowhere as we skid down a field.

‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.

‘Your birthday cake. What kind would you make for yourself?’

Who’d have thought he’d ask that?

‘A summer garden, bursting with flowers.’ Easy to answer. ‘And I might not have a cake, I’d probably make a cupcake tower.’

Too much information there obviously, given he’s shaking his head again, but then he pulls to a halt in front of an open barn, and my eyes go wide.

‘This is it,’ he says, with a ‘take it or leave it’ shrug. ‘Ceremony in the building, marquees anywhere on the grass, and car parking in the next field beyond the trees. Nothing more to it than that.’

I know I shouldn’t be gushing, but my surprise whooshes any remaining crossness away. ‘It’s so pretty.’ Even on this grey winter’s afternoon it’s beautiful. With the carved wooden pillars across the front of the open barn and the ancient flag floor, I can imagine it festooned with garlands of summer flowers. As I take in the field rolling gently down past a fairy wood to a stream, I can suddenly see why Cate has set her heart on marrying here.

Rafe flings open the tractor door and jumps out, and cold air floods into the cab, along with the most disgusting stench.

I bury my nose in my sleeve as I clamber down after him. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘The smell?’ His expression suggests amusement, but on second glance it’s more of a grimace than a smile. ‘Muck spreading in the next field.’ He folds his arms. ‘Is there a problem?’

Obviously he doesn’t think so, despite the stink being enough to make me retch. I peer over the hedge. The grass is covered with a thick brown mat of what looks like cow poo.

‘You aren’t going to …’ My voice is coming out as a squeak. ‘You aren’t going to do that in this field are you?’

‘It’s next on the work sheet,’ he says, as if it’s the most matter of fact thing in the world.

‘Are you mad? You can’t have brides wading through …’ I man up and say it. ‘… cow shit.’

He doesn’t flinch. ‘Don’t worry, a bit of spring rain, and it’ll soon soak into the ground.’ Spoken like a farmer talking to a townie, not a wedding venue owner talking to his Events Manager.

My brain whirrs. This is another thing I needed to tell him. ‘The first booking is at Easter.’

He looks unruffled.

‘Which is the 25th of March.’ As I count back in my head my hands go clammy. ‘That’s only five weeks away.’ I might just be shrieking now. It’s going to take a deluge of rain to clear this lot by then.

The way his mouth is set, he almost looks jubilant. ‘As I said before, it’s over to you now. That’s your problem, not mine.’

Last week I might have let that go. Ten minutes ago I might have shied away. But thanks to the cow shit, something’s shifted inside me. I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my Barbour and clench my teeth.

‘Fine.’ I stick out my chin, begin to take a deep breath, then think better of it and take a small sniff instead. ‘If I’m in charge, I say, we won’t be having muck spreading in this field, and we won’t be having it in the surrounding fields either. Is that clear?’

I reel at how decisive I sound.

‘I’ll stop it then,’ he mutters. ‘But it won’t be good for the soil in the long term.’ With a loud sigh he turns away and gets out his phone.

‘Soil isn’t my problem,’ I hiss.

No, my problems are way bigger. Like how to deal with the nightmare known as Rafe Barker. And how to prepare for a wedding, in only five weeks’ time, when, thanks to the chaos left behind by Carrie, I don’t have the first clue how to get in contact with the bride and groom.

9 (#ulink_e52d1868-c2e3-5903-b4fe-932b200e9257)

In my flat at Brides by the Sea: Anyone like a cupcake?

After the shock of the news that her wedding venue was under threat, Cate didn’t want to tempt fate and look at bridesmaids dresses last Saturday. But now her wedding’s back on track, we’ve arranged to look at the bridesmaids’ dresses after work today. And to put us in the country wedding mood, I’m making a last minute batch of cupcakes. So I’m in my cosy, pocket handkerchief size kitchen, sprinkling sugar daisies on top of swirls of lemon buttercream when Immie’s text arrives.

I’m here, I’m early, are you in? xx

She’s not kidding about early. I was counting on another half an hour to finish the cupcakes, and to get changed. Dragging off my apron, I clatter down four flights of stairs, and fling open the door to find Immie, legs bowing under the weight of a huge box.

I waft her into the hall with a couple of air kisses. ‘I didn’t know you were bringing dresses.’

‘I’m not.’ Her frown is uncertain. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to kill me for this, but I had a tutorial in Falmouth, so I’ve been round to see Brett.’

‘What …?’ I open and close my mouth, as I collapse quietly against the door frame, but nothing more comes out.

‘After what you said about Carrie’s stuff, I thought it was time you had yours.’ Immie blows out her cheeks. ‘Actually the car’s rammed.’

What …? At least she has the decency to look slightly shame faced, which doesn’t happen often with Immie.