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‘I’m not sure I’ll ever make it that far.’ He gives a laugh. ‘Thank Christmas you’re more Team Dan than Team Alice.’
Whoa. ‘I wasn’t aware we were taking sides here. Isn’t this a joint effort all round?’
‘My point entirely,’ he says.
I’m not certain, but I think he just contradicted himself hugely there. Not that I’m going to point it out.
He goes on. ‘Which is exactly why you should come and join me and stay at the cottage.’
‘What?’ For some reason I haven’t kept up with the logic here. Worse, I seem to be squeaking like a strangled mouse.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It makes perfect sense, given we get on so well. At least until the others arrive. Bunking in together would save you running back and forwards into town.’
When I turn to examine his expression, there’s not an ounce of flirt in his eyes. Just a very direct, honest, blue green gaze. Which is actually way more unnerving. Because now I don’t know what the hell to think. Other than knowing this would be completely banned by Alice. And remembering there’s no way he’d be attracted to me with my non-existent figure and scruffy clothes.
As I open my mouth I’m unsure how to reply, but it doesn’t matter as he cuts me off short.
‘Obviously we don’t have to decide now.’ He gives me another elbow nudge, but this time there’s the thickness of an extra sweater between us, so it’s way less jolty than this morning’s naked one. ‘For the record…’ There’s a bit of a dramatic pause. ‘I do think hanging out with me twenty-four seven would do you a lot of good.’ He tops that off with one of those unapologetic grins of his.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ I say. For the record. Was that completely arrogant of him? Or just plain cheeky? Or an extremely kind thought to save me travelling time? As for exactly what he thinks I’m going to be hanging out… After this morning the mind boggles. ‘I’ll stay at home. At least for now.’
For a moment, thinking back to the shop and the best man that could have been, I consider a parallel universe where Johnny and I had just loaded fifty potted pines into the back of a van. Where he asks me to stay over. But before I decide how to answer, my sensible self takes over and stamps on that thought. Hard.
‘Okay, next job,’ Quinn says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Decorations for the cottages, from the Coach House.’ He’s suddenly sounding like Mr Efficiency. ‘And there should be a handyman guy in there doing repairs to the pony and trap Alice is hoping to arrive in.’
‘Cool.’ My reading hasn’t got as far as the bridal carriage yet. Hopefully I’ll get onto that tonight. On my own sofa.
As he pushes the gear stick forwards, his forehead creases into a frown. ‘You do realise, people don’t often turn me down, Sera.’
He seems particularly perplexed that I have. Although it’s really not exactly clear what I’ve said ‘no’ to here.
‘I don’t imagine they do.’ My lips twitch into a smile, but I can’t resist the next bit, because he said the same thing to me only half an hour ago. ‘But then I’m not “people”, Quinn.’
Me? I’m wary enough to put that easy charm and those aching good looks on hold every time. At least until I get to know him better.
In the meantime, we need to push on.
8 (#ulink_cbdb15a4-993c-5d97-8b6f-c9046d3f17a6)
Saturday, 17th December
In the kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm: Mistletoe sprigs and hearts on strings
As I reach the farmhouse, later that evening, I walk straight into Rafe giving Poppy what looks like the good-bye snog of her life on the doorstep.
‘Don’t mind him, he’s acting like he’s disappearing for a year,’ Poppy laughs, as she peels herself away. ‘He’s only going out to check the cows.’
It’s taken these two a year to make this work, but it’s been worth the wait. Believe me, if there was a guy who looked at you the way he looks at her, you’d reconsider your single status. Every time.
‘Are you still here working?’ As Poppy steps back to let me past, the scent of warm spice whooshes up my nose. ‘Come on in and warm up, I’m trying out Rafe’s Aga.’ She’s got her hair in a twist and icing sugar on her nose.
‘Thanks, it’s so cold out here, my fingers are like ice pops,’ I say. It’s dark and after stringing lights on trees, by every cottage door around the farm, despite my woolly gloves my hands feel like they belong to someone else.
Poppy peers down at the light-up Santa poking out of my pocket as she leads the way into the kitchen. ‘I see Santa’s doing his job, if you still have the office key.’
Between us, keeping track of all the cottage keys has been a nightmare. Quinn might be enthusiastic and strong, and know some hilarious jokes, but he’s a total ditz when it comes to losing things. For the first time in my life I completely understand why I’ve sent people round the bend with my vagueness in the past.
‘Look at your hessian hearts on strings, there’s so many of them,’ I say, as I take in the garlands criss-crossing the room. I thought we’d got a lot of deccies for the cottages, but seeing the number of hearts and bows in here, I’m not so sure we’ve got enough.
Poppy laughs. ‘This is Rafe’s welcome-back effort. Not a tractor part in sight either, though I’m not sure how long that’ll last.’
‘Are you baking?’ My mouth’s already watering, as I see the bowls and drifts of flour on the long kitchen table. It’s been three long months since I last wolfed down Poppy’s cakes, and I’ve missed them almost as much as I’ve missed her. Seeing as I was often in the studio at Brides by the Sea when she lived and baked her cakes in the top-floor flat, I was officially her chief taster.
‘You’ve timed it well. Fancy testing my gingerbread men?’ She nods at a pile of biscuits on a cooling tray. ‘They haven’t got any eyes yet. My icing pipes are still at the shop.’ She slides the kettle onto the Aga. ‘You’ve got roses in your cheeks from the cold. Like a drink to warm up?’
I’m suddenly so hungry I’m practically swooning at the thought of gingerbread. ‘Tea would be fab, please.’
‘I’ll make one for Quinn too.’ She pulls some mugs from the shelf. ‘You two looked like you were having fun when I saw you earlier.’
‘He’s a long way from the stuffed shirt I was expecting,’ I laugh. ‘He’ll be along soon. Great with fairy lights, too.’ Since he put his clothes on and covered up that disgustingly deep tan of his, we’ve got on better.
Poppy frowns. ‘Immie said she’d have been happy to put up the usual cottage decorations, but Alice wouldn’t hear of it.’
I pull a face. ‘I’m sorry Alice is a bit fussy. She wants every cottage themed, to match the wedding and the occupants.’ This won’t be the last time I apologise for her. ‘Actually I came to check if it’s okay to take the pig pictures down?’ Another of Alice’s specific instructions.
Poppy’s face breaks into a grin. ‘We’re all with Alice on that one. Those pigs are hideous. Leave them in the office, with any luck they won’t go back up again.’ She puts three mugs on the chunky wood table and piles a plate high with gingerbread men. ‘Is there much left for you to do in the cottages?’
Sliding onto a chair, I slip off my jacket, then grab a tea and dunk my biscuit. ‘Loads.’ I sink my teeth into a delicious gingerbread leg to stem my panic. Because ‘loads’ is a huge understatement. Each cottage has an individual tree with hand-made decorations. Then there are bespoke toiletries, wicker wreaths, pillow chocolates, rose petals, scented candles, boxes of Turkish delight, hampers, fruit bowls and a mistletoe sprig. And tasteful pictures to replace the pigs. And Christmas garlands. ‘The job’s so massive, if I hadn’t had a gingerbread intake at exactly this minute, I might actually have given up.’ I’m not joking either.
Poppy stares at me over the top of her mug. ‘Maybe Immie and I could help?’
‘No, I couldn’t possibly expect you to do that. You haven’t even met Alice yet.’
‘Really, it’s fine, Sera. We’re all here for each other. Look how you stepped in with my bestie last summer. The dress you lent Cate gave her the wedding of her dreams.’
‘But Cate let us use her photos for publicity…’ I’m hesitating, knowing the difference more hands would make.
Poppy comes over and squeezes my shoulder. ‘Think of this as payback for you making Cate’s day wonderful. That wedding might not even have happened without your dress.’ She’s being very persuasive.
‘You really have time to help?’ If I didn’t have my mouth full of gingerbread man, I’d kiss her.
She smiles. ‘I’m just back from London, with no cake orders, and no weddings to sort out. And who doesn’t love Christmas decorations?’
‘You might not be saying that when you get to the end,’ I groan. ‘But if you’re sure, I’d be so grateful.’
‘Call in first thing, show us exactly how you want things. Then leave it with us.’ Poppy’s still patting my hand when the door opens.
‘Can I smell gingerbread?’ Quinn’s rugged face appears as he dips under a heart garland. ‘I let myself in, I hope that’s okay?’
This is the measure of the guy. He’s laid back and confident enough to walk right in like he owns the place. And he gets away with it every time. Unless there’s a parking warden involved.
Poppy’s pushing crumbs into her mouth. ‘Sit down, grab some tea and tell us how the biscuits are.’
‘The good news is Poppy and Immie are going to help with the cottages.’ I say, knowing he’ll be ecstatic.
‘Amazing,’ he says. ‘Thank Christmas for that.’ He folds himself into a chair, helps himself to a biscuit and takes a bite. Then takes a few seconds to deliberate. ‘Delicious,’ he says eventually, turning to Poppy, waving his biscuit. ‘But look, you’ve bitten off the head of yours, which is pretty cruel.’ He sends me a wink. ‘Whereas Sera and I are both eating ours feet first.’ He leans over and gives me another significant nudge. Which makes four today. If you count the one where we had hysterics because I dropped the Christmas tree on his foot.
I pick up what’s left of my gingerbread man – just the head – and pop it into my mouth. Not that I’m trying to eat the evidence, but I’m not sure it’s that significant. I help myself to another and try to start at the top, but I can’t. So I begin to nibble the toes, except this time I’m eating more slowly, because I feel like I’m being watched.
‘It’s the same with chocolate teddy bears,’ Quinn goes on, chomping his way up to chest level on his biscuit. ‘The world is split into two groups – people who start with the head. And people who start with the feet. There’s no switching sides. You are how you are.’
‘When did eating gingerbread men get this complicated?’ I twist my sleeve around my fingers, take another bite and try to work out what he’s getting at here. Or if he’s just bullshitting. Which he might be.
Quinn carries on eating until only the head’s left, then he holds it up. ‘Twelve out of ten for taste.’ He nods at Poppy. ‘I’d score even higher if he had a grin.’
‘Waiting for icing pipes,’ she explains, even though Quinn probably has no idea what she’s talking about. ‘I think what Quinn’s trying to point out, Sera… very subtly…’ Poppy’s nipping back her smile. ‘… Is that you two have quite a lot of common ground.’
‘Excuse me?’ I say. I’m not sure this is what I need to hear. Because it’s patently not true.
Quinn’s waggling his next biscuit at Poppy. ‘Twelve out of ten for observation there, Pops.’
Listening to this, I’d say they’re the ones with the common ground. She didn’t even flinch when he called her Pops and she usually hates it.
‘It’s not just the gingerbread. Look at you both.’ Poppy’s laughing now. ‘The same ripped denim, the same sun-streaked hair, your sweaters are practically identical…’
Pretty appalled, I look down to remind myself what jumper I pulled off the bedside chair this morning. Yes, it’s one of my favourites. Burnt orange, sloppy. I chose it as my comfort blanket because I was stressed about this random best man I was going to meet. With good cause, as it happens. Was that really only this morning? The end of my sweater sleeves are fraying where I’ve been tugging them over my hands, which is what I’m doing now. As I turn my gaze onto Quinn, my tummy sinks.
Shit. ‘So, we’re both wearing orange sweaters.’ I’m praying Poppy won’t pick up on his ragged cuffs. ‘And your point is?’ As I push back my sweater sleeve, because actually I’m getting a bit hot here under all the scrutiny, Poppy lets out a yelp.
‘Omigod, you’ve got the same leather wristbands too.’ She gives a guilty shrug. ‘I’m sorry, Sera, but it’s much more than what you’re wearing. Your expression is so similar, it’s unreal.’ She chews her thumbnail as she studies us. ‘You’re like a couple of beachy twins.’
I pull in a long breath. Twins I may be persuaded to go for. Non-identical ones, obviously. Where the siblings disagree over most things. It’s the ‘couple’ bit that has me lifting off the chair.
‘Actually we have really different views on practically every subject.’ Even as I blurt it out I can see Quinn smirking behind his hand.
‘Really…’ Poppy sounds unconvinced.
‘Yes,’ I’m determined to fight my case here. Quinn and I have been together for less than a day and we’ve been at odds right left and centre. ‘Like I really disagree with inconsiderate parking… which Quinn does all over the place.’ I stick out my chin. One to me. ‘And I completely disagree with guys walking around the cottage nine-tenths naked…’ It’s out before I think. This is how crap I am under pressure. And it’s way more embarrassing for me than anyone else, which is why those roses in my cheeks have now spread to the tips of my ears. Dammit.
Poppy’s elbow is on the table and she’s propping her chin on her hand, widening her eyes at Quinn in mock horror. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been walking around without clothes, Quinn?’
He grins, but looks entirely unashamed. ‘I have. But only to put the sausages on.’
Poppy blinks at that. At least the sausage part slowed her down a bit. But then she turns to me. ‘Not wanting to put you on the spot, Sera, but what about that string bikini you walk round in the entire summer? The one that covers a whole lot less than a tenth of you. The one you wear all the time. In the studio, down the mini market, in the Cats’ Protection shop. Basically everywhere, except if there are customers around?’
Quinn laughs. ‘So we park in different places. But it sounds like we definitely both like to chill…’ He pauses, and the skin at the ends of his eyes crinkles as he smiles. ‘…Nine-tenths naked, that is.’
I’m kicking myself for coining that phrase. And although I’m hungry enough to eat for an army, if I have one more crumb of gingerbread man I might just choke.
‘Talking of chilling…’ Quinn’s suddenly much more serious. ‘If I see another fairy light, I might just explode, so it’s probably time for some down time.’ He claps his hands. ‘I’ve got wine and supper waiting across at the cottage for anyone who’s interested.’ He switches his gaze to Poppy. ‘We were thinking it might be easier if Sera stays over at mine tonight.’ Smooth as anything. Just like that.
My eyes practically pop out of their sockets in shock. What part of ‘no’ does this guy not understand?
I take a deep breath and count to nine… ‘Actually, I was hoping to get back to St Aidan, if anyone’s going that way?’ The look I send Poppy is pure desperation. What’s more, she did create the opening for Quinn here, although I’ve a feeling he’d have made it regardless. ‘I’ve got too much reading and designing to catch up on to spend time… chilling.’ Naked or otherwise.
‘Maybe another night, then.’ Poppy smiles at Quinn, then turns to me. ‘No problem, I’ll pop you back home, Sera. Let’s face it, I can hardly ice a Christmas cake without my piping bags. And I might grab some cupcake cases too.’
Now she’s talking. Right now I could kill for one of Poppy’s cupcakes. Plain sponge. With lashings of vanilla buttercream. All white, like the wedding dresses. Just in case the crumbs get in the wrong place in the shop.
As for tomorrow, I’m going to need all the calories I can get, to keep the Naked Chef in hand. There I go again. Definitely not in hand. Anything but that.
9 (#ulink_d4dfe21e-240b-54d1-90c3-b7ad048b402e)
Sunday, 18th December
At Brides by the Sea: Blaring horns and short circuits
Sera, Pls can you bring me some pieces of lace – working on Christmas cupcake designs – cd always make a few Chrissy cupcakes for Alice’s cake table? Poppy xx
I’m in the studio the next morning and as Poppy’s text pings into my phone, I can hear Jess’s loafers clattering up the stairs. Although, if Poppy imagines there will be a place for unscheduled cupcakes at Alice’s wedding, it’s because she doesn’t know Alice.
‘How long have you been here?’ Jess pops her head around the doorframe, frowning, her voice high with surprise. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on wedding duties today?’
Poppy’s text gives me the perfect excuse. ‘I just called in to get some lace scraps for Poppy.’ I’d rather Jess didn’t know I’ve been here since five, bent over the sewing machine. Having hit a brick wall with my as-yet non-existent designs, I’ve gone back to basics. I’ve been messing around with silks and satins and scissors, trying to free myself up by skipping the drawings and working very fast, straight onto the mannequin. If I stop worrying and work entirely instinctively with the raw materials, like I used to do when I was a student, maybe, just maybe, I’ll short-circuit my creative block. Come up with some entirely new ideas and shapes for wedding dresses. Although thus far, all I’ve got are a line of limp shifts, dangling from hangers. Like ghosts waiting for a Halloween party.
‘Are you okay? You’ve got very dark circles.’ Jess motions to her eyes, although if she thinks I’m looking sleep-deprived, she should find a mirror.
‘I was up late, reading up on the wedding strategy,’ I say. It was well after midnight when I crawled into bed, my head throbbing with wedding facts. I definitely don’t need to admit the pre-dawn start to work on my collection. ‘What’s your excuse?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Jaggers until four.
‘Again?’
‘It was the “Grab a Granny and a Cocktail” Christmas do. Believe me, some of these forty-year-olds really know how to whoop it up. Jules was there, with his mum.’
‘That was nice.’ Jules is Jess’s tame and very talented photographer, who hasn’t actually untied the apron strings and left home yet. As for age, Jess’s is a closely guarded secret. Between us, forty is a long way short of the real figure, but she talks a good job. And she swears by what she calls her ‘hope in a jar’ products – anti-gravity potions and wrinkle repair creams. She keeps them in the prosecco fridge and slaps them on by the gallon.
‘Actually Jules’ ma was drinking like a bloody fish, I couldn’t keep up with her at all.’ Jess gives a grimace. When it comes to alcohol, Jess is the original hollow-legged woman, so who knows what Jules’ mum is like. ‘So many Christmas parties, I’ll be damned relieved when it’s January. What are you doing today?’
And now she has me. Alice rang last night to say she’s finally got a flight into Devon later on. Which is brilliant news, because that’ll take the heat off me. Right now I’m actually putting off the awful moment when I have to leave the building and drive to the airport to pick her up. Exeter’s a bloody long way when the furthest you usually drive is to the launderette, once every two years, when the washer breaks down.
‘As I said, I’m taking Poppy some pieces of lace.’ I recap, for both our benefits. ‘Then she and Immie are helping with the cottages.’
If Jess gets a sniff of the truth about where I’m heading she’ll go into overdrive. If she starts reeling off road numbers and asking if I’ve got life insurance, I’ll get so hot under the collar, I’ll melt into a pool of grease. Driving round St Aidan I’m fine. But dual carriageways and turning-right arrows in the road give me the willies. And somehow I have to get all the way to Exeter. And it’s no good saying ‘use your sat nav’, because that just confuses me even more. And half the time there’s no connection anyway.
A car horn beeps down below in the mews and makes me jump. Omigod, this is how nervous and wound up I am. That’ll be me in half an hour. Getting lost. Causing hold-ups because I don’t like driving over forty. Everyone beeping me because I’m in the wrong lane.
When I peer past my fabric samples and magazine piles to see out of the window at the car roofs three floors below, I seem to be looking down on a log jam. Except these are cars not logs. There are three or four horns blaring now, their discordant notes clashing. At first I think I’m having some weird fast-forward see-into-the-future vision of me, having a mid-road crisis, en route to Exeter. When I blink myself back to the present and force myself to calm down, even from above I can tell the car at the front is sleek and low. Even though it’s one of those cold, murky, December mornings, when the daylight never really takes a hold, the highly polished, metallic granite paintwork of that car sticks out a mile. Given that by rights Quinn should be miles away, I’m bracing myself for something. I’m just not quite sure what.
