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I shake my head at Poppy’s offer. It’s great that she understands, but I’ve got to do this on my own.

Poppy rubs my arm. ‘Try to act happy for her. At least for today.’

Which given the way my tummy is twisting, might be difficult.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_49a1b776-a4e9-5b92-a98f-458b78e83b20)

Wednesday, 15

February

On the way to Rose Hill Village: Three point turns and missing rings

BLISSFUL BOUTIQUE COUNTRY MANOR HOUSE WEDDINGS …

‘Not exactly subtle is it, Gucci?’

Okay, I’m talking to my car again. It’s easy to slip into the habit when you do a lot of miles on your own together. It goes with singing along to heart break songs very loudly. But enough about that. I’m doing a mini-detour on the way to afternoon tea with my mum, to take in the Rose Hill Manor wedding sign. But the hoarding on the field edge is immense, and the lettering is so ‘look-at-me’, I forget to steer.

‘Signs like this should be banned. They’re a danger to the public,’ I moan, as I veer off the narrow lane and bump along the verge, simply because I can’t take my eyes off it. There are so many ‘exclusive use’ stickers, it’s probably visible from outer space.

Pulling to a halt, I grab my phone, and jump out to take a few pics to show Jess later. As I fight my way past the hedge my feet slither on the wet grass. Damn. Hygiene standards at Heavenly Heights are surgical. Arriving with mud smeared boots will put me at a huge disadvantage. But it’s too late now.

It’s bad news all round then, because the hoarding graphics I’m clicking away at are startlingly professional. Somehow I didn’t have the Penryns down as being this classy. On the close-up photos it looks like a venue to-die-for. I’m scouring the posters for something to criticise – like anything would do – when there’s the roar of an engine on the lane. Next thing I know, there’s a Land Rover beside me, with the driver’s window open. And when I turn round, I’m staring straight up. At Kip Penryn.

‘Speak of the devil.’ It’s out before I can stop it.

Kip rubs the stubble on his chin. ‘Do I know you?’ He wrinkles his forehead, then the penny drops. ‘Of course, you’re the one who caught the bouquet. Dried off, and out looking for a wedding venue? That was fast work.’

‘More like driving off the road, due to being distracted by your effing great hoarding, you mean. Big can be brash, you know.’ I refuse to acknowledge how perfect his promo material is.

‘We’re doing unmissable introductory offers. I have to make this work. Anyone getting married has to be interested.’

The words send a chill through me on Poppy’s behalf, if only because he sounds so desperate to succeed. ‘I’ll pass on the offers, thanks.’ Although I’m amused that he’s got things so wrong with me. ‘Unmissable’ offers are even more compelling and tasteful than ‘special’ ones. He’s certainly got his act together here.

‘We’re exquisite and exclusive, but we’re also exceptionally negotiable. I can cut you a deal.’

I give a sniff of disgust. ‘You do know if you overuse the word “exclusive” to the point of exhaustion, it loses all impact?’

He backs off on the hard sell, and goes back to being persuasive. ‘Come for a look around, you’ll see for yourself. The offers won’t last forever. All those Valentine’s proposals, it’s a busy time. I’ve had non-stop viewings since the signs went up.’

Sorry, but his win-win attitude is as annoying as hearing about his rush of punters. ‘Except you’re here. So I’m guessing you must have stopped.’

‘What?’

I’m going to have to spell it out. ‘Well you’re not doing viewings now, because you’re here talking to me, aren’t you?’ I let that sink in. ‘Or do you drag all your customers in, kicking and screaming, from the lane?’ Saying the word drag, reminds me I should possibly be more grateful for what he did for me last night. But stuff that, given what he’s going to do to Poppy and Rafe’s business. They’re right to be concerned. From what I’m picking up here, they should be very worried indeed.

His lips begin to curl into a slow smile. ‘You’re not looking for a venue at all, are you? Or you wouldn’t be so dismissive. You’re not even wearing an engagement ring.’

Dammit. For the first time in years, I wish I was. Just to prove him wrong. And not all engaged women wear rings, but I’m not going to get into that. So maybe he’s not quite as in tune with the business of getting married as he thinks.

‘I’m not personally searching for a venue, but I know people who are. Hence the pic.’ At least that’s explained. No way do I want him thinking I’m a sad single, taking selfies in front of a wedding sign. Although I’d settle for that, rather than the truth. It’s way worse to be caught out spying.

‘If there really aren’t any takers, you can always give me a call,’ he says with a wicked smile.

‘Sorry?’ Now I’m the one who can’t work out what he’s talking about, it’s not so great.

‘If you’ve got a free evening we could go for a drink? I’m new round here, I don’t know many people.’

Or more likely, people know him too well, and avoid him like the plague.

What a cheek. ‘A pick up on the lane? You are joking? You might be desperate, but I’m not.’ As I make a dive for my car door, it’s total bad planning because it means he gets the last word.

‘Your loss.’

Two tiny words which pretty much sum up the arrogance of the guy. As for Weddings at Rose Hill Manor, I suspect this operation is way slicker and more of a threat than any of us imagined.

The only good thing is that for five minutes it took my mind off where I’m going next. As I coax Gucci into a thirty-four-point turn in the lane, and zoom off towards the village for tea with my mum and her new squeeze I feel sick. I would not mind missing the next hour in my life.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_3c98de04-ccbf-5bd5-a4ff-9dc8c425d4f4)

Wednesday, 15th February

At Heavenly Heights: Tangerine jeans and matching slippers

‘Ring the bell? Knock and say “hi”? Or what …?’

It’s the weirdest feeling. Standing in front of the house where I lived since I was eleven. Muttering. Staring at the stonework, not daring to go in, because so much changed in those few minutes’ yesterday afternoon. It’s not only what I might be interrupting. Walking in on my mum snogging? Don’t even go there. It just doesn’t have the certainty of home any more.

‘Dahling, it’s you!’

‘Shit.’ I jolt as the door opens. And I’m off to a bad start, dammit, given Heavenly Heights is a curse-free cul-de-sac. The language at this altitude is so clean, they don’t even need swear boxes. It’s also the kind of road where domestic perfection is a competition sport. If home tidying was in the Olympics, they’d have more gold medals than Bradley Wiggins.

‘Well, this is a lovely surprise. But where did all that dirt come from?’ One glance at my feet, and my mum’s already got her long-suffering face on. Sad to say, it’s pretty much her full-time resting expression when we’re together. ‘Why are you loitering out here, come on in.’ She never looks this disappointed when she’s with her friends.

It might be worth flagging up here that of her two kids, she’d always rather see my brother, Zac. Eleven months younger than me, he’s always been her real dahling. But since he absconded to the job of the century in Silicon Valley in the US, she’s been stuck with second best. And what the hell does she mean by ‘surprise’ when I rang to pre-book eight hours ago? Remembering Poppy’s ‘act happy’ instruction, I wrench my mouth into a smile.

Then as I stumble past a terracotta pot in the porch, I get my lucky break. ‘Hey, lovely primroses.’ My mum warms to compliments, as much as I’m warming to these flowers. ‘Orange ones too.’ My dad’s favourite. His winter borders in our gardens were always bursting with polyanthus plants. We used to love pouring over the plant catalogues together, planning the colour schemes. I can still remember the thrill of persuading him to try oranges and yellows, when he was still a sucker for blues and reds. Every October, from when I was small, he’d wrap me up in his warmest windcheater, and he’d dig the holes, and I’d hand him the plants. And even though my fingers were burning with the cold, I’d stay out there with him for as long as it took to get every last plant into the borders. It’s a relief to find there’s still a little bit of that left. Even if it’s just one pot.

My mum’s pained expression melts with the compliment. ‘David helped me do it. He bought the pot when we went for lunch at the Happy Dolphin Garden Centre.’

‘David?’ From nowhere, there’s an iron hand gripping my guts. Although I’m going to have to get used to the name. And he has to be tame, if he’s up for traipsing round garden centres. It was a point of honour. My dad preferred nurseries, and he refused point blank to go to places with poncey names, and logos depicting frolicking sea life. Then I do a double take that leaves my heart racing so hard, I almost have a coronary. ‘What the hell’s that?’ I’m pointing at a plastic gnome. And lurid doesn’t begin to describe it.

My mum laughs. ‘Oh, that’s Trevor. He’s another of David’s gifts. Don’t his tangerine trousers go perfectly with the petals?’ She lets out a kind of high, spontaneous giggle I haven’t heard before. Very unlike her.

‘But you don’t like gnomes. You think they’re tasteless and moronic.’ I’m quoting here, and I can’t help that my voice has gone all high either. It goes with the ‘gobsmacked’ territory. That gnome might fit in with my mum’s obsession to have her entire life colour matched, but he’s a million miles away from her style guide. In full view, on her front doorstep. Where everyone can see him, and judge her. Up to now I was under the impression she’d got engaged, but she appears to have had a personality transplant too.

‘Don’t be silly, dahling. He’s only a joke. Whatever happened your sense of humour?’ She’s staring at me as if I’m the one with the problem here. ‘Hurry up and take off your shoes, there’s someone in here I’m dying for you to meet. And please, at least try to look happy for us. Even if you’re not.’