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I love my long workshop, three floors above the mews, with its stacks of magazines and the inspiration clippings pinned to a huge board. After the snowy neatness of the shop, the studio is a complete contrast, with its creative chaos of dressmakers’ mannequins, ironing boards and giant scissors. Up here the tulle and silk are on rolls, and the rails are full of fragments of dresses. Bodices with ragged edges, half-finished petticoats.
Each of the beautiful dresses hanging in the shop downstairs began as a sketch. Those few first lines on paper capture the whole essence. You can’t imagine the work that goes in to get from one to the other. But without those first sketches there’s no guide to create the pattern. And without the pattern, the dress can’t come to life.
I can’t blame it all on Johnny. It wasn’t as if the work was going well before he turned up. But since he did, somehow my brain can’t get beyond those words.
‘Wedding… Christmas… best man…’
I can’t stop thinking how awful it’ll be if he turns up at Alice’s wedding. And how gutted I’ll be if he doesn’t.
But right now I have to forget that Johnny is in Cornwall. I have to block out that on a windy day we might almost be breathing the same air. And I’ve got to come up with some startling new sketch designs. Because if I don’t, instead of bursting with an astonishing new collection, next Autumn the Seraphina East rails are going to be empty.
4 (#ulink_284f5867-ac4b-5210-9f8b-eeae60cdc5a1)
Saturday, 17th December
At The Surf Shack Café: Dark chocolate chips and flashing decorations
Hi Sera, Alice’s best man here, heading for the Surf Shack Cafe at 10. See you there :)
Texting? In St Aidan? I hope this best man – whoever he is – knows he’s damned lucky that message arrived. Signal here is patchy. To be honest, in most parts smoke signals would be more reliable than a mobile.
Unless they’re Cornwall devotees, most Londoners don’t have a clue what it’s like down here. When they arrive for the wedding, Alice’s friends are going to have their eyes opened, big time. It’s like the rest of the world used to be, in the days before technology. Locals scratch their heads over Wi-Fi, and give you blank looks if you mention broadband. Why would you want those when you can phone each other on the landline? Or – shock horror – talk, face to face. For me that’s why I like it here. As for where Best Man has chosen to meet up, I couldn’t have chosen better myself.
‘So here we go.’ I pull a face at Poppy, as we pick our way between the empty tables on the terrace deck of the Surf Shack Café. Poppy’s the cake baker from the shop, who just came back from London, and one of my closest friends.
‘You’ll be fine, so long as you remember to breathe,’ she says, making a good point.
Now I think about it, the last time I drew a breath was when we started walking along the sea front. When Poppy dropped in to pick up some baking trays from her attic kitchen, Jess muscled in, and sent her along with me, supposedly to make sure I don’t chicken out and leg it down the beach. But this way Jess also gets a full report immediately Poppy gets back to the shop.
Unlike many of the beachside cafés which bear no resemblance to their names, the Surf Shack cabin is as rickety and weathered as it sounds, which is why everyone likes it. Add in excellent coffee, delectable cocoa and the fattest sandwiches on the bay, and you’ll see why it’s such a winner. What’s more, it appears to have been knocked together from a thousand random bits of wood. Sometime most days, winter and summer, this is where I hang out. And while Poppy’s been in London this is also where most of my calorie intake has come from.
On the dot of nine-thirty I shoot her a final grimace and brace myself. As we push through the swing door into the café, we’re hit by a rush of warm air and the scent of fresh coffee. The owner, Brin, is grinning at me from behind a spikey electric-blue Christmas tree, perched on the counter.
‘Mornin’ Sera. Nice to see you back, Poppy,’ he says, as he rubs his hands on his striped apron. ‘Frothy hot chocolate, XXL, with dark chocolate sprinkles and a swirl of salted caramel?’
‘Please.’ I glance up at the glittery festive garlands that are criss-crossing the ceiling. That’s my usual winter order. It takes at least twenty minutes to do justice to a Surf Shack hot chocolate, so the timing should be perfect. The mugs they come in are bucket-size, and the toppings aren’t so much sprinkled on as added by the shovelful. ‘What about you, Poppy?’
She wrinkles her nose as she studies the list on the chalk board.
‘Hot chocolate… super-sized please… with whipped cream… and marshmallows… and white chocolate chips… and a double chocolate muffin please.’ She gives a guilty grin. ‘Rafe cooked me breakfast, but that was hours ago. And I’ve so missed the Surf Shack.’
‘Have these on the house today, ladies, seeing as it’s Christmas.’
I blow Brin an air kiss as we wander off to choose a table.
Poppy nods towards a table with its own mini Christmas tree, complete with flashing lights, then steers me towards a chair. ‘This one’s good, if you sit there it gives you a clear view of the door.’ She tilts her head towards Brin. ‘You still haven’t been on that date he’s always asking for?’
I laugh. ‘You remember my gran always said it’s better not to have a guy at all, than to be with the wrong one.’ I guess she repeated it so often it stuck fast in my head. ‘Anyway, I’m too busy, guys aren’t worth the trouble.’ I say, as I slip my wool jacket over the back of a chair and unwind my scarf.
By the time Brin comes over with our order, Poppy’s ready to dive straight in. As she begins to demolish her muffin, even though it’s still long before ten, I have half an eye on my hot chocolate, half on the door, with its outline of multi-coloured chaser fairy lights. I’m more or less ignoring the boarding guys who walk in. Not pre-judging, but I’m guessing any friend of Dan’s who’s made it past Alice’s eagle eye to be best man will stick out a mile as a smart London type. Especially given she’s hanging out with diplomats these days.
And why did I think I’d be able to drink even a sip of hot chocolate, when there’s a million-to-one chance Johnny might walk in the door any second? In a weird twist of fate, could he really be Dan’s best man?
Poppy studies me as I sit, not touching my drink.
‘I can see you with a surfer.’ She scrapes a fingerful of cream from the top of her hot chocolate and sucks on it. ‘I reckon a hunky, beachy, free-spirit type would suit you.’
‘Just because you’ve finally given in to Rafe.’ I laugh. ‘For the record, I’m definitely not looking for a guy of any type.’ And just to clear it up, I don’t surf or swim either. My beach appreciation is definitely limited to the shore. ‘But anyway, I’m hardly going to pull anyone in a suit, am I?’ I gesture to my messy bun and general laid-back appearance.
‘Who knows? Opposites attract.’ Poppy teases. ‘Some smart city barrister might have a thing for ripped denim shorts.’ She leans in towards me. ‘Actually, don’t look now, but I think I just spotted your perfect soulmate. You know that thing where you’re supposed to choose a partner who looks just like you. He’s over by the coffee machines.’
‘You don’t say.’ I’m not even going to bother to look. Sometimes Poppy is so unknowingly ridiculous she’s hilarious.
‘He’s well fit. Pretty ripped under that baggy top of his, too.’ She’s not holding back on the details. ‘All sun-bleached blonde hair, just like you. Stubble – not like you, but whatever, his denim’s as threadbare as yours. You definitely look like you’d share an essence.’
If Poppy’s talking about essences, it’s time to stop her. ‘Bollocks!’ I say, meaning to hiss but it comes out a lot louder than it should. The momentary lull in the café’s buzz gives me enough time to go crimson to my ear lobes.
Poppy leans in again. ‘I’m right, he’s totally checking you out now.’
This is why I avoid nights out in bars.
‘Properly.’ She takes another triumphant slurp of whipped cream.
I laugh at her. ‘I just shouted “bollocks” at the top of my voice. Everyone’s looking at me. Obviously.’ But I might as well prove her wrong. Out of all the thousands of surfers who’ve wandered through St Aidan in the last ten years, I have clicked with zero this far. Enough said. I might as well do the job properly and make my point. I give it a second, pray this won’t be the moment that Best Man chooses to walk through the door, and sneak the fastest-possible glance over my shoulder.
I only mean it to be a nano-second. But when I flick around and take in the ragged blonde hair and the sloppy sweater, something holds my gaze. And I can’t turn away. I’m smiling at scuffed suede boots that could almost belong to me. One minute I’m running my gaze up over that stubble, the next there’s a flash of blue green and our eyes have locked. When his delightfully lived-in face breaks into a grin and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles, my tummy flips. Nothing so huge that it officially leaves the building. But enough to throw me right off.
Shit. I force myself to wrestle my gaze away. As soon as Best Man shows up I’ll be out of here, and I’ll never have to look at this ‘soulmate’ guy again.
‘See what I mean?’ Poppy’s laughing. ‘So what’s the verdict?’
I make sure my shrug is spectacularly diffident and make a big thing of trying to stir my hot chocolate. Then I clear my throat and swallow madly, because somehow all my saliva has disappeared. ‘Nothing special,’ I croak, desperately playing for time. ‘Although you’ve got a point about his jeans. They could make great summer cut-offs.
‘Oh my God…’
At first I assume Poppy’s perfect ‘O’-shaped mouth is because she’s so shocked and disgusted I’ve rejected my perfect match.
‘Oh my God…oh my God…’ The third time she says it and her voice is mounting to a shriek, it has to be something else. ‘Oh my God, you might be in here…’
‘What…?’
‘Don’t look now,’ she says, completely unnecessarily, ‘but he’s… COMING OVER.’ She mouths those last two words silently. Which frankly is a bit stupid seeing as the whole café’s been scrutinising us since she screamed OMG.
I can tell he’s arriving way before I see him. First there’s Poppy’s completely uncool flapping of her fingers in front of her face. Although strictly, with my puce chops, I’m the one who should be doing the hand-fanning. And second, there’s the way she’s puffed out her cheeks so far she looks like a football about to pop. And bear in mind surf hunk is getting the full benefit of this as he comes towards us. Which I assume he has, because there’s suddenly the most fabulous scent of hunky male. Definitely not salty skin and seaweed, with an undertow of testosterone, which, let’s face it, is what most guys smell of here when they drag themselves up the beach. More, expensive cologne, crashing into a motorcycle engine, in a cedar forest.
I draw in a long breath as he circles the table and swaggers to a halt. After waiting a couple of seconds – I’m guessing to maximise the swoon effect – he seeks out my gaze with a disarming grin. As his broad hand extends towards me, I grit my teeth, and will my heart to stop galloping.
‘Hi, it’s Sera isn’t it? I’m Quinn,’ he says, his low voice resonating as he hesitates. ‘Quinn Penryn…?’ The questioning tone of his introduction makes him sound even more super-confident than he obviously is. It’s as if he’s so famous he thinks I should know him, and believe me I don’t.
Random guys hurling themselves at me is the last thing I want. And I’m not about to bend my rules now. Not for anyone, no matter how much I covet their jeans. The faster I stop this, the better for everyone. What’s more, I’m horribly aware that the whole café is watching us like we’re some kind of floor show. There’s no time to lose, so I launch.
‘Sorry,’ I say, throwing in the most distant, yet benign and unsexy, smile I can muster. ‘I’m going to cut you short here, Quinn. Because I’m reallynotinterested.’ I’m actually feeling bloody empowered here. Not to mention proud of myself, for the small detail of slipping in his name too. ‘It’ll save us both a lot of time and trouble if I’m honest here,’ I add, by way of explanation. Because although I want to sound decided, I don’t want to come across as a complete bitch. Especially as we’ve got an audience.
The way his eyebrows shoot up, I’m guessing he’s not used to getting the knock back. Which is very probably the case, because close up, he’s even more delectable than he was from across The Shack. But something about his surprise supercharges my new-found confidence. I’m on a roll here.
‘Pickups by strangers really aren’t my thing.’ I say, and fix my smile, determined to hold it until he’s backed off. ‘So, thanks, but no thanks.’
I look back at my hot chocolate, give it another stir. And wait for him to go. How much more of a dismissal does Quinn Pen-whatever he’s called expect? He’s still here, because when I look down I can see those distressed boots of his. Which is the exact point I remember that eternal question we were obsessed with at school. That thing about the relationship between a guy’s shoe size and something else significant. Which, embarrassingly, is exactly what I’m staring at, at table level beyond my hot chocolate. If schoolgirl legend is true, and there is a link between the two, his feet are going to be size twelves. At least.
Screwing up my eyes to block out the view, I will Quinn to leave. To make it clear that I’ve moved on with my life, and I expect him to do the same, I take a massive gulp of hot chocolate. As my cup clatters back down, Poppy begins to flap again. From the way her eyes are popping like saucers, I’m guessing she’s trying to tell me something hugely important. But I’m not getting it. As she draws her forefinger under her nose, my frown deepens. If this dammed Quinn wasn’t still hanging around, Poppy and I would probably have collapsed in a heap of giggles by now.
Finally I give in. ‘What?’ I hiss at Poppy across the table.
There’s a low growl, which seems to be coming from Quinn. As I turn my face towards his, I see he’s biting his lip and holding in his laughter.
‘Don’t worry, Sera.’ Quinn says, completely misreading my feelings. ‘We’ve all been there. Chocolate moustache alert!’
He swoops, napkin in hand. Before I know it, he’s right in my personal space, dabbing at my upper lip. By the time I’ve formed my squawk of protest, he’s backed away again.
‘All done.’ He’s scrunching up the serviette and rubbing his hands on his thighs. ‘Drink up, then, and I guess we’re good to go.’
I tilt my head and my voice rises in disbelief. ‘Go where exactly?’ Surely I couldn’t have been clearer?
‘I know you were sounding reluctant before, but we do have a date.’ He slides out his phone, with a twitch of those lips of his. ‘Ten at the Surf Shack? Alice and Dan’s wedding? Ring any bells?’ He wrinkles his forehead.
Triple shit. There are times when you want a tidal wave to rush in from the sea and whoosh you away. And this has to be one of them. I’m frantically clutching my cardigan sleeves, winding my foot around my leg under the chair, as I try to hang in here. Surely this can’t be? Or can it? ‘Right, so you’re…’ This is so embarrassing, and what’s more, if I try to apologise that will only make it worse.
‘I’m Quinn Penryn, Dan’s right-hand guy.’ He butts in, but the words come out slowly, one syllable at a time, as if he’s explaining to a child. He’s still smiling, but this time there’s less sparkle and more relief. ‘Great to have cleared that up. Good to meet you… at last… Sera.’ There’s the smallest ironic twinkle in his eye as he holds out his hand. ‘I must say, you’re very different from your sister.’
I’m not going to show how happy I am he’s noticed. I shrug. ‘What is there to say, she’s in Brussels, I’m here.’
‘And cutting too. This kitten has claws.’ There’s a glint in his eyes as he lets out a laugh.
Whatever. That wasn’t what I meant. But I can’t help being pleased I’ve surprised him.
He leans towards me. ‘This is going be a lot more fun than I’d thought.’
As his palm finally hits mine I throw myself into the handshake. But even as I’m grasping and shaking Quinn’s hand for all I’m worth, my brain’s jumped somewhere else entirely. So what the hell happened to Johnny, then? That thousand-to-one outside chance. The one that had me awake all night, rigid, in case it should happen. The reason I’ve had butterflies dancing in my stomach since the moment Jess closed the shop door after him yesterday. I completely refuse to believe that my stomach feeling like a wrinkled pancake now is down to disappointment that I’m not going to get to see him. That he was on his way to another wedding entirely.
Quinn’s voice pulls me back to reality. ‘These wedding plans are epic. We’re going to have such a blast…’
‘Sure,’ I say. Not that I’ve ever thought of Alice’s marriage quite like that before.
As I get to my feet and drag on my coat, out of the corner of my eye I catch Poppy’s manic double thumbs-up signs beyond the flashing fairy lights of the table decoration. And it’s not just because she’s going to snaffle the hot chocolate I’m leaving behind. If I’m doing mental eye rolls it’s because I can just imagine how this is going to get reported back to Jess. Essence and all.
As for me, I’ve no idea what’s coming. But that one enthusiastic burst from Quinn just put the next week in a whole new light.
5 (#ulink_f6c23d4a-e53f-5ec7-8e75-45bb40441470)
Saturday, 17th December
The sea front in St Aidan: Pretenders and parking tickets
‘So my wheels are right outside…’
At a guess, if Quinn’s chilled-out surfie style transfers to his transport, we’ll be trundling around in a clapped-out camper. Not that I’m a car snob – I can’t be, when I drive my gran’s cast-off mini, as rarely as I do. But whereas those characterful vans are fabulous fun in summer, their heaters are non-existent. Given it’s December, I’m preparing to freeze my butt off.
‘We’re over there, where the sand ends.’ As we cross the deck Quinn’s arm casually flops round my shoulder, steering me left. He’s come in so close behind me now, he’s bumping on my satchel.
‘It’s all double yellows, there’s a strict “no parking” policy, the wardens are like Rottweilers.’ I say, shivering as a gust of wind blows my coat open. He’s obviously got confused somewhere. But I might as well give him the benefit of my inside information, seeing as that’s what I’m here for. ‘Driving isn’t my strongest point, but people definitely aren’t allowed to park along here.’
‘I’m not “people”, Sera.’ He sounds indignant, as we clatter down the steps from the terrace to the seafront. ‘My policy is “park where I please”. I live dangerously, risk the wardens every time.’ As he pulls his keys from his pocket, he tosses them high and snatches them out of the air.
I blink as I hear a beeping and scan the empty seafront for a van. It’s only when the headlights flip up and flash, I notice a sleek, low car tucked in around the side of the Surf Shack. I try to make my eyes less wide and attempt to keep the surfie vibe going. ‘Your wheels?’ This serious bit of metallic London bling looks lost and out of place, up to its hubs in a sand dune.
‘Yep.’ He flings open both the doors and rips a plastic bag off the windscreen with a snort. ‘Complete with complementary parking ticket.’
‘What did I tell you?’ As I poke my head into the car, I’m met by the scent of leather with a heavy overtone of seaweed.
He dips into the car and grabs a damp wetsuit and towel from the front seat. ‘I’ll just put these in the back.’
I can’t hide my surprise. ‘You’ve been swimming?’ And there was I, writing him off as a pretender the minute I clapped eyes on the car.
‘I had a quick dip before we met up.’ He slams the boot and rubs his hand through his hair. ‘One life, live it and all that. It was damned cold, but it woke me up.’ Another of those understated shrugs, and the next minute he leaps into the driving seat.
When I attempt to do the same on my side of the car, I discover squeezing into the low, narrow seat isn’t as easy as he makes it look. Getting my legs into the foot well is about as easy as fitting a baby giraffe into a crisp packet. On the plus side, I’m guessing there’ll be a heater.
Quinn leans across me, flips open the glove box, and stuffs the crumpled-up parking ticket on top of a heap of others. ‘Into the filing cabinet. They’ll keep my PA busy in the lull after Christmas.’ He lets out a long sigh. ‘As for parking wardens, whatever happened to hanging loose in Cornwall?’ But the grin he sends me as he slams the glove box shut is entirely unrepentant.
I open my mouth, intending to expand on the perennial problem of narrow streets, tourist crowds and selfish parkers. But the engine roars, and the next thing, the wheels are spinning up a sandstorm. As we scream along the seafront at what feels like a hundred miles an hour, but may only be ninety-nine, I’m gripping the arm rests so hard my fingers hurt.
‘Mark Ronson okay for you?’ Quinn says, as he leans forward and flicks on the stereo. ‘We hang out sometimes, these are some of his unreleased tracks.’
Oh my. Is this guy is for real?
‘Great.’ I force out a smile and decide it’s not cool to ask if he means ‘the’ Mark Ronson. I’ve a feeling I should be reacting more to what sounds like plain old bass guitar with a drum backing. ‘Anything’s good for me.’ So long as it’s not “go faster” music. We’re going fast enough as it is.
By the time we hit the road out of St Aidan, I’m a) thanking my lucky stars the windows are tinted so no one will have recognised me in the car that broke the sound barrier going up the high street, and b) fully understanding the term white-knuckle ride.
As we zoom into open country, the winter landscape is passing so fast it’s little more than a grey blur, so I decide to look inside the car instead. Now I’m close enough to examine the stitches, Quinn’s sweater seems less surfer, more designer. As he rests his forearms on the steering wheel, he eases up a sleeve, and I let out a gasp. Tattoos? On Alice’s best man? Surely not?
I shuffle in my seat and end up resting my chin on my propped-up satchel. ‘So where exactly do you work into this wedding picture then? How do you know the happy couple?’ From where I’m sitting he seems an unlikely fit for one of Alice’s friends, for every possible reason.
‘Dan and I have an app-development company we started at uni.’ As he eases up his other sleeve the colours on his skin are dazzling. ‘Dan does the geeky code stuff, I’m the creative one with the street cred and persuasive powers.’ His sideways glance twinkles with a dash of self-mockery. And a bucketful of self-assurance. ‘I’m a no-brainer choice for best man.’
‘I see.’ It’s amazing how strangers can give you an immediate insight into what your soon-to-be family gets up to.
‘And I’m the one with the contacts too,’ he goes on, as he drags the car round a left-hand bend on two wheels. ‘Like, I arranged to borrow the wedding venue from my uncle.’ He’s definitely not bragging about it either. From his dismissive shrug he might be talking about blagging a box of chocolates for a raffle prize. ‘We all used to holiday down here at Rose Hill Manor as kids, so we know people in Rose Hill village. It’s the most magical place. My uncle mostly lives in London, and goes to Klosters for Christmas, so we had the perfect “in”.’
