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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.’
My efforts at ‘delighted’ are falling flat then. But on the up side, this might be the first time in my life my mum has seen me in jeans and not complained. Come to think of it, she’s pretty dressed down herself, in button through floral silk, and fluffy sheepskin mules. What’s more, as I follow her down the hall, the accent wallpaper hasn’t changed since my last visit. Back in January I’d have sworn the yellow and grey geometric print was on its way out. My mum’s always been obsessed with redecorating, but since my dad died she does it before the paint has even dried. Although, thinking about it, most of that time since then, she’s been away with her bestie, Jenny. Lately, if my mum hasn’t been up to her ears in home makeovers, she’s been away on a cruise.
As we turn into the living area, I close my eyes. No idea what’s coming, but I’ll try not to pre-judge. When I open them again, there’s a figure standing by the French doors, looking out to the lawn. I have to smother a pang that my dad used to stand in the same spot doing just that. He loved to unwind on the golf course. Then he’d come home for what he called his ‘garden gazing’. Whenever I visited I’d stand there beside him, and join in. Nod as he pointed out his latest Tinkerbell primulas, poured out his hopes for his Grandissimo violas. Smile at the promise of sweet peas with dreamy names like Cherub Northern Lights, Berry Kiss, or Cream Eggs.
The funny thing is that arranging my dad’s blooms for the village show as a kid was how I discovered I could throw flowers into a jam jar in a way that made them look better than everyone else’s. Back then he called me his lucky charm. It’s true, he never won when he arranged his own. Better still, somewhere along the line, I found out that picking flowers, and making them look pretty made me happy in a way nothing else did. Dad always claimed his first prize for sweet peas back in nineteen ninety-two was the reason I became a florist. It’s one of those family legends we’ve heard so often, we all believe it now.
But this is no time to drift off into the past. And we certainly won’t be talking about it today. I drag myself back to the figure by the window. Force myself to refocus, and begin again. Believe me, ‘tight bum’ is not the second thought you want to have about any of your mum’s mates, least of all her fiancé. But there’s no other way to describe what’s facing me. This particular backside could give Bruce Springsteen’s a run for its money. At least this explains why my mum lost her life-long aversion to denim.
As he turns, I stick out my hand. ‘Nice Levis, I’m Lily.’ I’m willing the front view to be older than the back. Because, holy crap, I’ve heard about these young guys who hook up with needy widows on Match dot whatever, and bleed them dry. I’d just never in my wildest nightmares considered it could be happening to my mum.
‘And this is David.’ My mum’s eyes are popping as if she’s holding her breath, though I can’t see why she’d be doing that.
There’s a vague recollection as a blond guy in a sharp Superdry polo-shirt, walks towards me. ‘Nice to meet you properly. We met briefly before?’ And while he is older than his back view, he still has to be years younger than my mother.
Trying not to gawp at his slippers that match my mum’s, I’m going the extra mile here to show I remember, even though it’s hazy. ‘You’re David. The electrician?’
His expression is bemused. ‘Not quite, I’m a personal trainer.’ Which might explain the neat back view.
I throw him a lifeline. ‘I was thinking of the lightbulb changing?’ One lifeline wasn’t enough, so I hurl out another. ‘When we met on the stairs at Christmas?’
‘Oh that.’ From the way his face brightens, he’s hugely relieved he’s finally caught up. ‘Of course. Love at first light. Wasn’t it, Barbs?’ He winks at my mother, and laughs.
Bad puns, laughing at his own really awful jokes, and calling my mum Barbs? All in the space of two seconds? There’s only so much assault a person’s guts can take. If my mum’s waste paper bin hadn’t been hand-painted with dragonflies, with a three-figure price tag, I’d have vomited in it. If this David was on three strikes and you’re out, he’d already be down the road. And that’s before we get onto the winking.
‘Anyway, now that’s gone so swimmingly, shall we move on with tea, dahling?’ My mum’s voice is strangely strangled.
The nod she gives David must have conveyed something exceedingly significant I missed. I’m about to offer to help, but he’s already in the kitchen. I make a mental note to remember, I’m not the only dahling round here anymore.
My mum skips after him. ‘So young, yet so well trained.’ There might even be a whisper of the word ‘toy boy’, followed by a muffled shriek. But from the way they both erupt into giggles, I assume that was meant for him not me.
Right now, I’m wishing I’d taken Poppy up on her offer to come too. At least then, when we talked about this afterwards, she could tell me I hadn’t imagined it.
My dad always sat in the chair on the right of the fireplace. The wood burner and the chair have both had an upgrade, but plumping myself down in that position, at least I feel like I’m holding on. Although I’m not quite certain what it is I’m hanging on to. And I’m pretty sure it’s futile. Even the thought of the coming cake doesn’t cheer me up.
When they finally come back, a whole load of laughing later, my mum’s carrying the teapot, and he’s pushing her hostess trolley.
‘So I’ve got you your favourite French Fancies, but David’s low carb gluten free, because it’s Wednesday,’ my mum says, as if that explains anything. ‘So sandwiches are chicken and pesto, tuna and rocket. Both on special wholemeal, with pine kernels.’ Whatever happened to mum’s plain old egg and cress?
When it comes to pouring, their moves are so coordinated, they could almost be on Strictly. If they’re like this serving tea, their first dance is going to rate an off-the-scale 12 across the board. I offer up a silent plea that there won’t be any twerking.
I can’t stay silent forever, so I accept a pink iced lozenge from the cake plate my mum’s holding, and launch. ‘So, big congrats, how did you guys get together?’ Somehow the word ‘engagement’ won’t come out.
My mum beams at me over her tea. At least she’s stayed true to her Gordon Ramsay china. ‘We met at the gym. But it was the cruise that really cemented things.’
My cup slams down so hard, most of the tea slurps into the saucer. ‘The cruise you went on to New York after Christmas … with Jenny?’ It’s high voice time again.
She nods, apparently impervious to any suggestion of deception on her part. Although she makes a lightning change of subject. ‘You really should try the gym, Lily. You look as if you could do with the exercise, and who knows, you might meet someone there too. All those miles alone in your car can’t be good for your dress size or your single status. As Jenny says, it’s back to front. You should be the one getting married really, not me.’
I take a second to reel at the insults. On balance, it’s best not to count them. At least she missed out her favourite topic, how I could make more of myself if I dressed like her.
My smile is as sweet as the French Fancy I still haven’t started yet. ‘Except I don’t want another husband – whereas, I take it you must, given you just got engaged.’
David puts down his tuna roll, without taking a bite. ‘When something’s this good, life’s too short to mess around wasting time.’
Cliché alert. Did you ever hear so much drivel in one sentence? I’d feel more inclined to believe David if I were certain he meant my mum, rather than her bank account. This early, who can tell? Although when it comes to choosing partners, I’m the last person to talk.
I let my eyes slide towards the garden for a few seconds’ respite. Big mistake. How could I have forgotten my mum pegs her washing out all year round as long as it isn’t raining? I’m staring straight at the rotary dryer, and the line of underpants I see hanging there almost brings sick into my mouth. Variations on the Superhero theme. It’s so not helpful to know your future step-dad wears Batman briefs. Although given how many pairs there are hanging there, it’s a pretty good indication he’s moved in.
‘Summer’s a fabulous time for a wedding.’ It’s a squeak, to move my mental image on from flapping boxers. Okay, it doesn’t exactly follow on, but I’m talking in the general sense, so I’m not being a hypocrite. ‘Lucky I’ll be here to help.’
‘You will?’ My mum can’t hide her immediate breathy panic. ‘How come?’
I sense I need to back pedal. ‘I’ll only help if you want me to.’ Then I push on to get the next bit over. ‘Jess made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so I’ll be working at Brides by the Sea in the styling department. Doing flowers, and lots more. As of next week.’ Hopefully the spin will make it shine.
My mum’s face falls. ‘But what about your lovely hotel job?’ Believe me, it’s never had praise that glowing before.
Saying it out loud is a wake up call. St Aidan is not a consolation prize. It’s a safety net I’m choosing to throw myself into. As Jess says, it doesn’t have to be forever.
Not every question needs a straight answer. At least this time smiling brightly is easier than it was earlier. ‘I’ll be living over the shop. Good timing for discounts too.’
‘Great.’ Her expression doesn’t match the word. ‘We’ve decided to stay local for the wedding anyway. Get married in the village.’
‘Brilliant.’ I couldn’t cope with a ‘destination’. At least this means a welcome extra booking for Rafe and Poppy. ‘The farm house at Daisy Hill will be ready for then too. And weddings there are so fabulous. There’s even a grand piano.’ Despite myself, I almost feel a flurry of excitement.
‘The farm?’ My mum sends David a wild-eyed glance. ‘Actually we’ve rather set our heart on …’
David holds up his hand. ‘No Barbs, we haven’t decided anything yet. Don’t let Lily think it’s a fait accompli.’ He turns to me. ‘We’re going to have a second look at Rose Hill Manor. We were there this morning. And it ticked a lot of boxes.’
Oh shit. A personal trainer who speaks French too. That’s me put in my place. It’s already in the bag. ‘Lovely.’ It comes out as a rasp. So Mr Penryn wasn’t lying about his booking rush. Damned ironic that it was my mother though.
My mum’s wringing her hands. ‘You know me, I was never one for mud.’
Which reminds me, I’ve been here for what feels like an age, and I still haven’t caught a glimpse of the ring yet.
David goes on. ‘You could come with us to the Manor next time? As you’re in the business now.’
Talk about walking on eggshells. Although it’s a surprise he’s butting in, when this is between me and my mum.
‘I don’t want to intrude.’ If I had any sense, I’d keep right out of this. Viewing wedding venues with love birds has to be the ultimate gooseberry activity. Although if they’re anything like Thom and me, they’ll be at each other’s throats soon enough. But I’m torn, because for Poppy and Rafe’s sake, I should be jumping at the offer. It’s the perfect opportunity to check out what that damned Penryn is playing at. ‘Actually, yes, thanks for asking me. I’d love to come with you.’
My mum’s face crumples in horror, and her mouth opens. She knows all about brides getting railroaded. And wedding interference. She perfected the art when Thom and I married. But before her protest has time to hit the air, a figure appears on the grass outside, and there’s a knock on the French window.
‘It’s only Fred bringing logs.’ As she gets up there’s a gleam in her eye.
I catch my breath when I hear the name. Which is a complete accident.
‘He’s from a very nice farm, Lily. And sells the driest wood in the area. You could do a lot worse.’ By the time her hand lands on the door handle, she’s fixing me with her ‘now or never’ stare.
Here we go. This is what I have to put up with. ‘A “nice” farm? That would be one without mud then?’ I say.
