The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

‘Bloody hell …’ Ben is shaking his head, gazing up at the sagging ceiling.

My thoughts exactly.

Jules rubs his hands together, and they’re slightly less pristine than earlier. ‘Right Lara, pop next door and get your dress on. Five minutes of freezing at most, I promise the pictures will be fab.’ He turns his smile on me. ‘Poppy, tea would be awesome, biscuits or cake would be a big bonus, we’ll be with you before the kettle boils.’

I’m reeling at the way he tells it as he wants it, but the way he half closes one eye softens the dazzle of his smile to something much more personal and intimate. Anyone in a more susceptible place than me might have swooned on the spot. As it is, when I rush to fill the kettle in the office kitchen and catch sight of myself in the mirror on the door, there’s a distinct red patch on each of my cheeks. Almost like I’m burning up, not freezing cold.

I just hope Immie doesn’t walk in and spot the afterglow.

Meanwhile, I’m whizzing around the office waiting for the kettle to heat up, still in my tent coat, grabbing mugs from the shelves, and sneaking a cheeky chocolate shortbread out of my drawer when I come face to face with Henrietta. Or more aptly, beady eye to beady eye with Henrietta. If hens roosting on the filing cabinet was beyond the pale, a chicken sitting on the biscuit barrel and snuggling up next to the clean cups is a million miles off the scale of what’s acceptable. And sorry to disappoint Jules, but cake’s off today.

Which reminds me that somehow I’ve got to get down off my cloud, and address my Monday list. Much more pressing than the problem of unwelcome livestock in the office, there’s my biggest burning question of the week.

How the hell am I going to get Rafe on a work night out?

13 (#ulink_32974713-2090-5c11-b6af-7124e1d7248c)

In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Light bulbs and snowballs in hell

I’m not sure this hot desking idea of Rafe’s is working. As I walk into the farm office the desk is stacked so high with Farming magazines, I can barely see the man himself behind them.

‘What are you doing here?’ Rafe looks up from the letter he’s reading, making what sounds more like a complaint than a welcome.

‘Delivery in the next village,’ I explain. Taking in his glazed stare, on balance I decide not to tell him about the three tier silver-wedding cake I’ve been slaving over. Or that it’s left my fingers tingling from hours of squeezing icing out of piping bags.

‘I thought I’d pop in and put some text together for the website as I was passing.’ Good thing I have too, another day out of the office and I get the feeling I might have been re-located into the yard.

Rafe carries on flicking through the pages of the letter he’s reading. It’s only as he reaches behind the stack of magazines for a pen that a flash of russet coloured feathers makes me gasp.

‘Omigod, is that Henrietta sitting on the bloody desk?’ I hear myself shrieking.

He looks up slowly, with a pained expression. ‘Sorry, do you have a problem with that?’ It’s not an apologetic kind of sorry. It’s more the ‘don’t have a clue what you’re going on about’ kind of sorry.

‘Livestock in the office.’ It’s certainly on my list of issues to tackle this week, I just wasn’t fully prepared to do it right now. ‘It just isn’t right.’ Even I know that was lame, so I blurt out the next thing that comes into my head. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be out milking cows or something?’ I’m surprised how fast I’m learning to talk like a farm person. ‘For a farmer you spend a remarkable amount of time indoors.’

He gives an exasperated sigh and slams the letter down on the desk. ‘Haven’t you got a wedding to go to?’ then with a bad tempered snarl, he scoops up Henrietta. Two flaps later he deposits her on top of the filing cabinet, then turns to me with a sneer. ‘Happy now?’

As the letter hits the table, I glimpse the edge of a bank logo. No doubt he’s been counting up his millions again. I might have been happier if he’d opened the door and put the hen outside. I’m trying to think of a stinging verbal comeback that covers health and safety, office tidiness, bad temper in the work place, and male territoriality when my phone beeps.

I momentarily suspend the argument, to open a text from Cate.

Immie and I both free 2nite. Bring Rafe to Jaggers for 7. Operation #HappyFarmer is live! ;) xx

Damn. If the text had come five minutes earlier, I’d have been less snarky. Although looking at Rafe’s stormy frown, even a Strawberry Daiquiri wouldn’t sweeten that to happy. As for getting him to Jaggers, I’m thinking of snowballs in hell. Not a chance. My phone beeps. Cate again.

This has taken a LOT of organising, it’s the only way forward for an easy year for ALL of us!!! Think of my wedding, get Rafe here ASAP! DO NOT BAIL ON ME!!! ;) xx

So like Cate to send a second message, just to be sure. If you ask me, she’s been on too many motivational courses. I grit my teeth, which is exactly what she meant me to do. As for her wedding, it’s come from nowhere, and now it’s ruling my life. Somehow I’ve got to do this, I just don’t know how. It’s pointless making comparisons, but if Rafe had even a tenth of Jules’ charm and positivity, this would be a walk over. And suddenly, remembering Jules, I have a light bulb moment. Jules didn’t have any problem making Rafe do what he wanted. Maybe I need to be more like him?

14 (#ulink_950e0a31-98bf-5735-8000-7450655f7dd3)

At the Goose and Duck, Rose Cross Village: Pointers and pork scratchings

‘Works drinks with Rafe? How did you manage this then?’

Immie’s unwinding her scarf as she marches down the bar towards me. I shrug, and hope that the mention of Jules isn’t going to put her off the main objective. I don’t want her swooning at the thought of that ‘photographer from heaven’ – her words – when we’re here to get her together with Rafe. Not that we’ve told her that part.

‘So I took a few pointers from Jules.’ I admit. ‘I didn’t ask Rafe or suggest, I simply told him. “Drinks down the pub. Get in the car. Now” ’ I can’t believe how well it worked, although to be fair, Rafe was pretty short of excuses. It all happened in a bit of a rush. ‘My main tactic was surprise. With the implied threat of force thrown in too.’

The Goose and Duck has been given a makeover since Brett and I last came here with Cate and Liam and the kids for Sunday lunch. As I take in the wall to wall checked taupe decor, I can’t remember when I was last in a bar. Drinking and falling off stools might be the perfect antidote to heartbreak for some people, but I never quite reached the wild nights out, drowning my sorrows under the table stage.

‘Rafe hasn’t exactly got a lot going on in his life.’ Immie points out. ‘Apart from the odd cow giving birth, he’s completely uncommitted.’ Good point well made. She plumps up a grey tartan cushion, and settles into a substantial oak chair. ‘Remind me why we’re doing this again?’

Now I’m the one who’s short of excuses. ‘Cate thought it would be a nice if we all got together.’ I’m bluffing here. ‘Smoothing the way for her wedding …’ One mention of the ‘w’ word, and Immie gets it.

‘So this is a first.’ Immie beams at Rafe incredulously as he delivers her pint of lager, and two cokes. I’m wishing she’d cut back on her ‘what-the-hell?’ stare. This is only part one of the plan. Starting down the village pub is the easy bit. The hard part is going to be making the move to Jaggers. I’m already shifting in my tweed arm chair, psyching myself up for that part.

‘Am I the only one drinking?’ Immie downs half her pint with the first gulp.

Take it from me, this woman could drink for England.

‘I’m designated driver,’ I say, although Rafe has no idea we’re about to whisk him to St Aidan for a drinking fest at Jaggers. Cate’s plan is that if Immie and Rafe down enough cocktails, they’ll fall drunkenly into each other’s arms. Job done.

Rafe lifts up his coke. ‘And I’m driving too.’ Despite Gav the barman’s jokey banter, and the free pork scratchings by the till, Rafe still hasn’t cracked a smile.

‘That’s a very nice jumper you’re wearing,’ I say to Rafe. Given he has more cashmere sweaters than anyone I’ve come across, and that he also keeps sheep, I reckon wool’s a good subject to start with. And it works, because his mouth twitches into an almost smile.

‘A present from my mother.’ His embarrassed shrug softens him. ‘She’s always turning up with them.’

‘Trying to make you presentable no doubt, so you’ll catch that elusive woman she’s so desperate for you to meet.’ Immie laughs, and gives him a surprisingly free and friendly pat on the knee.

‘Does she live nearby?’ I ask. Somehow, despite Immie talking about her, I can’t imagine Rafe having a mum.

‘We built her a bungalow at my brother’s farm, but right now she’s travelling in the States.’ From the grimaces he and Immie exchange, it looks like a relief all round.

‘She loves country music,’ Immie chimes in. ‘At least it gives you a couple of months off from her matchmaking.’ She follows that with a loud guffaw as she sinks the rest of her drink, and adds a matey dig in the ribs for Rafe. ‘Anyone for another?’ She raises her glass, gets up and sets her sights on the bar. So far so good. Immie and Rafe are surprisingly relaxed with each other, and it looks like Immie’s hell bent on drinking enough for both of them.

I glance at my phone, knowing we should be moving this into town.

‘The next one’s on me.’ I jump to my feet. ‘And I promised to meet Cate.’ I rack my brains, imagining how Jules might put it if he wanted everyone to drive ten miles to the next drink. The knack is to say it like there’s no alternative. ‘We’re having the next round at Jaggers.’ Despite my inner doubts, I manage a big grin, and it comes out pretty damned forceful. ‘I hope you like mojitos.’ Whoop, I’m on a roll here.

No idea if this is going to work, but I don’t wait for them to argue. Immie’s banter is getting a great response from Rafe. Cate’s right, if we can pour enough cocktails down him, he’ll soon feel the friends to lovers vibe.

‘Jaggers it is then!’ Without a looking back, I pick up my coat and head for the door.

15 (#ulink_9e833183-063e-5858-a4c5-7eb7fdbfdaa9)

In Jaggers Bar: Lost property