Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

Random guys hurling themselves at me is the last thing I want. And I’m not about to bend my rules now. Not for anyone, no matter how much I covet their jeans. The faster I stop this, the better for everyone. What’s more, I’m horribly aware that the whole café is watching us like we’re some kind of floor show. There’s no time to lose, so I launch.

‘Sorry,’ I say, throwing in the most distant, yet benign and unsexy, smile I can muster. ‘I’m going to cut you short here, Quinn. Because I’m reallynotinterested.’ I’m actually feeling bloody empowered here. Not to mention proud of myself, for the small detail of slipping in his name too. ‘It’ll save us both a lot of time and trouble if I’m honest here,’ I add, by way of explanation. Because although I want to sound decided, I don’t want to come across as a complete bitch. Especially as we’ve got an audience.

The way his eyebrows shoot up, I’m guessing he’s not used to getting the knock back. Which is very probably the case, because close up, he’s even more delectable than he was from across The Shack. But something about his surprise supercharges my new-found confidence. I’m on a roll here.

‘Pickups by strangers really aren’t my thing.’ I say, and fix my smile, determined to hold it until he’s backed off. ‘So, thanks, but no thanks.’

I look back at my hot chocolate, give it another stir. And wait for him to go. How much more of a dismissal does Quinn Pen-whatever he’s called expect? He’s still here, because when I look down I can see those distressed boots of his. Which is the exact point I remember that eternal question we were obsessed with at school. That thing about the relationship between a guy’s shoe size and something else significant. Which, embarrassingly, is exactly what I’m staring at, at table level beyond my hot chocolate. If schoolgirl legend is true, and there is a link between the two, his feet are going to be size twelves. At least.

Screwing up my eyes to block out the view, I will Quinn to leave. To make it clear that I’ve moved on with my life, and I expect him to do the same, I take a massive gulp of hot chocolate. As my cup clatters back down, Poppy begins to flap again. From the way her eyes are popping like saucers, I’m guessing she’s trying to tell me something hugely important. But I’m not getting it. As she draws her forefinger under her nose, my frown deepens. If this dammed Quinn wasn’t still hanging around, Poppy and I would probably have collapsed in a heap of giggles by now.

Finally I give in. ‘What?’ I hiss at Poppy across the table.

There’s a low growl, which seems to be coming from Quinn. As I turn my face towards his, I see he’s biting his lip and holding in his laughter.

‘Don’t worry, Sera.’ Quinn says, completely misreading my feelings. ‘We’ve all been there. Chocolate moustache alert!’

He swoops, napkin in hand. Before I know it, he’s right in my personal space, dabbing at my upper lip. By the time I’ve formed my squawk of protest, he’s backed away again.

‘All done.’ He’s scrunching up the serviette and rubbing his hands on his thighs. ‘Drink up, then, and I guess we’re good to go.’

I tilt my head and my voice rises in disbelief. ‘Go where exactly?’ Surely I couldn’t have been clearer?

‘I know you were sounding reluctant before, but we do have a date.’ He slides out his phone, with a twitch of those lips of his. ‘Ten at the Surf Shack? Alice and Dan’s wedding? Ring any bells?’ He wrinkles his forehead.

Triple shit. There are times when you want a tidal wave to rush in from the sea and whoosh you away. And this has to be one of them. I’m frantically clutching my cardigan sleeves, winding my foot around my leg under the chair, as I try to hang in here. Surely this can’t be? Or can it? ‘Right, so you’re…’ This is so embarrassing, and what’s more, if I try to apologise that will only make it worse.

‘I’m Quinn Penryn, Dan’s right-hand guy.’ He butts in, but the words come out slowly, one syllable at a time, as if he’s explaining to a child. He’s still smiling, but this time there’s less sparkle and more relief. ‘Great to have cleared that up. Good to meet you… at last… Sera.’ There’s the smallest ironic twinkle in his eye as he holds out his hand. ‘I must say, you’re very different from your sister.’

I’m not going to show how happy I am he’s noticed. I shrug. ‘What is there to say, she’s in Brussels, I’m here.’

‘And cutting too. This kitten has claws.’ There’s a glint in his eyes as he lets out a laugh.

Whatever. That wasn’t what I meant. But I can’t help being pleased I’ve surprised him.

He leans towards me. ‘This is going be a lot more fun than I’d thought.’

As his palm finally hits mine I throw myself into the handshake. But even as I’m grasping and shaking Quinn’s hand for all I’m worth, my brain’s jumped somewhere else entirely. So what the hell happened to Johnny, then? That thousand-to-one outside chance. The one that had me awake all night, rigid, in case it should happen. The reason I’ve had butterflies dancing in my stomach since the moment Jess closed the shop door after him yesterday. I completely refuse to believe that my stomach feeling like a wrinkled pancake now is down to disappointment that I’m not going to get to see him. That he was on his way to another wedding entirely.

Quinn’s voice pulls me back to reality. ‘These wedding plans are epic. We’re going to have such a blast…’

‘Sure,’ I say. Not that I’ve ever thought of Alice’s marriage quite like that before.

As I get to my feet and drag on my coat, out of the corner of my eye I catch Poppy’s manic double thumbs-up signs beyond the flashing fairy lights of the table decoration. And it’s not just because she’s going to snaffle the hot chocolate I’m leaving behind. If I’m doing mental eye rolls it’s because I can just imagine how this is going to get reported back to Jess. Essence and all.

As for me, I’ve no idea what’s coming. But that one enthusiastic burst from Quinn just put the next week in a whole new light.

5 (#ulink_f6c23d4a-e53f-5ec7-8e75-45bb40441470)

Saturday, 17th December

The sea front in St Aidan: Pretenders and parking tickets

‘So my wheels are right outside…’

At a guess, if Quinn’s chilled-out surfie style transfers to his transport, we’ll be trundling around in a clapped-out camper. Not that I’m a car snob – I can’t be, when I drive my gran’s cast-off mini, as rarely as I do. But whereas those characterful vans are fabulous fun in summer, their heaters are non-existent. Given it’s December, I’m preparing to freeze my butt off.

‘We’re over there, where the sand ends.’ As we cross the deck Quinn’s arm casually flops round my shoulder, steering me left. He’s come in so close behind me now, he’s bumping on my satchel.

‘It’s all double yellows, there’s a strict “no parking” policy, the wardens are like Rottweilers.’ I say, shivering as a gust of wind blows my coat open. He’s obviously got confused somewhere. But I might as well give him the benefit of my inside information, seeing as that’s what I’m here for. ‘Driving isn’t my strongest point, but people definitely aren’t allowed to park along here.’

‘I’m not “people”, Sera.’ He sounds indignant, as we clatter down the steps from the terrace to the seafront. ‘My policy is “park where I please”. I live dangerously, risk the wardens every time.’ As he pulls his keys from his pocket, he tosses them high and snatches them out of the air.

I blink as I hear a beeping and scan the empty seafront for a van. It’s only when the headlights flip up and flash, I notice a sleek, low car tucked in around the side of the Surf Shack. I try to make my eyes less wide and attempt to keep the surfie vibe going. ‘Your wheels?’ This serious bit of metallic London bling looks lost and out of place, up to its hubs in a sand dune.

‘Yep.’ He flings open both the doors and rips a plastic bag off the windscreen with a snort. ‘Complete with complementary parking ticket.’

‘What did I tell you?’ As I poke my head into the car, I’m met by the scent of leather with a heavy overtone of seaweed.

He dips into the car and grabs a damp wetsuit and towel from the front seat. ‘I’ll just put these in the back.’

I can’t hide my surprise. ‘You’ve been swimming?’ And there was I, writing him off as a pretender the minute I clapped eyes on the car.

‘I had a quick dip before we met up.’ He slams the boot and rubs his hand through his hair. ‘One life, live it and all that. It was damned cold, but it woke me up.’ Another of those understated shrugs, and the next minute he leaps into the driving seat.

When I attempt to do the same on my side of the car, I discover squeezing into the low, narrow seat isn’t as easy as he makes it look. Getting my legs into the foot well is about as easy as fitting a baby giraffe into a crisp packet. On the plus side, I’m guessing there’ll be a heater.

Quinn leans across me, flips open the glove box, and stuffs the crumpled-up parking ticket on top of a heap of others. ‘Into the filing cabinet. They’ll keep my PA busy in the lull after Christmas.’ He lets out a long sigh. ‘As for parking wardens, whatever happened to hanging loose in Cornwall?’ But the grin he sends me as he slams the glove box shut is entirely unrepentant.

I open my mouth, intending to expand on the perennial problem of narrow streets, tourist crowds and selfish parkers. But the engine roars, and the next thing, the wheels are spinning up a sandstorm. As we scream along the seafront at what feels like a hundred miles an hour, but may only be ninety-nine, I’m gripping the arm rests so hard my fingers hurt.

‘Mark Ronson okay for you?’ Quinn says, as he leans forward and flicks on the stereo. ‘We hang out sometimes, these are some of his unreleased tracks.’

Oh my. Is this guy is for real?

‘Great.’ I force out a smile and decide it’s not cool to ask if he means ‘the’ Mark Ronson. I’ve a feeling I should be reacting more to what sounds like plain old bass guitar with a drum backing. ‘Anything’s good for me.’ So long as it’s not “go faster” music. We’re going fast enough as it is.

By the time we hit the road out of St Aidan, I’m a) thanking my lucky stars the windows are tinted so no one will have recognised me in the car that broke the sound barrier going up the high street, and b) fully understanding the term white-knuckle ride.

As we zoom into open country, the winter landscape is passing so fast it’s little more than a grey blur, so I decide to look inside the car instead. Now I’m close enough to examine the stitches, Quinn’s sweater seems less surfer, more designer. As he rests his forearms on the steering wheel, he eases up a sleeve, and I let out a gasp. Tattoos? On Alice’s best man? Surely not?

I shuffle in my seat and end up resting my chin on my propped-up satchel. ‘So where exactly do you work into this wedding picture then? How do you know the happy couple?’ From where I’m sitting he seems an unlikely fit for one of Alice’s friends, for every possible reason.

‘Dan and I have an app-development company we started at uni.’ As he eases up his other sleeve the colours on his skin are dazzling. ‘Dan does the geeky code stuff, I’m the creative one with the street cred and persuasive powers.’ His sideways glance twinkles with a dash of self-mockery. And a bucketful of self-assurance. ‘I’m a no-brainer choice for best man.’

‘I see.’ It’s amazing how strangers can give you an immediate insight into what your soon-to-be family gets up to.

‘And I’m the one with the contacts too,’ he goes on, as he drags the car round a left-hand bend on two wheels. ‘Like, I arranged to borrow the wedding venue from my uncle.’ He’s definitely not bragging about it either. From his dismissive shrug he might be talking about blagging a box of chocolates for a raffle prize. ‘We all used to holiday down here at Rose Hill Manor as kids, so we know people in Rose Hill village. It’s the most magical place. My uncle mostly lives in London, and goes to Klosters for Christmas, so we had the perfect “in”.’