Читать книгу Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop - Jane Linfoot - Страница 8

‘Leave the Closed sign up for now, Sera.’

Jess, my boss and mentor, is thinking ahead as usual, talking to me over her shoulder, as I wait for her to unlock the door to Brides by the Sea, the most popular wedding shop in all of Cornwall and where I’m lucky enough to work. Even though I pass them every day, the trails of frosted ivy and those cascades of tulle in the Christmas window displays still send shivers down my spine which are nothing to do with the icy blast of the December wind that’s howling across St Aidan Bay. I know most brides choose to get married in summer, but when I see the whirl of hanging snowflakes and the sparkle of sequins against the snowy lace dresses, I completely understand why my sister, Alice, fell in love with the idea of getting married at Christmas. In less than a week’s time, a hundred and fifty guests will be descending on a Cornish country house for her four-day-long wedding celebration. Yes, it’s as epic and ambitious as it sounds. Only a power house like Alice would ever try to pull it off. As for whether she’ll succeed… Well, watch this space.

Coming back down to earth this morning, beyond the suspended silver baubles flashing with the reflections of a thousand fairy lights of the window displays, the remnants of last night’s staff Christmas-drinks party are waiting for us inside the shop. As the warm air of the entrance hall wraps around us, I peer through into The White Room, where we were partying last night, then pull back sharply.

‘Jeez, it looks as if a giant party popper exploded in there.’ The low whistle I let out is to hide my horror at the mess. From the number of glasses, you’d have thought we’d invited the whole town, not just a few close friends from the business.

As I stoop to ease a cashew nut out of the gap in the floorboards and flick on the lights on the giant Christmas tree in the hall, my head throbs. There’s a tinkle of dangling sleigh bells as I nudge the branches on my way back up, and set the white painted pine cones spinning on their ribbons.

I pick up a tumbler and shudder at the dying raspberries in the bottom. In the cold light of morning, I can’t believe we got so carried away by Christmas that we flouted Jess’s ‘clear drinks only in the wedding shop’ rule and went for red punch. Or worse, that we were rash enough to float exotic fruits in the Ruby Duchess cocktails next to so many precious and beautiful white dresses.

‘We had a lot to celebrate, Sera, we’ve had a fantastic year.’ Jess is looking surprisingly upbeat for someone who was at the after-party until four, and has come in to find her main bridal room trashed. It’s possible she might still be drunk. She’s also building up to a purr, so even though she said it all last night ten times at least, it’s obvious what’s coming next. ‘All thanks to you and your wonderful Seraphina East dresses.’ Truly, someone needs to move her on from this loop to save me all the blushes. However hard I try, she doesn’t take any notice.

In case you’re wondering, I’m Sera, short for Seraphina, and I design a lot of the wedding dresses Jess sells in the shop. And if you don’t already know, Brides by the Sea is four floors of bridal gorgeousness, in the seaside town of Saint Aidan. No prizes for guessing it’s almost on the beach, which is where I wandered in from, with my scrap book of dress designs eight years ago. And I’ve been here ever since. Jess, the owner, began by doing wedding flowers in one tiny room, and built her way up to what is here today – a Bridal Emporium containing everything you could need for a wedding. And brides flock here from Devon, Cornwall, and the world beyond.

And what Jess is talking about here is me getting the chance to design a celebrity wedding dress earlier this year. Which obviously was great for the shop, and is why my designs now have a dedicated room of their own, and why my name is painted on every shop window. But given I hate the attention being on me, it’s also meant I’ve spent the last few months trying to hide in corners.

‘Weddings taking off at Daisy Hill Farm brought us a lot of business too,’ I say. I’m trying to shift the glory off myself here, because last year Poppy, the wedding-cake maker who lived upstairs and worked at the shop, became a wedding organiser at a local farm. So if we’ve had a brilliant year, it’s down to her too.

‘It was so nice to see Poppy again,’ I muse. However awesome the party, my high point last night was Poppy coming home after a couple of months in London, and looking so happy to be back. Come to think of it, I could murder a giant piece of Poppy’s carrot cake right now.

‘I’m so pleased Poppy’s come to her senses and grabbed Rafe at last,’ Jess says. ‘We could all do with a farmer like him, he’s completely yummy.’

Jess is talking about very own Brides by the Sea in-house romance, which was finally sealed yesterday evening. After a whole year, Poppy is finally going out with Rafe, her boss from the farm.

Jess begins to unwind her silk scarf. ‘I haven’t booked any brides in for this morning, because we’ve got so much work to do here.’ She’s not joking about that. And given most days she’s meticulous enough to have us wiping away the rings on the coasters every time someone lifts a prosecco glass, we need to get cracking.

‘Great, shall I collect glasses and you do surfaces?’ I rub my hands together to show that despite my headache, I’m ready to get stuck in.

Jess sends me one of the despairing looks she saves for when I’m being dense. ‘We aren’t here to clear up, Sera.’

‘We’re not?’ This is news to me.

There’s more purring going on. ‘Two tame and very sweet bar boys from Jaggers will be arriving any minute to look after that.’ So that explains that purr. Jaggers Cocktail Bar is Jess’s favourite hang out in town. Even though the clientele are half her age, when it comes to downing cocktails, Jess can drink most of them under the purple plastic designer tables, no problem. And given she spends so much time there, she’s great friends with the staff.

‘So what are we doing?’ If Jess doesn’t have cleaning plans for me, I’ll head upstairs to my studio. Not that I’ve told her, but I’m very behind with my dress designs for next season’s collection.

Jess sends me another despairing look. ‘Sera, please tell me you haven’t forgotten. We’re sorting out your bridesmaid’s dress. Obviously.’

‘Oh shit.’ My groan is long and heartfelt as I hitch up my shorts.

I design dresses, I don’t wear them. Ever. And I know I have to make an exception for my sister’s Christmas Eve wedding, but thus far I’ve been in denial. Although the bridesmaid’s dress arrived weeks ago, despite Jess’s best efforts, I’ve dodged trying it on. Although, as I think about Alice, I let out a shriek. ‘Oh shit, Alice wants a Skype call, I need to set up my laptop. Like now…’

If someone said ditsy, I’d have to hold my hands up to that one. I’m the dreamy person, with the attention span of a gnat. The one who’s so easily distracted that when I dunk a biscuit, it invariably falls in my tea. Let’s face it, I’m creative. Coordination and organisation aren’t in my mindset. Which is why Jess is so great for me to work with. She keeps me on track.

‘Set up your Skype in your room, Sera, I’ll get your dress from the store. That sister of yours can wait five minutes while you try it on.’

Jess deals in orders, not suggestions. She might be bossy, but I forgive her every time. In the last eight years, it’s her hard business head and her drive that have taken me from a student with a sketch book to a designer with a studio and a dedicated room in her shop. Plus an annual collection, and more couture clients than I can handle. If it hadn’t been for Jess, I would still be lazing on my beach towel, drawing and dreaming. And Jess has supported me all the way, financially too, which is unthinkably generous and why I don’t mind her railroading me sometimes.

I mean who – except Jess – would have imagined that five minutes later, instead of washing up I’d be emerging from the fitting room in a dress…

‘It’s very pink.’ As I gaze down at myself, a croak is the most I can manage. Imagine an explosion in a glitter factory colliding with an avalanche and you’ll still only be halfway there. Although that might be the least of my problems, given the skirt is fluffing out to the size of a small tree. And right now I have to forget I’d ever hoped for cloud grey tulle, with tiny silver flecks.

‘I’d say it’s oyster rather than rose.’ Jess’s voice is breathy. ‘And it’s exquisite, just look at these seed pearls… did you ever see sequins so tiny?’

Don’t worry about the hyperventilating. Jess can’t help getting excited over anything with lace and sparkles. That’s why she’s got such a great wedding shop. At least she’s temporarily suspended her disapproval of all things Alice, though.

Alice, importing her entire wedding from London to Rose Hill Manor, the Cornwall country house, where she’s getting married, got the ‘thumbs down’ from Jess. Big time. Alice has somehow blagged the most spectacular wedding venue from a friend of Dan, her fiancé. But Alice not shopping at Brides by the Sea for her bridesmaids caused a tidal wave of discontent from Jess. As for Alice choosing a wedding dress from another designer when she could have chosen me, in Jess’s eyes that’s SO awful, we haven’t even got onto talking about it yet.

‘Forget about their size, did you ever see so many sequins in one place at one time?’ I ask. No way can I be as enthusiastic as Jess when I’m the one wearing them all.

Don’t worry, I’m completely cool with Alice shopping elsewhere. A bride has to find the perfect dress, and Alice and I have always been very different. Where I’m boho and scruffy, she’s super-stylish and uber-smart. We live in entirely different worlds, our tastes don’t coincide. So my dresses wouldn’t be her thing at all. As for how we’re going to get on when we’re thrown together for the wedding… that’s another instance of ‘watch this space’.

I try a tentative swish with the skirt. ‘Maybe maximalist bridesmaids will set off Alice’s minimalist dress.’ The sketch she showed me was so severe and pared back, it only had two lines. I’m guessing it’s some kind of haute couture silk column. ‘She’s definitely embracing the “Snow Queen” theme.’

Alice’s favourite book when we were kids was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. She starred in the Christmas production at school when she was ten and I was eight. Whereas I was a snowflake, and I fluffed my entrance, I’m not sure Alice ever forgot her triumph as Queen Susan. But Alice going for a full-blown Narnia wedding still came as a shock. Somehow I hadn’t pegged my ambitious, order-obsessed, high-flying sister as nostalgic.

‘If she’s hoping for snow she’ll be disappointed.’ Jess is smoothing out my skirts now. ‘This is Cornwall not Krakow. Someone should have told her – the climate’s oceanic.’ Jess drops onto her hands and knees, and begins to work her way around, giving the hem gentle tugs as she goes.

‘Okay, stand still, I’ll see how the length is. And while we’re here, you can tell me how your collection designs are coming along.’

The question floats upwards through waves of tulle, but it still makes me stiffen so hard that my spine goes ramrod straight. Jess is talking about my ideas for my next collection of dresses.

‘Alright… I s’pose…’ I try to make the lie sound nonchalant and laid-back.

‘Hadn’t you hoped to be finished by this weekend?’ Jess is slipping the questions between tweaks, but, believe me, there’s nothing casual about them. This is the interrogation I’ve been dodging for more weeks than the dress.

We both know that I usually get all my design sketches consolidated easily, in two short weeks while I laze on some exotic beach in the cheap off-peak time before Christmas. And we both know, with Alice’s wedding coming up, I’m here, not there. And somehow Cornwall in winter isn’t doing it for me like Bali does. I’d promised myself and Jess I’d work my butt off, and whatever happened I’d have everything sorted by this weekend. But somehow it hasn’t worked out like that. I’m a beachy girl, and that’s where I do my best work. The designs flow much more easily when I’m flat out on the sand. Add in the crippling worry that I’m never going to be good enough again after designing for a celebrity, and I haven’t been able to draw a thing. Between us, I feel about as creative as a turnip. I’ve got no designs finalised at all, but even worse, I haven’t any ideas either. So where there should be a complete collection of worked-up designs, instead there’s an empty sketch book. Sometime in the next week I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.

‘Realistically, nothing gets going again until after Christmas.’ I’m bluffing here. ‘I decided it’s way more sensible to give myself a New Year deadline.’ I’m staring in the mirror over Jess’s head, exchanging OMG glances with myself. Praying that the word ‘sensible’ will be the one Jess hones in on.

‘I see…’ Jess says, sounding like she really doesn’t.

I’m dragging in a breath so huge it almost makes my eyes pop, waiting to see if I’ve got away with this when there’s a loud squawk at floor level.

‘Sera, what the hell have you got on your feet under here?’

Shit. I’ve been rumbled. Which is really bad luck, considering exactly how many layers of dress there are between Jess and my…

‘Biker boots?’ Jess’s voice rises to a scream that makes my hangover head reverberate horribly. ‘You have to be joking me. Where are the white bridesmaid’s boots Alice sent you, Sera?’

My feet in those pointy toes? It’s not happening. But I might as well come clean. ‘The kitten heels are upstairs in the studio.’ Buried under a week’s worth of completely useless sketches. Along with the white fur jacket and the wedding manual she also sent. ‘They totally kill my feet.’ I can tell excuses are falling flat. ‘The heels on these are pretty much the same height.’

Jess is staring up at me, her arm like a signpost, finger pointing at the door. ‘Go.’

‘Fine,’ I say, with a sniff.

‘And come back wearing the proper boots.’ Her shouting softens. ‘You’ll have to break them in some time. You might as well start now.’

I look down at the skirt the width of the bay and know there’s no way I’ll make it up the narrow stairs to the studio in the dress. There’s only one thing for it. I squirm, undo the zip, let the dress fall to the floor. As I leap across the bunched-up acres of skirt, being careful not to trample it with my biker boots, there’s another howl from Jess.

‘Sera, I don’t believe it! You’ve got all your clothes on under there!’

‘And?’ I stare down at my leopard-print leggings, shorts and shirt. ‘Good thing too, now I’ve had to strip off.’ Honestly, it’s December, there’s no point being colder than I have to be. And if the dress is the size of a snowstorm, no one’s going to notice a bit of underwear. Besides, Jess is the original inventor of the mantra, ‘No one’s looking at the bridesmaids’. So I sense she’s being a) a bit of a stickler and b) slightly hypocritical here.

Five minutes later, when we resume, I’m wearing the kitten heels – yes, they’re agony, in case you’re wondering – and I’ve compromised hugely by taking off my shorts. And Jess has gone in to attack the hem with her pins. My toes feeling like they’re dropping off is a small price to pay when the heat’s off my designs. Or the lack of them. Which Jess appears to have completely forgotten about now.

‘You’re lucky Alice hasn’t got you in six-inch stilettos,’ Jess says.

I don’t bother to tell her that’s really not Alice’s look. Instead I lock my knees, settle down to listen to the gentle sound of guys washing up two rooms away, as I stare out of the window. Although, with the explosion of Christmas sparkle on the glass, it’s hard to make out exactly what’s going on in the world beyond, other than a solitary figure pausing to look at the displays.

‘Jess…’ One of the helpers has stopped clattering glasses and is calling through. ‘There’s someone at the shop door, wanting to come in.’

‘Take a break, Sera, I won’t be long.’

In a second Jess pushes herself up, shoves her feet back into her loafers and marches out into the hallway. Although the shop is technically closed, so long as Jess is in the building, there is the potential for trade. She’s never one to let the opportunity of a sale slip by. Sure enough, next thing, I hear her opening the shop door.

‘Come in… it’s horribly cold outside… definitely no snow though… yes, we’re closed, but we always make exceptions…do tell me, what can I do to help?’

Call me cynical, but from the welcome, I already know it’s a guy. Thirty to forty, to judge by Jess’s pitch. A smile spreads across my face, because the supercharge of charm tells me he’s probably good looking too. And just because I’m nosey, and amused, and a little bit bored, I tilt my head to hear better.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry to bother you…’ Male, with a nudge of Scottish in the accent. And the kind of chocolate-fudge undertones that make you shiver. ‘But there’s something I spotted in the window…’

My back goes rigid. You know that thing when you instantly know a voice? Even though it’s from years ago, this particular voice is indelibly logged, deep in my unconscious brain. Five tiny words, from twenty feet away, and my heart is hammering so hard that the sequins on my bodice are jolting.

Shit.

You spend years furtively looking round corners, in case a particular person might be there. Even though you know there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of them being around. And then you go so long without it happening that eventually you relax. Get lazy. You forget to look out. There are even days you forget they ever existed. And then…BANG! They’re there.

The last person in the world I want to see.

I’ll spare you the worst details. Enough to say, his name was Johnny, it was back in uni days, and my humiliation was complete. End of.

Shrinking back against the line of hanging dresses, I try to make myself invisible as I creep forwards to hear better. I’m literally turning my ears inside out, but as the voices move through into The White Room the volume fades. Which is extremely annoying, because they seem to be chatting for ages. And whatever I said about this being the last person in the world I want to see, part of me is aching to catch a glimpse. Just the teensiest peep to see if I’m right. And despite my sensible head screaming ‘no, no, no’ it’s as if my bad-girl feet have a will of their own.

Before I know it, I’m through in the hallway. My bridesmaid’s dress might be expansive, but desperate times and all that… A second later, I’m swirling the skirt, winding tulle around my legs, like I’m folding an umbrella. Hauling it into some kind of diagonal surrender. By the end my ankles are clamped so tight under the twists of fabric, I have to jump to move. But the good news is I’m slender enough to squeeze in beside the Christmas tree and duck behind the mannequin that’s dressed in an Alexandra Pettigrew Sophia dress. And despite the occasional soft jingle from the sleigh bell Christmas deccies I disturbed, I’m enjoying an unrivalled, yet concealed, view of the shop door. What’s more, I’m pretty certain so long as I don’t move I won’t be spotted.

‘Cross my heart, promise I’ll literally only look for a nanosecond.’ I whisper to myself, making ridiculous bargains with whatever fates hurled Johnny across my path. I mean St Aidan is on the edge of Cornwall. No one comes here by accident.

So long as I remember not to breathe, and not to let my heart bang too loudly, that’s everything covered. Which is damn good timing, because the next thing I know, there’s the clatter of loafers on floor boards and they’re back.

‘Well thanks for the bears.’ That throaty lilt sailing over Jess’s shoulder has to be Johnny’s.

Even thinking his name makes me cringe. But bears? Everyone wants to buy the knitted bear wedding couple from the White Room window because they’re unbelievably cute and dinky. But no one’s allowed to because they’re our Brides by the Sea shop mascots. They’ve been here as long as we’ve been open.

‘My pleasure.’ Jess’s triple-volume croon says it all.

We all know Jess would sell her grandmother given half a chance, but surely not those particular six-inch-high, knitted bears?

Suddenly there’s no need to move because Jess takes one step sideways and leaves me a clear view. There’s that feeling where your whole stomach drops so fast you feel it’s left your body. And then it’s like there’s water rushing through your ears, and a whole flock of seagulls just got loose in your chest.

It’s him.

Except older. And thinner. And ten years more worn. But still the same hollow cheekbones, still flipping that same piece of hair back off his forehead. For a second I think I’m going to die. But then Jess begins to talk again.

She’s got her hand on his arm as she reaches for the door handle. ‘So enjoy the wedding… and Christmas… and good luck with your best-man’s speech…’

Wedding? He’s here for a wedding? I gulp so hard at that I almost inhale the veil that’s dangling next to my cheek. As the shock of the word makes me lurch, there’s the softest tinkle of a bell. And even though it’s the tiniest sound, two heads whip round towards the tree. And just as my eyes lock with Johnny’s dark brown ones, and I see his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, Jess lets out a squawk.

‘Sera? What are you doing behind the Christmas tree?’

Just what I didn’t need. But I can still bluff it. My brain’s racing so fast it’s already reached the excuses pile. Nuts between floor boards. Loose mice. Lost bears. I’m wavering, weighing up the long-term pitfalls of each answer. I’ve pretty much decided to go with the pistachio, and I’m this close to getting away with it when one kitten heel gets jammed in a knot hole in the floorboards. Had my feet been free to move, I might very well have got away with it. Working with the tourniquet of my twisted skirt, I don’t stand a chance. Balance? I’ve completely lost it.

What begins as a tiny wobble, expands to a series of lurches. I’m aware I’m somehow in free fall, and from the hideously loud jangling beside me, I’m guessing I’m taking the Christmas tree with me. Before I know it, I’m in a nose dive, and the floor’s rushing towards me.

‘Waaaaaaaaa‌aaaaaahhhhhhhh…’ My scream has to be huge, because I can’t hear the sleigh bells any more.

In a last-minute effort to avoid a face plant, I hurl myself over onto my back. As the sequins on my dress splinter across the floorboards, and the tree comes crashing down, the face I’m looking up into is Johnny’s. On the up side, the thump of the impact has apparently culled the entire seagull flock. And even though my breathing has turned to gasps, there still isn’t enough force in my chest to make words.

Johnny’s pushing the tree back to the vertical with one hand, still holding his bag of bears in the other. Which pretty much sums up my life. The guy catches the tree, while I end up on the floor. Sprawled horizontal is never the best look, even if my legs are wrapped up like a mermaid’s tail. Especially when my beachy blonde hair and freckles look so bad with the colour of the dress. That’s why I concentrate on my career, every time.

And for once, that cool sardonic smile of Johnny’s is bursting into a laugh.

‘Seraphina East. All in pink.’ He rubs the back of his free hand across his forehead as he looks down at me. ‘I knew there could only be one of you in the world. We must stop meeting like this.’

And then he’s stooping, grasping my hand, and before I know it, a waft of delicious man scent whooshes past my nose, and he’s whisked me back onto my feet. What’s more, as I drag a stray pine cone out of my hair, my dress is unravelling as if it’s alive. In the time it takes to blink, I’m back to the shape of one of those doll birthday cakes, with a Barbie body, and a sponge made in a pudding basin. Except in my case, it’s without the boobs.

‘You see… he said “pink” too.’ I’m sticking my chin out at Jess. ‘And what about the bloody bears? Who said you could sell them?’

It’s not often that Jess is lost for words, but for some reason it must be catching, because she’s opening her mouth and closing it again, and no sound’s coming out. And we’re all standing staring at each other when there’s a warbling noise from The Seraphina East Room.

Johnny’s the first to react. He raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyone expecting a Skype call?’

Fate works in mysterious ways. Johnny disappearing at the speed of light? Or me? Either is good.

‘That one’s mine.’ I hurl myself towards the sanctuary of The Seraphina East Room.

Johnny’s voice echoes after me. ‘Sorry to have disturbed your Friday. I’ll let you get on, then.’ So like him to want the last word. Although that’s not exactly true. The last time I contacted him he didn’t get back to me. At all.

A second later I’m in front of the laptop, staring at an empty chair on the screen, wondering where the heck my Bridezilla sister has got to.