Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!. Jane LinfootЧитать онлайн книгу.
sounding like she’s teasing, but we both know she’s not.
As her laughter fades, she gives me one of her stern stares. ‘You broke up with Luc almost a year ago now, though. It’s definitely time you moved on.’
‘That’s the problem, Pops. I haven’t even begun to think of myself as free.’ Saying it out loud now, I’m realising it’s totally true. My heart hasn’t actually let go yet. Although I’m not sure I can admit that to anyone.
Her smile is sympathetic. ‘What’s that old phrase? You’re still holding a candle for Luc, even though it’s over.’
My shrug is as noncommittal as I can make it. ‘Maybe.’ In truth it’s probably more like a bloody great beacon flare than a candle. Which is yet another reason why it’s best to push on here. ‘Anyway, I’d better get these cakes to Zoe. Before she spontaneously combusts. Or whatever it is brides do.’
If Poppy’s on the matchmaking warpath, I need to get the hell out of here. If I hang around with her in this mood, she’s so determined that I’m quite likely to get bumped into an arranged marriage before Zoe and Aidan even get to theirs. And if Poppy’s got Rory in her sights for me, all I can say is, her taste in other people’s men is appalling.
I hadn’t counted on bolting back down the yard so soon, or so fast. Although since I left the wedding venue a huge and fabulous winter wreath has appeared on the front door. The heavy twines of ivy and pale eucalyptus in a circle the size of a hoola hoop have me skidding to a halt on the flag path. How many ways are there to photograph a wreath this awesome? At least it takes my mind off Poppy’s shudderingly awful suggestion. It’s a perfect expression of winter against the warm sandstone, untinged by the negative overlay of Christmas. A broad hessian bow which trails to the floor. White frosted mistletoe berries against the dove grey paintwork. I admit I’m so lost in the prettiness of the moment I barely hear the car engine thrumming down the yard. And when I hear a shout, I jolt so hard I nearly drop my battery pack.
‘Holly Berry, what the hell? When did you join the paparazzi?’
Rory? I’ve been so busy worrying about being a wedding crasher and putting Poppy right, I’ve overlooked this particular pitfall in my day. And completely failed to have a contingency plan for it. Which is beyond stupid, given the guy’s staying in a holiday cottage barely a hundred yards away. I drag in a deep breath and repeat my mantra. Never rush. Take your time for that perfect shot.
‘Rory. And your beer-mobile. Great to see you too.’ I don’t need to look. Right now I can guarantee my cheeks are blazing red instead of deathly pale. ‘Haven’t you got some fizz to sell, or a brewery to go to?’
I don’t hang around to enjoy the moment my words hit his ears. Instead I fling open the front door, hurtle to the safety of the bustling venue interior and slam the door behind me. And even though the door is monumental, hand hewn from oak planks in the seventeen hundreds, when I lean my back against it, it’s still not thick enough to keep out the echo of Rory Sanderson’s laugh.
Tuesday 5th December
At Daisy Hill Farm House: Miracles and bows
‘Awesome transformation or what?’ Lily’s beaming at me as I come back in from the hallway.
And it’s true. She and the catering team have been working miracles while I’ve been away. By the time I wind my way through the area where the wedding breakfast will be held, the tables have been laid with snowy linen cloths and decorated with an array of lanterns, with buckets of gypsophila, vintage lilac roses and pheasant feathers, and hessian bows to match the outside wreath. Through the line of sash windows along one wall I can see across the garden, to where Kip and Rafe are walking across the back lawn. They’ve both swapped their jeans for dark suits. One note for fashion slaves, Rafe’s still wearing his Barbour too, for now. Although Poppy assured me earlier, it’s his best one. Definitely not the one he feeds the cows in then.
As I dip here and there clicking my shutter, the crystal ware and cutlery on the tables are sparkling in the light from the chandeliers above. Then I hurry through to the fabulous orangery, with its ancient black and white tiles and floor-to-ceiling windows, which is where the ceremony chairs are arranged. Each has its own hessian bow on the side, holding a bunch of gyp like a miniature snowstorm. There’s a fabulous grand piano in the room where the evening dancing will be, and that makes a lovely picture too. And for the sake of completion, I snap the Ladies, with its deep-blue painted walls and massive mirrors. Then I hurry along to the Dressing Room with my cake box, knock and tiptoe in.
I brace myself, then make the announcement. ‘I have cakes, ladies.’ I put down the box, and open the lid. ‘Obviously I need pictures first.’ Although, to be honest, any view of swirly icing, topped with silver balls was knocked out of the park by the sight of four bridesmaids in their ice cream-coloured robes, wrestling the cakes out of the box straight afterwards. I take it from the long line of empty fizz bottles in front of the mirror, which I also snap, that they’ve been binge drinking. Which might explain the no-holding-back cupcake rush. Then I whoosh in and deliver a cupcake to Zoe.
‘Thanks for bringing those, Holly. How’s my messy up-do?’ She points to her hair and pauses for my admiring glance. ‘It’s the only relaxed bit of the whole day I got past my mum.’ So that explains the string quartet tuning up outside. Also ridiculously photogenic. Jules doesn’t know what he’s missing here. But in addition to a chamber orchestra for later? From where I’m standing, still very much on the outside of the wedding scene, it all sounds like over-kill.
Although I mustn’t let my mind wander. That’s another cue for me there. ‘Gorgeous hair, Zoe. The diamond strands in there look amazing. If you hold still, I’ll just get those.’ And they’re done.
By the time I’ve taken shots of the girls right along the hair and make-up line, all the way into their bridesmaid’s dresses, I’m staring at the big clock on the wall and wondering where this morning went. And then Jules is here, arm in arm with Zoe’s mum, looking every inch her new ‘best friend forever’, as he marches her in to help Zoe into her dress.
One bark from him. ‘Okay, I’ve got this, now, Holly.’ I’m back to hovering in the background like a hawk, mopping up the leftover shots. Jules only broke his silence in the car to give a rundown of the occasions where he wanted me to shadow his shots. And to drum into me that for the rest of the time I had to be on high alert, every single second of the whole day, to cover the relaxed angle. It’s the candid shots that make the day, apparently, and they’re over in an instant. I need to anticipate each bridesmaid finally sinking into a chair and kicking off her shoes. The moment the hard man groomsman cracks and wipes away a tear. Every toddler yawning.
And then Kip’s at the door, calling. ‘Time for the bridesmaids, please.’ As he sweeps them away, Jules marches Zoe’s mum out too.
And now it’s just me, Zoe, and the hair and make-up ladies, unplugging their hair tongs, and packing up the lippy. Four empty chairs. And the rest of the room that looks like every suitcase on an entire luggage carousel just exploded.
Zoe’s standing, tugging at the satin of her dress, wagging her small bouquet, having the last pale brushstrokes added to her lips. ‘What happened to the last four hours?’ Her voice is rustling like tissue paper. And despite enough contouring and blusher to make her look like a supermodel, her skin looks the colour of parchment. ‘How can it be time? Am I even ready?’
‘You have to be more ready than I am.’ As I mouth the words silently, my stomach feels like there’s an iron hand gripping it. How ridiculous. I couldn’t feel more nervous if I was the one getting married. It’s as if I’m living the moment I’m never going to have with Luc.
It starts as the iron hand tightening on my guts, and it ends with me making a dash to the bride’s bathroom and hurling my non-existent breakfast down the luxury