The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

The way he’s screwing up his face, we both understand. ‘But’ is the meaningful part of that sentence. No way is he inviting me and two sopping dogs into his precious Land Rover. He needn’t worry. Even if I did accept lifts from total strangers, I’m not about to ruin his up-market seat covers with puddles and labradoodle splatters.

‘I’m so sorry … don’t worry … it’s completely fine … we don’t have far to go …’ I’m doing it again. Babbling. And apologising. Both things that Immie’s trying to train me not to do. Anyone else but me would have managed to laugh it off by now with a witty quip about mud wrestling.

‘It’s no-one’s fault.’ He shrugs as he reaches for the car door. ‘Sorry all the same. I bet you didn’t plan on mud wrestling when you set out?’

There you go. Why couldn’t I do that?

As he moves back to the car his expression softens. ‘I guess I’ll see you around then.’

If he’s glad to see the back of us, the feeling’s mutual. ‘See you.’ I say this airily, safe in the knowledge that I absolutely won’t. Ever.

I know I should be over being embarrassed about stuff like falling into a ditch. And I’m working on it, okay? As long as the clean up doesn’t delay the shopping trip, the girls will most likely wet themselves laughing about it.

‘C’mon dogs.’ Two furry faces instantly turn to me. Mud up to their ears, but still looking like butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Hurry up, there are dresses to try on …’ As we set off, my wet jeans are stiff, and the water in my Uggs sloshes with every step, but for some reason my mouth still curls into a broad smile.

Land Rover Guy might have avoided me and the dogs muddying up his Landy, but from the mud slick on the back of his jeans, I’d say he’s going to leave a pretty good bum impression on the driver’s seat.

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At Brides by the Sea: Dimples and Saturday girls

Saturday is the busiest day at Brides by the Sea. As Cate and I push through the door on the dot of nine, the shop is already buzzing. We manage to pass the chaise lounge and the shoe cabinet without getting waylaid by any rampaging bridezillas. Then just as we reach the stairs Jess comes hurtling towards us, a dress in a cover in one hand, and a tiara and veil in the other.

‘Cate, lovely to see you.’ As Jess flies past she tosses us air kisses. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve sorted this pick-up.’

Cate, phone in hand, looks doubtful. ‘Sorry, it’s only me at the moment, apparently Immie’s running late.’

When she’s not studying for her psychology degree, Immie works at the local farm, running the gorgeous barn conversion holiday cottages. We know she’s delegated most of her jobs for today so she can come to the fitting so this must mean she’s tied up with her family. Immie has a shed-load of brothers who she hauls of trouble. Saturday mornings at the police station are a regular thing.

Dodging a large display of freesias, I call over my shoulder. ‘We’ll grab a coffee upstairs while we wait for Immie.’

Jess calls back through a cloud of tulle. ‘No worries. Come down to the Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut as soon as she arrives and we’ll go through the dresses.’

As we finally finish our climb to my attic, I drop my bag in the flat hallway, and lead the way to my kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’

One look at Cate’s pained face, and I turn on the oven.

She groans. ‘I’m ravenous, more so now I’m up here with the permanent smell of baking.’ She’s still battling to lose the baby weight from George in time for her wedding, although the curves really suit her. She gazes up at the shelves groaning under the weight of mixing bowls and wooden spoons and cake stands and recipe books.

‘I know it isn’t a tenth of the size of Brett’s place’ I say, assuming she’s making the comparison. ‘But I don’t miss getting the cake mix splatters off his expensive, polished surfaces.’ My baking things were the one thing I brought with me when I left.

Cate pulls up a stool. ‘This kitchen suits you way better.’ She leans to sniffs the daffodils in the red tin jug. ‘I love it because it feels so like your mum’s. When I think of all the wonderful cakes that have come out of your kitchens over the years, I’m drooling.’

‘How about I make pancakes while we wait for Immie? Or better still, muffins.’ I grab a bowl from the stack on the shelf, and I’ve cracked the eggs and added the oil and milk before she can argue.

Cate, Immie and I grew up together, breathing in the delicious smell of my mum’s baking. Cate’s mum worked at the bank and paid my mum to look after Cate from when she was a baby. Immie and her brothers all piled into the cottage next door where their gran lived, but from the day Immie learned toddle, she invariably ended up at ours. Not that my mum minded. She was on her own with me, so two extra made us more of a family.

‘Chocolate or blueberry?’ I ask, knowing Cate takes her five-a-day very seriously. She’ll always go for the healthy choice. As I whisk in the sugar, the batter begins to turn creamy.

Cate leans forward to sneak a finger into the mixture. ‘Pops, are you sure you’re okay with all my wedding stuff?’

As I tap my hand on the side of the sieve, the flour lands in a dimpled pile on the batter. ‘I work with brides every day, I can hear the word wedding without getting break-up wobbles.’ The funny thing is, when weddings do give me that lump in my throat it’s more because my mum isn’t here, than because Brett and I broke up. ‘It’s not as if Brett and I were even engaged,’ I say, to emphasise the point.

‘You may not have had the ring, but you were together a long time.’ Cate’s pats my hand on the way in for another dip. I’d have banned her from the kitchen for putting her fingers in the mixture if I were baking for a customer, but this morning I look the other way.

‘The trouble with the break up was when Brett went, my whole life went with him.’

I push a couple of baking trays and a stack of muffin wraps towards Cate. She knows how it feels to get dumped, so she goes out of her way not to flaunt the deliriously happy bride thing. Even though she had her heart truly trampled back in the day, she never gave up on love. Now she’s found Liam, who’s truly her Mr Right, she deserves a wonderful day. Cate has booked her dream wedding at Daisy Hill Farm just outside Rose Cross, where Immie looks after the holiday cottages. When they started doing weddings last year Cate was first to book. Believe me, she’s going to need acres for the size of wedding she has in mind.

‘Blueberry then?’ I grab a handful from the fridge.

‘How did you guess?’ She passes me the tins.

I spoon the mixture into the cases, then there’s a rush of hot air from the oven as I open the door, and push in the muffins. ‘Twenty five minutes, then we’re good.’

Her eyes light up expectantly. ‘Can I lick the bowl out?’

‘One condition.’ I grin. ‘No pink bridesmaids dresses. When you’ve got orange hair like mine you have to be very careful what you put it next to.’ Taking the scissors to my blonde ponytail was my way of rebelling after the break up. But I still get palpitations every time I catch sight of my spiky pixie cut. As for the home colouring, it’s nothing like as easy as it looks on TV. Last time I missed pillar box, and ended up vermillion. Seriously, Johnny Rotten in the butter advert was not the look I was aiming for.

Cate tugs her fingers through her layered bob as she ponders. ‘Pink dresses would look fab in a hay meadow, but there again …’ She grabs the mixing bowl. ‘Okay, you’ve got a deal.’

Cate’s still scraping her spoon around the bowl five minutes later when there’s a clattering on the stairs, and Immie bursts in.

‘Dean, drunk and disorderly, no charges, enough said.’ She throws her bag onto the table. ‘Sorry I’m late … can I smell muffins?’

‘Blueberry ones, they’ll be ready in twenty minutes.’

‘Okay, so where are these dresses then?’ She’s already got her ‘disgusted of Rose Cross’ face on. ‘With my short legs and my beer gut, I know I’ll look like a duck’s arse in most of them.’ She gives a determined jut of her chin. ‘Although Freda from the Goose and Duck says I’ll be fine so long as we stick with navy.’

‘Right.’ Cate purses her lips. ‘Blue is out because the boys have nabbed that.’

Immie gives a groan, and I’m ashamed to say I’m doing silent cheers. Navy’s not really my colour.

‘Actually there’s something I need to tell you before we get onto dresses.’ Immie’s frown lines deepen. ‘I’m so sorry, Cate, you might want to sit down. The word at Daisy Hill Farm is that Carrie the wedding planner has quit.’ Immie leans back against the work top, hands on her hips, to let the news sink in.

‘No.’ Cate’s face falls.

Immie’s looking grave. ‘It gets worse. Big boss Rafe is talking about pulling out of weddings altogether … as of now.’

Under her blusher Cate’s cheeks have gone three shades lighter. ‘He can’t … can he? We’ve already paid the deposit?! The wedding’s barely seven months away.’

Immie shrugs. ‘Who knows? The wedding planner went back to London for Christmas, and she’s decided not to come back.’

‘She took her time, it’s February now.’ Cate lets out a moan.

Immie carries on. ‘Rafe’s tried to replace her, but there aren’t many bookings, and the hours are erratic. Not to mention he’s not the easiest person to work with. Anyone decent runs a mile.’

Cate’s sigh is long. ‘Right. I’m not giving up on this. This is my wedding day.’ Her mouth hardens into a determined line. ‘I need to find someone to save the day and fast. I need a wedding coordinator.’ She turns on Immie and me. ‘Who do we know?’