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

‘I’ll think of something,’ she laughs back, pulling her collar up against the cold. ‘There are lovely white roses and blue anemones in that bunch, so I won’t mind if I do catch it.’ She gives my arm a prod. ‘From the smile that handsome young chap by the bar gave you as we passed, I’d say you’re in there, even without the flowers.’

As we move out across the floodlit herringbone brick paving, I send Jess an eye roll over the top of Mrs K’s head, but she’s too busy agreeing with Mrs K to notice. Eye rolls to that too.

Now we’re outside, I can see there’s been a makeover here too. We used to hang out here as teenagers on summer evenings, with our lemonade shandies and cream sodas, but the rough ground has given way to a neat lawn and timber edged borders.

I’m not wasting any time. ‘Okay, let’s talk avoidance tactics. How about we head for the trees?’ Newly planted, in the shadows at the far end.

‘Good thinking.’ Jess gently passes Mrs K onto one of the women already bouncing on the front line. Talk about pushy. Some of them have even tossed aside their heels. Whatever happened to spiking the grass?

I shudder as I see their toes gripping the mud. ‘What a nightmare. It’s like school PE class all over again.’ My least favourite lesson. Along with maths. And science. As for competitions, I’m the world’s most disinterested competitor. Although if there was a competition for that, obviously, I’d be completely true to myself, and wouldn’t bother to enter.

‘Jules, it’s great to see you, and just in time for the scrum.’ It’s Jess, greeting her tamest, most blue eyed, floppy haired photographer. It might be my imagination, but his trademark pricey aftershave cloud seems even stronger in the dark. Jess narrowly misses getting swiped round the face as he flicks back his multi-coloured scarf. Even though she must have seen him already today, she stretches up to give him a peck. This isn’t just an air kiss either, it’s a maximum effort, lips-to-cheek job. Given how hard she’ll have leaned on him to come up with a best moments wedding album for a tiny fee for the Sams, it’s the least she can do.

‘Happy catching. Watch out for the water.’ Jules gives me my own wave, and bounds off to where Sam is positioning herself, flowers in hand, back towards us, by the pub doorway.

‘Water?’ Jess laughs, and does a funny little purr. ‘That boy is such a tease.’

I’m rubbing my arms because they’re freezing. I mean whose idea was it to come out here in February, when we could easily have gone through the whole charade on the dance floor?

‘Okay, here we go. It’s happening.’ At last. Given we’re well to the right, and so far away we’re almost in the darkness, I reckon we’re entirely out of range. From what I remember from netball at school, Sam’s even weedier than me when it comes to throwing.

‘One two three … THROW!’ That’s Jules. Whatever the wedding situation, he can’t resist taking charge.

Sam swings her arms and there’s a grunt as she lets go of the flowers. Then the bouquet flies upwards towards the starry sky. In a split second it’s already soared way over Mrs K’s head. It’s a strange spectacle when you’re completely detached and disinterested. There’s a flurry of disappointed moans as out-stretched arms drop, and heads along the entire front row turn to watch. The bouquet rises, tracing an extraordinary arc through the air. If Sam had been a champion hammer thrower, it couldn’t be travelling any faster. It’s hurtling safely to our left, then at the last moment it veers off like some kind of guided missile. The next thing I know, there’s a thump in my solar plexus, and I’m looking down at a bloody bouquet in my stomach.

‘Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhh.’ Horrified doesn’t begin to cover it. I fend off the flowers, flapping my hands, as if I’m shooing away a dog. Bouncing them as if I’m playing beach volleyball. There’s the feeling that if I don’t actually grasp the bouquet, it doesn’t count. I stagger backwards, make a feeble two handed re-launch, and spin it to land on Jess’s chest.

‘For chrissakes, Lily …’ Jess snaps.

But it’s too late. She’s put two hands on it. So now it’s nothing to do with me – it’s hers.

Phew. For a moment, there I thought I might have to go through the whole damned wedding hell again. Talk about near misses.

‘There’s no denying, you did catch it.’ Jess is talking at me through gritted teeth. ‘Or more importantly, it chose you. It was really quite extraordinary the way it did that.’

‘Yeah right.’ I don’t give a damn, because she’s the one holding it now.

Her nostrils flare. ‘It’s only a bit of fun, Lily. It’s not real, you do know that?’ She runs a critical finger over the edge of a rose petal, reminding me she was the one who put it together this morning, although frankly it’s too dim to see much at all. ‘I’ll give it to Mrs K, she’ll be delighted with it.’

‘Great, good idea, whatever …’ My one step backwards, into the shadows, is meant to distance me. Metaphorically rather than physically. Like stepping over a line in the sand. Especially as the crowd is moving towards us en masse, all clamouring to see who got the bouquet.

One step, but it feels like I’ve stepped off the edge of the world. The grass isn’t there, and my foot plunges over one of those dratted pieces of timber edging. Platform heels are nothing like as stable as the name makes them sound. When I topple, it’s backwards, in a series of staggers. I’m preparing myself to end up flat on my back in a border, with everyone gawping at me. Bad enough, but I’ll have to handle it. Then something whacks me on the back of the calves, and tips me over. The toppling I was doing before is nothing compared to this. As I plummet into oblivion, instead of the thumping impact of my backbone on soil, there’s a huge splash.

‘Waaaaaaaaa‌aaaaaaaaaaaahhh …’ Every bit of air leaves my lungs as I plunge into freezing liquid. Even my shriek dwindles to nothing. I’m not sure if my skin is burning hot or ice cold. What I am is wedged. Totally stuck. With my bum, head and body in sub-zero water and my knees hooked over some kind of wall.

Jess’s voice is a squawk. ‘Good heavens, Lily, Jules did mean real water. How could we miss an above-ground pond?’

‘Did someone call me?’ A second later, Jules’ telephoto lens is pointing down at me.

Spluttering through clenched teeth, I point at his camera. ‘Don’t you dare!’ Seeing a couple of open mouthed faces appearing, I let out a wail. ‘Don’t just stand there, get me out …’

Out of nowhere some broad shoulders are blocking the sky, and strong fingers close around my wrist. ‘Great attention-grabbing stunt you pulled there. But we’d better get you back on dry land.’

Just my luck to get an ironic one. Where was lovely Chas the fireman when I needed him? Although on second thoughts, as Immie’s spectacularly absent too, don’t answer that. There’s a sudden panic I’ll be too heavy for this guy to lift dry, let alone wet. But I needn’t have worried. One easy yank later, I’m upright, water sluicing down onto my shoes. Even if I’m giving mental groans at how an LK Bennett dry-clean-only suit will stand up to a soaking, the good news is that somehow my Kurt Geigers stayed out of the water.

Despite my convulsive gasps, and the dimness of the garden up-lighters, when I look up the eyes I meet are smoky grey. They’re also disarmingly familiar considering they belong to a stranger. From the way his lips are twitching there’s a laugh bursting to get out. And he’s right about the audience. Beyond the straggling curtain of my hair, I make out a circle of wedding guests, clapping.

As I scrape the pond weed out of my eyes, my other hand is still clasped in his.

‘We might as well get the introductions out of the way.’ He gives another tug on my hand, and lets his smile go. ‘I’m Kip Penryn. Happy to drag you out of the carp pond.’

Penryn. I’m half way to being dazzled by the charm of it all, when the filing system in my brain catches up, and my stomach sags. Then shrivels. Back in the day Penryn meant rough denim, hot skin, and more brothers you could comfortably count on one hand. A motherless hoard, who descended on their uncle’s second – or third – home every summer. They’d roar in to the big house, and disappear just as fast. Wildly unreliable, and between them they covered every kind of bad. Filed under ‘B’ for ‘best forgotten’. At least that explains my racing heartbeat. Sending female pulses soaring off the scale is programmed into the Penryn DNA.

I drag myself back to reality. ‘A carp pond? At the Goose and Duck? Aren’t carp huge? I could have been eaten.’ Bloody Alan Titchmarsh has a lot to answer for.

‘Probably only goldfish in there.’ He leans closer, examining the leaf he drags out of my hair. ‘And water lilies, by the looks of this.’ Now that super-smile of his has gone, he’s back to the kind of hollow cheeked chic we all know is best avoided.

‘So what are you doing here … Kip, is it?’ I’m ransacking my brain, trying to remember all the names. And work out if we’ve met before. That’s the other thing with Penryns. There’s no point backing off, you have to face them out.

‘Apart from rescuing drowning damsels?’ He gives another sardonic laugh. ‘I’m from the exclusive local wedding venue, Rose Hill Manor.’ Many more laughs like that could get annoying.

‘Right.’ Two out of ten for an answer that explains zilch. But the Manor’s where Sera-the-dress-designer’s sister got married at Christmas. They only have about two friends-and-family weddings a year there. Which is a bit of a strange thing to refer to, but whatever. There’s something about him that makes me push. ‘So how come you know Sam, whose wedding we’re at now?’

‘I don’t.’ His shrug is unrepentant. ‘I dropped in for supper at the pub, and had to settle for left over hog roast. That’s why it’s worth paying for an “exclusive use” wedding venue every time.’ He actuallydoes the finger wiggle speech marks. And there’s that damned laugh again. ‘Exclusive use means you avoid random strangers like me looking for pasties and crashing your wedding party. As you’ve found out, it’s well worth paying for.’

What a disgusting attitude. As for him scoffing the hog roast, I’m so angry I’ve practically got steam coming out of my suit pockets. I’m opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish – or maybe a carp – because I’m in so much of a rage the words won’t come out. But then a knight in shining armour walks in to fill the gap with his smile.

I’m joking here, obviously. It’s Rafe’s friend who was waving at me earlier. Wearing a three-piece tweed and brogues, not chain mail. As he shoulders Kip out of the way, he’s whipped off his jacket. And he’s holding it out to me.

‘You’re shivering. Here, take this.’ His Cornish burr is soft after Kip’s clipped moneyed vowels. ‘We’d better get you inside.’

The jacket’s heavy as it wraps around me, but it immediately stops the wind. As for my knight, he’s all boy-next-door, and close up his smile is even easier than it was from across the room. Which is way less disconcerting than the Penryn high-wattage version.

‘Here, take these …’

If I’d actually got around to shutting my mouth, I needn’t have bothered. The next moment, he’s handing me his waistcoat, and what the hell …? He’s pulled his shirt off over his head, and he’s handing me that too. I try to make my eyes less wide. Close them even. Not that I’m an expert, but as torsos go, this one’s ripped.

‘If you wanted a stripper, you only had to say …’ It’s Kip, laughing in my ear, before backing off across the grass. ‘Catch you later, Water Lily.’

What? I stamp on the shiver that rattles through me. The name thing has to be a coincidence. He can’t know me.

‘He’s right, we should go inside.’ It’s Jess, her hand on my arm. ‘Fabulous apps though.’ She’s not wrong. Apart from the obvious.

‘Abs, not apps.’ However many times I say it, it doesn’t go in. ‘Apps are on your phone, Jess, abs are …’ I stop short of drawing any more attention to what’s right in front of our noses. Despite the over-powering smell of wet pond, the scent coming up from the jacket wrapped around me is a lot like Jules. Only considerably more subtle.

Jess is steering me back towards the pub. ‘We’ll dry you off, and get a taxi back to town.’

But Rafe’s bare chested friend is on our heels, protesting. ‘You can’t leave now. There’s clearly enough clothes here for both of us.’