Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

‘Come on in…’ The warmth hits us the moment Quinn pushes open the pale grey door of the cottage. He leads the way into a wide open-plan living room with exposed beams and whitewashed stone walls. ‘This is home… at least it is until we move up to the manor house for the wedding.’

Quinn wasn’t joking when he said the cottage is cosy. Daisy Hill Farm is the most amazing summer wedding venue, owned by Rafe Barker, who is the guy Poppy has finally got together with. I came up to the farm a couple of times last year with Jess and Poppy, but I haven’t been in the holiday cottages before. The converted outbuildings, clustered around a courtyard could literally have come off a picture postcard. And they’re the ideal accommodation for the guests who won’t fit into the manor.

When he kicks off his boots by the door, Quinn’s feet are bare, with traces of sand between his toes. ‘Help yourself to a hot drink,’ he says, nodding towards the kitchen area. After pushing on some flip flops, he strides across to a wood burner in a huge rustic fireplace, throws on a couple of logs, and rattles the fire back to life. ‘I’ll grab a quick shower and then I’ll cook. Farm eggs, scrambled, with local sausages and cherry tomatoes okay?’

By the time I swallow my drool enough to reply, he’s already disappeared to the bathroom.

Sipping hot chocolate, toasting my toes in front of a roaring fire, when we should be out collecting snow machines? As I look at it, I’m re-grouping. And making up for my previous slacking. And this time, curled up on a velvet sofa with lots of squishy cushions, and Alice’s Wedding Book resting heavy on my knees, I’m reading with a new urgency. And what’s more, I’m making sure every word of it is logged in my brain. So much for fast showers. I’ve actually got as far as page ten, when there’s a knock on the outside door. As there’s still no sign of Quinn, I go to answer it, and find Immie, the holiday-cottage manager, on the doorstep. Immie has known Poppy since they were toddlers. I’ve met her at the shop over the years and seen a lot more of her lately, with Alice’s wedding coming up. After a flying visit to see the venue, Alice has organised most things remotely, occasionally using me as go-between. So no one at the farm has actually met her in person yet.

‘I saw you and Quinn arrive, so I thought I’d pop over,’ Immie says, as I step back to let her in from the cold. ‘Alice rang to tell me you’re in charge for now, Sera. I’ve brought you a key for the office, so you can help yourself to all the cottage keys when you need them.’ She runs her fingers through the short spikes of her hair, dropping her voice as she comes in closer. ‘Between us, I’d rather not trust Quinn with it. I’ve known him a long time and I know he drives a flash car and he’s meant to be a squillionaire, but he’s also a bit “hello clouds, hello sky” when it comes to other people’s stuff. Always has been.’

Once I’ve got over the shock of my ‘in charge’ label, I can’t help smiling. Usually I’m the one who loses things. If they’re trusting me over Quinn, he must be a disaster.

As for access to the holiday lets, in the last twenty minutes I’ve discovered that Alice, bless her perfectionist heart, has a welcome pack waiting for every holiday cottage, with enough Christmas decorations to fit out Oxford Street. Which all need collecting and installing. No pressure there, then. I can see I’m not going to get to bed between now and the wedding.

As Immie’s Barbour gapes open, I notice she’s clutching a familiar fat file to mine. ‘You got one too?’ I ask.

‘Yes, Alice made this booking years ago, she’s covered every aspect. In spades.’ Immie gives the file a doubtful tap. ‘Although Alice has to realise, the best-laid plans can go tits up.’ From the snort she gives, Immie’s viewing the file as fiction rather than fact. ‘The good thing with weddings is it’s all between friends. Everyone pitches in and no one minds.’

The phrase ‘tits up’ makes my eyes go wide. As for ‘not minding’, that doesn’t sound like Alice. The slightest deviation from the plan, we’ll all be for the high jump. I hug my shoulders as a shudder ripples through me.

Immie laughs. ‘There’s no need to look that scared.’ Which obviously goes to show she knows zilch about Alice. ‘I know it’s a lot different from making those beautiful dresses, but we’ve all got your back until Alice takes over.’

Which is nice to know, but might not be enough. Some things it’s best not to think about, so I change the subject. ‘You sound like you know Quinn well?’

‘Hell yes.’ Immie’s dramatic eye roll says it all. ‘He used to turn up at the big house – Rose Hill Manor – every summer.’ She pulls a face. ‘When we were teenagers, we did a lot of underage drinking together at the Fox and Goose. Back then he was as bad as they make them, but charming with it.’ She gives a gruff laugh. ‘And I don’t think he’s changed any.’

Immie’s famed for telling it like it is. And the more she says about Quinn, the more it sounds like she’s got him to a ‘T’.

There’s a click as the bathroom door opens and the next moment we hear Quinn. ‘Who hasn’t changed?’

Shit. I wince as he saunters across the wooden floor, naked except for a hand towel knotted around his waist. Okay, on second glance – yes, I’ll admit I looked again – it’s a long way below waist level.

‘Bloody hell, sight for sore eyes or what?’ Immie shakes her head and groans. ‘Still just as much of an exhibitionist, I see.’

Right now I’m thanking my lucky stars Immie’s here to slap Quinn down. Although maybe this was all to wind her up. Whatever, I’m glad I’m not alone with this un-clothed version of the man, even if he does look completely relaxed in his own skin. There are so many ripped torsos on the beach, I barely notice them. Whereas this almost-naked guy rocking up on the tufted rug has me entirely horrified, with a tiny undercurrent of thrill I’d rather not admit to. And I’m hoping the others will assume my burning cheeks are down to the fire, not the hormonal flush. I’m definitely going to need a few pointers from Immie on how to handle him.

Quinn seems impervious to Immie’s accusations. ‘Not guilty, I promise.’

As he turns to me and holds up his hands, I’m praying the knot in his towel is well tied. Otherwise we’re all in trouble.

‘I thought I’d get the sausages underway before I got dressed, that’s all.’ As he rubs his arm, the biceps he’s flexing are pretty damned honed, so maybe Immie’s spot on with what she says. ‘And these days I’m fully tamed, house-trained too.’ He’s upping the protest now. ‘Jeez, I’m cooking breakfast, aren’t I?’ The next thing, he’s wandered over and he’s giving me the smallest and cheekiest naked elbow nudge on his way to the fridge. ‘You couldn’t ask for anything more domesticated than that, could you, Sera?’

Immie shakes her head at me and lets out a long sigh. ‘You’ve got your hands full with that one.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, meaning anything but. I need to start as I mean to go on, even if I’m dying inside. ‘We’ve got so much work to get through it’s unreal,’ I say, completely truthfully. My recent reading’s revealed a ‘To Do’ list of mind-boggling proportions. ‘We’re keeping it fun, so we’re definitely saying “stuff the snow machines” for now. We’ll be starting with Christmas deccies in the holiday cottages, if that’s okay with you, Immie?’ Let Quinn have what he wants, but at the same time make sure we do something useful. If I don’t stand up to him from the start, I’ll be dead meat. ‘All good, Quinn?’ I make sure I’m smiling, then turn to check out his reaction.

There’s a string of sausages dangling from his hand, and he’s opening and closing his mouth like a guppy. Given he’s pretty much lost for words, I’m guessing surprise is a good tactic.

‘We’ll take that as a “yes” then.’ Immie winks at me. ‘Let yourselves into the cottages, the keys are all in the office.’

While I’ve got Immie here for back up, I go again. ‘Be careful in the kitchen, Quinn, if you’re playing the naked chef. We can’t have the best man burning himself.’

Immie’s straight in after me. ‘Make sure you cook the right sausages too.’ She gives a guffaw and holds out the key to me. ‘I’ll let you get on. I got you a Santa keyring that flashes,’ she says. ‘So you can keep track of it.’

Seeing as the light-up Santa in question is at least eight inches high, I’m guessing someone tipped her off about me losing stuff.

‘A flashing Santa from Immie? Why does that not surprise me?’ Quinn quips, as he emerges from behind the kitchen units.

Immie rounds on him. ‘You… Stop cheeking people and damn well go and get some clothes on.’

Surprisingly, he saunters across the room like a lamb.

I wait until he’s almost at the bedroom door. ‘Nice tats, by the way.’ I note the way he jerks to a halt, then laugh at Immie. ‘But now I’ve seen them once, I won’t need to see them again. Understood?’

‘Okay,’ he says grudgingly, and gives us a crestfallen-puppy shrug. ‘Your loss, though.’

Immie heads for the other door, but when she reaches it, she drops her voice. ‘I can tell he likes you. Joke around, but stay firm. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.’

I really hope she’s right.

7 (#ulink_554d887d-1002-5fee-ae90-58bbaa46055f)

Saturday, 17th December

At Rose Hill Manor: Records and pocket handkerchiefs

Anyone who cooks a breakfast as delicious as the one we just ate deserves to get a little bit of their own way, even if they did do it with too few clothes on. So when we finally get to work on the list of stuff to collect for the cottages, Quinn gets to decide the order of the pickups. By the time we turn into the drive to Rose Hill Manor to pick up a consignment of boxes, the hire van Alice had thoughtfully had delivered to the farm is already groaning under the weight of fifty Christmas trees in pots for inside and out at the cottages.

He gives a satisfied nod as we make our way between the avenue of huge trees flanking the approach road. As we round the final corner, and the house comes into view, the steep roofs and mellow stone facade are glowing gold in the pale-pink afternoon light.

He pulls the van to a halt. ‘There you go, Rose Hill at its rosy winter best.’

‘Wow… beautiful.’ Squinting at it through the wide windscreen of the van, I’m almost lost for words. The house is larger than I’d imagined, but its higgledy piggledy mix of windows make it wonderfully welcoming. ‘Alice is so lucky to be getting married here.’

Of everyone I know, Alice and Dan are one of the most perfect and solid couples, and they truly deserve this. And I don’t mean to imply they’re boring. It’s just I couldn’t actually imagine settling down together as early as they did myself. They met on their first day at uni and have been going out ever since. As soon as they got their degrees, Dan set up the business and Alice zoomed up her career ladder. Next came the most gorgeous Hampstead flat, and fast-forward to a textbook romantic proposal on a private launch on the Thames. Now three years later, this fabulous wedding is the icing on their perfect cake.

‘I thought you’d like it.’ Quinn’s smile is full of warmth. ‘There’s a formal garden and more parkland round the back.’ From the way Quinn’s talking, he could be describing a pocket handkerchief lawn with a barbecue on a patio. ‘Oh, and a bit of a lake too.’ Just as an afterthought, then.

I pause for a moment, trying to take it all in. ‘It’s so wintery, with the bare trees silhouetted against the land.’ I can imagine how it looks, dusted with the rime of a hoar frost. If Alice gets one of those for the day of her wedding, even though I know they don’t happen very often, it’ll be worth freezing our butts off for the pictures.

He nods at my satchel, clamped between my feet. ‘Not sure if you’ve got that far in the Wedding Story, but they’ve got a hot-shot photographer coming down. One of the best in London. Friend of a friend. I blagged them a four-figure discount.’

The more I hear, the bigger Quinn’s involvement seems to be. ‘Alice must be very grateful,’ I say.

He gives a sigh. ‘Alice and I have our moments. She doesn’t always approve of me, or my methods.’

‘She’s always been conventional,’ I admit. After a few hours with Quinn, I can see his individual brand of anarchy probably drives Alice up the wall. ‘You should be in her good books after this, anyway.’