The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

‘Your dress is one of the most beautiful dresses Sera has ever made.’ Jess purses her lips, and out of the corner of my eye I take in Sera’s echoing nod.

‘It is a totally beautiful dress,’ I agree. If you saw it, I promise you’d completely understand. Silk cut on the bias, simple yet with the most exquisite lace detail, it flowed over my curves as if I was barely there. ‘But I can’t even bear to look at it.’ It’s a relief to get that confession out. I sometimes wonder how one dress could have had so many tears cried over it.

‘I know that dress is very emotionally charged.’ Jess knocks back another slug of gin as she makes that understatement. ‘But when Sera hits the spotlight, you’ll see a good return on your investment.’

Sera sends me a nod of solidarity over the top of the mint sprig I stuffed in her G&T.

I take it Jess is referring to the financial kind of investment. Ever the good businesswoman, she usually sees things in terms of the bottom line, and she grins and rolls her eyes when I wince at the word. I sometimes wonder how someone who does such beautiful things with flowers can be so financially minded, but Jess has been around the block. She insists that going to hell and back with her ex-husband was what toughened her up. Believe me, she must have been playing hard ball to extract a building like this out of her divorce settlement. Freehold, mortgage free. Just don’t tell anyone I told you that.

‘Wait until Josie’s had her celebrity wedding and then sell. You’ll make a killing,’ she goes on.

‘B-b-b-but …’ The word ‘sell’ sends a chill through my chest. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’ I’m not sure I can even bear to sell it at all. I mean I’m hardly going to get another one am I?

‘You’ll have at least a couple of months to get used to the idea.’ She pats my hand gently. ‘What else can you do? That dress is spoiled for you, you’ll never use it.’

I have no idea how she can sound so matter of fact about something that wraps my stomach into knots.

I pull a face at Sera, who’s gnawing at her thumb nail. ‘I don’t want to turn into the woman in the attic wearing my abandoned wedding dress.’ I let out a half laugh. After the way Brett let me down, that’s the only way I’ll ever get to wear a wedding dress now. I won’t be getting involved with a guy again any time soon, that’s for sure. ‘I know you’re right, Jess, it just hurts.’

Jess tilts her head. ‘Think of it as your nest egg. It’s always good to have one.’

I gawp at her middle aged thinking. ‘I’m thirty two, I’m way too young to think about stuff like that.’ My squeal of protest fades as I remember exactly where the dress came from. Bought with the money my mum gave me just before she died. ‘A nest egg’ was exactly how she put it too. I swallow back the lump in my throat. My mum would have loved to see me marry in that dress. In any dress for that matter. I squeeze my arms around my chest as I take a reality check. No family. No Brett. I’m completely on my own. If it wasn’t for Jess and her attic I’d be homeless and jobless. I support myself entirely by baking cakes and helping in the shop. I can’t afford to shy away from this.

Jess drains her glass. ‘Our scars make us who we are. Wear them proudly, and move forward.’ Her smile acknowledges that she’s said that same line to me more times than I can count in the last six months, then she narrows one eye. ‘Moving forward being the important thing now.’ She waggles her glass at me. ‘As soon as you’ve got me a refill that is.’

As I rush off for another pint of gin, deep inside I know she’s right.

2 (#ub49c8724-b7c6-52a6-83db-131ab43fdcf2)

In Rose Cross village: Ice breakers and a handful of hounds

‘Bolly, Brioche stop pulling!’

The wind whooshes away my wail as I stagger after two lurching honey-coloured bottoms and wagging tails. Dog walking is never like this on the IAMS adverts.

‘Brioche, Bolly, heel pleeeeeeease!’

I’m doing my best to be in control, but channelling my inner dog-charming goddess is impossible this early in the morning. The extra early start is because Cate, Immie and I have a big shopping day ahead of us. They don’t come much bigger than shopping for bridesmaids’ dresses, especially when we’re shopping for eight. And if you think eight bridesmaids sounds excessive, you should see the rest of Cate’s plans. Her wedding is shaping up to be the Cornish country wedding of the decade.

As an in control dog walker, I score an epic fail every time. You’d hardly think I’d been doing this most Saturdays for six months, which is how long it is since I decided to dedicate my scarily empty Friday evenings to a babysitting sleepover, so my bestie, Cate, and her soon-to-be husband, Liam, can have a weekly night out together. With four kids, two lively labradoodles and full-time jobs, they find it hard to spend any quality time together. Although sometimes when I’m tucked up on their sofa with little George, and the three older kids, it’s more as if they’re the ones looking after me.

As a cake maker I like to match people with their perfect cake. Cate’s cake is a delicious Moroccan orange sponge, with a covering of perfectly piped buttercream, and crystallised orange trimmings. Cool, yet sophisticated. Sometimes I still think of Cate as she was when we were six, when we were at Dancing Jillie’s tap class in the village hall. Cate was the one who could do all the steps, not a blonde curl out of place, tapping away like she could give Ginger Rogers a run for her money, while I was the one getting my legs in the arm-holes of my lycra all-in-one, and losing my shoes. But Cate’s luck ran out at twenty five when her husband ran off with a woman from the reprographics department. Left with three kids under four, she grappled her way through the next few years. Now she’s finally found the guy she deserves, and had another baby, I couldn’t be happier for her.

Back to the labradoodles, I swear we crossed the last three fields without my feet touching the ground. Although today fast is good. When I get back, Cate will have finished giving George his breakfast. And then we’ll meet up with Immie, whose signature cake is either a donut or a double chocolate muffin. She’s had the same stocky build and no-nonsense short hair since we were kids, and however much we try to persuade her into other outfits, she always wears jeans and a sweatshirt. We’re heading to Brides by the Sea, which is where we all know Cate’s going to buy the bridesmaid dresses. It helps I get mates’ rates.

My feet finally make contact with land again as we come to a stile. The dogs bound over into a muddy puddle the size of St Aidan Bay, making tidal waves as they leap. As I follow them Bolly does a double bounce that soaks me, then yanks me off the hillock I’m balanced on.

‘Nooooo Bolly …’

I let out a wail as my left Ugg plunges deep under water. Blinking, I scrape the mud splat out of my eye with my fist, and let out a deep sigh as cold oozes round my toes.

Whereas a mud pedi on a Tuesday morning in a salon in St Aidan would be bliss – not that I can afford them these days – I could do without a DIY Cornwall countryside version. The same goes for the leopard print pattern of mud, dappled all the way up my jeans. We’ll all be in line for a hose down from Cate when we get back home. It’s completely my own fault. If I’d taken a removal van instead of a flight bag when I left Brett in a hurry, I’d be wearing my beloved purple festival wellies, and my feet would be dry now.

As we work our way back along the lane towards the village, Rose Cross, the dogs are beginning to flag, but the cluster of house roofs peeping over the hedges, and the promise of some civilisation perks me up no end. This is the village where Cate, Immie and I grew up. But whereas they love the countryside, I think of it as wilderness. At eighteen I couldn’t wait to leave for London. Even coming out here from St Aidan on a Friday night gives me a culture shock, and not in a good way.

Taking advantage of the slack leads, I slide out my phone to check I’m not running late. Then, as we round a bend, we come across a grey Land Rover Defender parked on the verge ahead. Impressed by my car knowledge? All gathered when I had to make a Land Rover fortieth cake for a 4x4 obsessive, with full detail and chocolate mud splatters. I inherited the cake baking gene from my mum, picking it up because she did so much of it when I was little. My earliest memory is standing on a chair in our cosy kitchen, licking out cake mix bowls, and drawing shapes with my finger in the dusting of icing sugar on the kitchen table. Give me a sponge and some icing and I can work wonders Whether it’s fairy castles, dumper trucks for birthdays, or the multi-tiered wedding cakes I make so many of now, they come easily. Sadly, if icing isn’t involved, I have a great talent for stuffing up.

I’m in my own world, thinking about mum as a guy in faded jeans saunters from behind the Land Rover. Two words pop into my mind.

Perfect ten.

Talking about the guy here, not the car, obviously. Although that’s definitely not a compliment. More of a warning to myself to avoid at all costs. When they have it on a plate like that, they rarely learn to be nice.

My gaze slides past a cashmere sweater, and comes to rest on what has to be one of the most cross looking mouths in the south west. This guy might be a straight ten, but he looks way too bad tempered to be working those good looks. Yes, Immie, who’s studying psychology at university, would have a lot to say about me honing in on the lips, but in this case I’m only reading the situation. I don’t need a degree to recognise obstinate when I see it.

A sharp tug from Bolly and Brioche jolts me back to reality, knocks my phone out of my hand, and as it skids across the dirt track I see why they’re pulling.

Somehow I’ve failed to notice the guy has a dog with him. It’s huge and black, and it’s bounding towards us now. Before I can scramble to reach for my phone, I’m in mid-air as the dogs lunge. Whereas Bolly and Brioche are careful where they put their gigantic paws in the house, when they’re in midflight they don’t give a damn.

‘Look out!’ I shout, but my warning comes too late. They collide with Land Rover Hunk, who staggers, waves his arms, and topples backwards onto the verge.

Man down! Literally. There’s no time to wince at the thought of cashmere hitting mud, because the dogs bound on.

As the dogs all come face to face, there’s a blur of dog limbs, and excited yelps. They tumble and roll, thump into me at knee height, and I slither sideways. As the barking subsides, I come to a soggy and chilling halt in the gully below the hedge.

‘Bolly, Brioche …’ It’s hard to sound masterful when I’m on my back, bum deep in the ditch. More icy water, this time seeping up my spine. On the plus side I’m actually pretty proud that I’m still hanging on to the leads.

A stream of angry swear words comes from the guy as he scrambles to his feet.

‘No need to panic, they’re only playing.’ Mr Land Rover is hauling Black Dog out of the heap by the collar. He shoulders the dog back into the car. ‘They’re wagging their tails, see? But seriously, you need to get those dogs of yours better trained. It’s completely irresponsible to let dogs run wild in the countryside.’

Excuse me? I’m the one who kept hold of the leads here.

‘At least they haven’t killed each other.’ I mutter. ‘It might have helped if yours had been on a lead.’

He ignores that and is looming over me now, holding out his hand expectantly.

Shit. Introductions. I remember my manners and stick out my spare hand. ‘Pleased to meet you too …’ I realise I’m mumbling as well as lying. And why the hell am I rubbing the mud off my face with my sleeve and trying for a smile?

He lets out a low laugh. ‘It’s not an introduction, I thought I could pull you out. Unless you’d rather stay there?’

Anywhere else I might have shrivelled at my mistake, but when you’re soaking wet in a hedge bottom there’s not much point. A moment later, he’s yanked on my arm, and I’m back on my feet by the roadside, dripping for England. I’m not sure my festival wellies would have saved me here either.

‘Your phone …’ He hands it to me. ‘You’re very wet …’

This guy goes in for stating the obvious. As he passes over the phone I’m distracted by how his rugged hand doesn’t fit with his expensive jumper.

‘Although if you go rampaging around with two mad hounds, hurling yourself into ditches, you can hardly expect to stay dry. I’d offer you a lift, but …’ He trails off awkwardly.