Summer at the Little Wedding Shop: The hottest new release of summer 2017 - perfect for the beach!

‘Nicole …?’ I haven’t totally seen her face, but the haze of Black Opium, and the faceful of fur are the giveaways.

‘And this is Miles … Miles, this is amazing Lily from Brides by the Sea, who found me my dress, and who’s going to be our wedding stylist.’

As Nicole relaxes her grip, I make a mental note to keep my toes well away from her bag.

‘Hello Miles, lovely to meet you.’ However big my smile, it’s going to be hard to live up to the build up.

‘You too, Lily.’ As he raises an ironic eyebrow and grasps my hand, he’s every bit as 007 as Nicole promised. A little bit older in real life than on his photo, but an impeccably cut suit lifts his ‘phwoar’ factor to a solid eight point five. Speaking impartially here, obviously.

‘Bolly for both of you?’ I’m joking, but when I pick up the bottle to fill their glasses, I’m spot on. Which is a teensy bit crazy, when Prosecco would have done the job. And in no way makes up for the cupcake deficit. As I hand them their flutes, I can’t help thinking it’s like Nicole and my mum got their men mixed up. But that’s entirely up to them.

‘Did someone say Bolly?’ This time it’s my mum’s head coming around the door, so they must have fast forwarded on the bedrooms.

‘You were quick.’ I manage a smile as they shuffle in.

‘There’s no time to lose, we need to do this.’ The corners of her mouth are white with excitement.

‘Have we met?’ Nicole butts in, staring at me expectantly.

‘Sorry, Nicole, Miles, David, and Barbara is my mum …’ I rattle off the names, and throw in an ice breaker. ‘You all got engaged on Valentine’s Day.’ I skip the Pirate FM bit. The sooner we forget that, the better.

When Nicole’s fist comes forward, surprisingly – or maybe, not – it’s not for a hand shake. ‘I’m so lucky, and isn’t this the most fabulous engagement ring?’ She’s waggling her rocks on her left hand, and seeking out my mum’s ring hand with the other.

I’m bracing myself, because if this is a bling competition there can only be one winner.

‘Ooooh, very Beyoncé.’ My mum’s smile freezes, as she pulls her hand away. ‘Actually, mine’s still being re-sized.’

So that explains why I haven’t seen it. More surprising still, now they’re closer, I can’t help notice her lips match Nicole’s. Bright pink Chanel Mighty. I’m still reeling at my mum’s bitchy return, trying to think of some way to move the conversation on when the door swings again.

‘So Bolly and bookings? Have we got any takers? Everything’s half price today.’

Okay, it had to happen. Kip does live here. I’d just hoped to avoid him. Less ridiculous than it sounds, seeing as he was doing such a good job of making himself scarce.

As he strides in his smile’s wide, and he’s rubbing his hands. Literally and metaphorically, no doubt. And if Penryns in denim are dangerous, in a dark jacket this one’s incendiary. Not that it matters to me though, because I know to keep a country mile away. At least.

‘So … we meet again. You really couldn’t resist my exclusive venue?’

Seeing he’s whizzed straight past four potential customers, to home in on me, I’m guessing his business sense isn’t as sharp as he pretends.

My mum jumps forward. ‘This is Lily, she’s my daughter …’

If she asks him for a date on my behalf I’m going to expire. But I’m saved because Nicole’s straight in there.

‘But much more importantly, Lily’s from Brides by the Sea, and she’s my wedding stylist.’ If she lost out in the ring tussle, she’s not backing off now. And professional trumps family every time. ‘We’re here to make a booking, and as we were in here first, it’s only right we get first go.’ She’s powered past us, plonked herself in the swivel chair, and she’s tapping an acrylic nail on the polished desk. ‘Although we will be looking for assurances of up-grades. Complimentary cocktails, snacks in the Bridal Suite, a hot tub on the lawn. You could do with having a wedding fair too.’

And that’s just for starters. Exactly why Poppy ran a mile. And Nicole’s barely begun. I must be mad thinking I’ll work for her.

‘Great.’ Kip sounds less excited then he might. ‘If I can get to my seat, we’ll see what we can do.’ He shepherds Nicole back around to the front of the desk.

‘Saturday August 12th, it’ll be our six-month anniversary, and we want two days before thrown in too, for styling.’

I should be grateful for the extra preparation time she’s grabbed, but instead my knees are actually knocking with nerves that it’s real. I’m sure that’s when Immie and Chas are tying the knot too. What are the chances of that?

Nicole dips into her bag. ‘Here’s the deposit.’ A shower of notes slithers across the desk. At least that explains why she needed such a humungous bag.

My mum’s low moan is so heartfelt, it almost has me looking for a wounded dog.

I turn to her. ‘You didn’t want that day too?’

She bunches up her mouth, and nods.

‘Too late, it’s taken.’ Nicole’s air punch is gloating. ‘Second best gets second place. Suck it up.’

I know I’m not ecstatic about my mum getting married. But right now I’d like to knock Nicole’s lights out. Or smother her. Or anything else that would silence her. What’s more, I can’t understand why any couple who’ve only been together a few months would put themselves under the pressure of organising a wedding. At such short notice too. It’s not as if they don’t know any better. They’ve all been there before.

From the way my mum’s mouth bunches, she’s not taking that lying down. ‘Lily’s never actually styled weddings before. So good luck with that one, Nicole.’ Ouch. With friends like my mum, who needs enemies? Although I’m probably the first ammunition that came to hand.

‘It always rains in August. September’s much sunnier,’ I say, momentarily putting to one side that my mum’s just dropped me in the shit, and wrecked my chance of a job. Am I a bitch for wishing torrential storms for Nicole? With any luck my mum will see this as a sign. Leave it until next year. By which time she might have come to her senses.

‘Whatever.’ Kip counts the cash and tries three drawers to find a pen. The way he reaches for an A4 ruled pad to write out a receipt sets my alarm bells ringing.

‘So what about corkage?’ I blurt it out before I can stop myself.

I’m no expert. But it’s to do with costs for opening wine, and every venue has a policy. It’s not exactly my business, but it is the perfect test question to see if he knows what he’s doing here.

‘Corkage?’ As soon as Kip repeats the word, he gives himself away. It’s obvious from the wiggles on his forehead he hasn’t the first clue what I’m talking about. A definite fail.

‘A list of approved caterers and suppliers? Price lists? Agreements?’ I watch his eyes widen as I screw him down, and his throat bulges as he swallows.

But a second later, he holds up his hand. ‘Not quite in place. Yet. Hence the stonking early bird discount.’ Talk about thinking on his feet.

‘So what else don’t you know about?’ I’m not the one making bookings here, but his don’t-give-a-damn attitude’s left me fuming. My voice soars. ‘These people are trusting you. You can’t mess around. We’re talking about the biggest days of their lives here.’

The smile’s vapourised, and his scowl is directed straight at me. ‘What exactly is your point?’

In other words, butt the hell out. But if he thinks I’ll back down, he’s wrong.

I make my eyes as cold as his. ‘If you can’t take a whole lot of heat, you really shouldn’t be messing around in this particular kitchen. Is what I’m saying.’ I suspect he hasn’t got any idea what he’s getting himself into here. And he could ruin a whole lot of hopes and dreams, as he claws his way up the learning curve. ‘Running a wedding venue is about a whole lot more than collecting the money, you know.’

Although, I might be talking to myself here, given my mum’s entirely engrossed flicking through a tiny diary, and David’s nodding wildly.

‘Right, that’s settled. We’ll take the third Saturday in September.’ My mum’s missed the whole altercation, and she’s hurtling towards the metaphorical cliff edge like a happy lemming.

‘What date’s that?’ Kip dips to scramble through the desk drawers, presumably searching for a calendar, but comes up empty handed. He drums his fingers expectantly.

‘16th September,’ my mum says, helpfully.

If I were a tiger, I’d be roaring. ‘An appointment book might work here?’ I’m spitting the words out. ‘Or is it too early for something so rudimentary?’ There’s no point telling him most venues have dedicated files, for years ahead.