Читать книгу Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop - Jane Linfoot - Страница 12

‘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”.’

Due to Quinn sorting the venue, I’ve already forgiven him for the last corner. What’s more I’m beginning to see why Alice might be overlooking his shortcomings too.

I start breathing again now we’re back on four wheels. ‘So you know the area then?’ Which kind of rubbishes the argument that I’m here for my local expertise.

He grins and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Enough to know where to swim and not get caught out by the tides.’

How cool a reply is that?

‘And you thought that was why you were needed?’ He raises an eyebrow and stares at me for so long I think we might crash.

I take a while to find the best way of answering. ‘That’s what Alice… kind of implied.’

His voice drops. ‘Well she would… wouldn’t she?’ He rubs his forehead and shakes his head. ‘Actually, way better than that, tell me about you. So far all I know is you live here and you’re a painter.’

So that about sums it up. Mostly I’d have let the misinformation go and left it at that. But something about his ragged left cuff makes me comfortable enough to put him right.

‘My gran was the painter. She used the same colour pallet as the tats on your wrist.’

That has him nodding. ‘So what about you?’

I say it quickly, hoping we can move on. ‘I design wedding dresses.’

His eyes open wider and he’s bouncing with enthusiasm. ‘Great, so you designed Alice’s then?’

I don’t hold back putting him right on that. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Ouch…’

That one word tells me he completely understands.

‘As you said before, Alice and I are very different people. My dresses wouldn’t suit her at all. I’m a bit dreamy, whereas she’s…’ I hesitate, wanting to be fair.

‘Uptight and dictatorial? Controlling and completely un-chilled?’

I wince. Quinn filling in the gap sounds a lot harsher than me thinking it.

He laughs. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t have to pretend, we both know her. And mostly we forgive her.’ He leans across and taps my bag. ‘I’m guessing that’s where you’re hiding Alice’s Book of Wedding Law?’ He gives a conspiratorial nod towards the back of the car. ‘Mine’s in the boot.’

‘You got one too?’ I ask, fumbling with the buckles on my bag.

‘I did,’ he says, amusement lilting around his lips.

Somehow I’ve been so blown away by Quinn, I completely forgot to check the small print for today. I look at my watch. ‘So did you read what we’re supposed to be doing now? Ten-thirty, Saturday, what job did the itinerary say?’

His face cracks into a smile. ‘Much as I love Alice, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s driving at.

‘You have two hundred pages of detailed instructions in your bag. But given the person who wrote them isn’t here we don’t have to follow them to the letter.’ He slaps the steering wheel triumphantly.

‘Isn’t that all the more reason we should stick to them?’ I’m starting to see why I’m here.

A low laugh comes from Quinn’s throat. ‘You’re more like your sister than you like to think, Sera. From where I stand, what you’re clinging onto in that bag of yours is a whole load of suggestions. And it’s our job, as creative directors, to implement these to the best of our ability. But we’ll do that so much better if we do it in our own way.’

Actually I think he might have lost me a mile out of St Aidan. ‘There’s a difference?’

‘Of course there’s a difference.’ He’s almost shouting now. ‘I’m a free spirit, I’m categorically incapable of obeying orders. But I’m damned amazing at making things happen. What you’re holding is a blueprint, but we’re not going to be enslaved. We’re going to wing it.’

‘Oh shit.’ I sigh. All Alice’s hard work and I can see it imploding in front of my eyes. What’s more, I’m kicking myself for not reading every single page of the wedding manual. Three times. At least. By only skimming the first two pages, I’ve really let Alice down. Because without the facts, I have no idea how far off course Quinn is taking us.

‘Let’s face it, we’d have no fun at all doing it Alice’s way,’ he says. ‘These days she sucks the joy out of everything.’

I hate hearing him talk about Alice like this. But he might have a point. She used to like to steer, but lately she’s become horribly rigid. But only because her wedding’s so important. ‘But at least we could try it Alice’s way?’ I reason. ‘And go off-piste if it doesn’t work?’

Quinn gives a loud sigh. ‘So currently, in the world according to Alice, we should be picking up snow machines in Truro. Whereas as I see it, it’s way more important to let you see the venue first. That way you’ll get a real handle on the event.’

I wince at the jargon. ‘Snow machines? What are they for?’

‘Sera, please tell me you didn’t just ask that.’

I know Alice wants a white wedding in every way. I screw up my face and my courage, and hazard a guess. ‘You mean they are literally what it says on the tin?’ Don’t blame me. I spend a lot of time in my own little design world, either on the beach or in the studio. Sometimes I miss out on crucial cultural developments. Somehow I’ve missed out that snow machines even exist.

‘You put water in, fire them up and end up with a snow storm. Of sorts. They can be a bit hit and miss. You only have to read the reviews on Trip Advisor to know they disappoint more often than they thrill. Which is why I suspect she’s ordered so many.’

I think I get what he means. ‘So if it really starts to snow, we get to skip a whole trip to Truro.’ I’m hoping to show I’ve got the idea and I’m willing to give it a go, at least in part.

‘It won’t,’ he says, making no sense at all.

‘Won’t what?’

‘It’s not going to snow.’ He sounds definite on that, as he jumps on the brakes and makes a sharp left-hand turn off the lane we’re racing along. ‘So we will need those machines, but they’re not top of our list.’

As we accelerate out of the turn, the cluster of buildings coming into view on the hill ahead is comfortingly familiar. ‘But this is Daisy Hill Farm. Where the wedding guests are staying.’

‘Got it in one.’ He gives a low laugh. ‘See, you know your way around better than you think.’

I’m trying to keep up and failing. ‘But I thought we were going to the venue?’

‘I’m staying in the cosiest little holiday cottage at the farm, and there’s a fridge full of food.’ There’s that unrepentant grin again. ‘So unless you want to spend all day sitting next to someone who smells like the beach, I reckon our first priority is a shower and breakfast.’

‘Brill.’ I say, because I’m really regretting not finishing my hot chocolate earlier. What’s more my tummy is growling at the mention of breakfast. But all the same, my alarm bells are ringing.

Something tells me I’m going to have to up my game here. And fast. I’m going to have to pull out all the stops to keep Quinn in hand. Or Alice’s wedding will be careering off the rails quicker than I can say ‘fried eggs’.