Читать книгу Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance! - Jane Linfoot - Страница 12

Sunday, 3rd December

At Brides by the Sea: Gravitas and Ashton Kutcher

‘Okay, let’s go for a shot by the window. Maybe with your arms around each other this time?’

It comes as a bit of a shock to hear my own instructions to Nate and Becky echoing around the empty upstairs room. Although they live in London, St Aidan’s one of their favourite surfing destinations. Meeting up here with them always made it easier to persuade Luc to come to visit my parents.

As for the location, in the end Jess was proved right. Given the choice between horizontal rain on the beach, or a studio flooded with natural light, Nate and Becky took pity on me and opted to stay inside. Today is meant to help them relax in front of the camera, but it’s great for me to have a dummy run with moving targets too. Although, when I suggested a casual dress code, with accessories to ring the changes, I didn’t bank on them turning up in wet suits and immediately adding in Santa hats and sunglasses. It’s no surprise that every shot I’ve taken so far looks like a surfie selfie from Christmas Day at Bondi.

‘Is this a good pose?’ Becky, bless her neoprene socks, isn’t stinting on the effort as she stares out to sea through a window and coils herself around Nate’s neck.

‘Brill.’ I can overlook that she’s entwined like a contortionist. The trouble is, whenever she takes up a pose she goes rigid. ‘Remember to let Nate breathe, though.’

I was confident it would be easy to get some fabulous results in this space. But with Nate and Becky so tense it’s proving harder than I thought. I’ve been concentrating so hard on snippets of news I might get from them, I’ve completely overlooked how strange it was going to feel coming face to face with Nate and Becky without Luc. Or that seeing them again would give me quite so many pangs for the life and the boyfriend I don’t have any more. What’s worse, within a few minutes of Nate and Becky arriving, I’m getting flashbacks. And I thought I’d left those behind months ago.

There’s no way to put this tactfully. ‘Can we lose the hats and sunnies this time?’ I beam to show them how well they’re doing. Even if this is turning into a total photographic disaster, I absolutely can’t let them know.

‘Without shades?’ Nate couldn’t sound more horrified if I’d asked him to get naked and pose in the buff. ‘I’m going to feel way too self-conscious staring straight into that lens.’

Just my luck to hit a wedding couple like this, but I know exactly how he feels. I might as well ’fess up. ‘I’m just the same. I hate having my photo taken.’

Becky gives a guilty shrug. ‘It’s why we had to have you to do the wedding. I knew you’d understand. We couldn’t possibly have a real wedding photographer.’

Now they tell me. And all this is before we get to the not smiling thing. I have to say Luc’s friends are a lot more intense than mine. You’d at least expect surfers to be relaxed, but Nate and Becky surf so hard it’s more like work than fun. It goes without saying that jobs in insurance and finance involve a lot more responsibility than laughs. It’s understandable that a banker will be more weighed down than a cake maker or a dress designer. And Luc couldn’t have taken his own career in health and safety any more seriously. But then, as he always pointed out, it’s a life and death area. Whereas making food look pretty totally isn’t. I have this vague idea that when I accidentally gate-crashed the party at the shared house where he lived five years ago, we both got the wrong end of the proverbial stick. I thought he was an easy going, student accommodation kind of guy, whereas he was only there on the way from one massive loft apartment to another. The fact I was working on a one-off job, snapping champagne for Fortnum and Mason, gave him the entirely wrong impression about my gravitas. If we’d met up a month later when I was styling basic chicken nuggets for a cut price supermarket, he’d never have let me eat every toad-in-the-hole canapé on the plate he was circulating with. He’d have whooshed his platter further around the room until he found someone more suitable. I think more than my hunger for sausages, that night I hung on in there because he was a dead ringer for Ashton Kutcher. Although that could have been down to too many WKD’s on my part. Even if he did still go on holiday with his parents, he was hunky enough for women to give me envious glances when we were out together.

As for his mates branding me as ‘a Cameron Diaz’, really, there’s no resemblance. I’ll admit to the odd ditsy moment. But implying I’m out there, blonde and sexy? Mainly I hide in corners, and obviously my hair’s dark and usually messy. So they’re totally wrong on every count with that comparison. Although I will admit I was Luc’s fun side.

One last try and I’m throwing it all in. ‘Forget I’m here … talk between yourselves … think happy thoughts … try humming Heaven is a halfpipe …’ If I can’t even get one decent photo when it’s just the three of us, I’m starting to wonder how I’ll get any at their wedding.

From the way Nate’s lips twist, he’s halfway to amused disgust. ‘Wrong sport. Halfpipes are skaters, not surfers.’ And the moment’s over and he’s back to looking like an undertaker.

‘Okay, take a breather, I’ll see what we’ve got so far.’ Truly, wild accessories aside, as I flick through the camera roll, if you overlook that Becky’s got a single teensy blue streak in her hair, these two wouldn’t look out of place on the front of a funeral plan brochure. Thinking back to yesterday afternoon, the ride from hell with Santa was bliss compared to this. Although it gives me an idea. ‘How about you get your hoodies on and we’ll pop for a walk round town. It’ll be more authentic. And much more like being at the wedding than this.’ I’m bullshitting here, but I’m desperate. So long as we don’t bump into Santa, things can’t get any worse than they are now.

‘Great.’ It’s strange how these men respond to big words and office speak. From the way Nate almost smiles again, I had him the second I said ‘authentic’.

In no time at all, they’re changed and we’re out on the street. As I do up the top button on my jacket and hang on tight to my camera strap, I’m wishing I’d bought some fingerless gloves.

‘So, you two wander and look in the shop windows, and I’ll follow you with my zoom,’ I say. Then I retreat a few feet across the mews and start snapping. Becky and Nate, holding hands, ambling down the cobbles, Becky and Nate laughing – really! – Becky pulling Nate back to look at the sparkle in the Brides by the Sea window. And we’re away. Three shops along, they stumble across the Riptide surfie shop winter sale and we all troop in. Cue more cute pics. Looking at sweatshirts. Becky in a Christmas tree hat. Nate holding up a Have a Swell Christmas t-shirt. By the time we leave they’re both swinging handfuls of brightly coloured carrier bags and Nate’s carrying a body board. And I snap them spilling out onto the street.

An hour later, after a trawl all round town and down to the harbour and back, I’ve taken what feels like a thousand shots. The light’s fading and my fingers have turned to ice. As we stagger past the window at the Hungry Shark, even though the hot drinks aren’t as delicious as the Surf Shack’s, the yellow light inside is warm and inviting.

Once I’ve checked there isn’t a Lipsyncer anywhere in sight, I can’t resist. ‘Hot chocolate anyone?’

Nate hesitates and looks longingly at the Sundowner Bay window further along the street. ‘There’s still one surf shop we haven’t been in yet.’

‘Phew, I thought you’d never ask’ Becky blows with relief. ‘Shopaholic Nate can catch us up later.’ She’s through the door and ordering faster than you can say salt caramel swirl.

As we sit on high stools, scooping whipped cream off the top of cups the size of plant pots, Becky’s blinking happily. I can’t resist one last close up. And best of all, she doesn’t even flinch.

‘Well, I think we’ve found a way of making you relax in front of the camera.’ When I push the mini screen towards her, with a lovely dusk shot of the two of them silhouetted against the masts in the harbour, her delighted smile makes me glow inside. ‘Less than three weeks to the big day now.’ I know the stress on the day will make it adrenaline filled. But after this afternoon, it feels like we’re as prepared as we can be.

She sighs as she runs her fingers through hair that’s surprisingly tidy for a surfie. ‘You know, I think you did the right thing running away when Luc brought your engagement ring out.’

My spoon of cream stops in mid-air, halfway to my mouth. ‘What?’ She has to be joking, doesn’t she? ‘Are you okay, Becky?’

She pulls a face. ‘A lot of days lately I wish I’d run when I caught sight of mine.’

I give a rueful sigh. ‘For what it’s worth, if I could turn the clock back, I wouldn’t run a second time around. I’d definitely handle it differently.’ In a way that didn’t wreck my relationship, for starters.

She scrapes the grated chocolate off the top of her cream. ‘When I dreamed of Nate proposing, I had no idea getting married would be so draining.’ The sigh she lets out is long and weary.

Poor Becky. I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll feel better when you’ve drunk your chocolate.’ Wedding fatigue hitting the woman who has the stamina to ride the waves from dawn until bedtime comes as a surprise. Whereas when I legged it, the wedding itself hadn’t even crossed my mind.

If we hadn’t been staying with Luc’s parents it might have all panned out differently. In Madeira they would have been in the holiday mood due to downing vast quantities of Poncha. As it was, three days into our stay in the Highlands, when his dad’s dour expression hadn’t lifted and his mum’s mouth was still the same hard line, it finally dawned on me. Luc’s serious side was probably an inbuilt part of his gene pool that was only going to get worse as he got older. Down the line, I might not be able to tease it out of him.

My family lost a child and still manage to be jokey, so permanently long faces are an alien concept to me. I mean, who, faced with Prosecco popcorn says, ‘Sparkling white gives Keith heartburn’? And all my cute reindeer crisps got was a resounding, ‘We don’t do wild game.’ In the split second when Luc went down on one kilted knee in front of the Christmas tree and his entire, unsmiling, extended family all that flashed in front of me was a lifetime without laughing. Although, to be fair, I haven’t exactly been splitting my sides since then. And I suspect it was a complete overreaction. When I look back on our times in London, Luc did smile. Just not as much as me.

‘Today is the first fun we’ve had for ages.’ Becky’s meticulously sinking every marshmallow with the back of her spoon.

Somehow, I feel I need to share more here. Make it clear our cases aren’t the same at all. ‘My trouble was, Luc made his proposal sound like we’d only be getting married so I could get a US visa.’ Announcing he was leaving for a fabulous new job and life in the States, then popping the question in the next breath. What’s worse, it was like my whole world being hit by an earthquake. I wasn’t even aware he was up for promotion, let alone a leap across the Atlantic. If we’d discussed it in advance, I might have been more ready for it. I can see now, it was only natural that someone so work orientated would be super-excited about saving his news for a big reveal. For someone like me, who hates surprises, it couldn’t have been worse. It was my fault too. I should have made my phobia about surprises clearer. And the size of the audience made the outcome all the more cataclysmic. Had it just been the two of us, Luc might have forgiven me for taking fright. But so many cousins and aunties seeing me vote with my feet was the ultimate in public humiliation. Everyone understood that. A proud man like Luc couldn’t marry a person who’d done that to him. Even if I was mortified afterwards, there was no clawing my way back, no matter how much apologising and begging I did.

Becky shrugs. ‘Luc’s doing well over there.’ This is just the kind of snippet I’ve been aching for. Now it’s come without prompting I’m not sure I like it.

‘He would be.’ Most days I try not to think about it. I pick up my cup to cover up that one tiny fragment of news about him has my pulse racing. ‘Although, actually, I’d rather not talk about him.’ A deep draught of dark cocoa is just what I need to slow my heart rate again. Who knew I’d feel this uncomfortable?

‘He’s still on his own, too.’ She tilts her head to gauge my reaction. ‘It’s a shame he can’t come to the wedding. Second chances and all that?’

If spluttering with my face in my mug is a bad move, sloshing hot chocolate right down my coat is worse. The amount of drink I’ve lost, it’s a good thing I’m cold rather than thirsty. But at least the wipe-up gives me time to regroup. Leopard print is so forgiving, that’s why you have to love it every time. I’m frantically dabbing my soggy fake fur with serviettes, racking my brain to move on to an easier topic. ‘So how are the wedding plans going?’

Becky rolls her eyes. ‘There are so many decisions to make. Nachos or tacos for the burger van. Do we want hog roast or fish and chips for the main. We even need council permission to erect our own beachside marquee.’ She gives a guilty squirm on her stool. ‘We haven’t even begun to choose groups for the photos from the lists on Pinterest.’

‘Absolutely no worries on that one.’ Although organised group photos don’t fit with the kind of informal wedding she’s talked about before.

She lets out another sigh. ‘The only thing Nate’s looking forward to is getting his hands on our own Roaring Waves beer, with Mr and Mrs Croft labels on.’

‘No surprise there.’ Another reason for my heart to sink. Let’s just hope the brewer’s not on the guest list. ‘So how many people have you invited?’ As Becky’s repeatedly using the word ‘small’, I’m confident this won’t be an issue.

‘Not many. Although weddings have this awful tendency to grow.’ She thinks for a second, then looks up brightly. ‘A hundred and forty-seven, tops.’

The way that number makes me lurch, it’s a good thing I’ve already tipped most of my drink away. What’s that expression? Three steps forward, two steps back? Or in my case, fifteen steps back, ending up with falling off a cliff top.

Which just goes to show, your blindsides don’t always come from where you expect them. Here I was, assuming I’d be thrown off track by hearing about Luc, when all along I should have been worried about an out of control guest list. I was expecting twenty, tops. Add in an extra hundred and twenty, I’ll be needing to find a lens with a wider angle.