Black jeggings. A size too big. Very practical for the shop. Not that someone in fitness bottoms like my mum’s is in any position to dish out fashion advice.
David gives his own jeans a wrench as he slides behind the wheel. ‘As a guy I’d say old Kip was way more interested in Lily than he was in us, or his bookings. Seriously Lily, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
There he goes again. Butting in. And talking the usual bollocks. As for my mum, the criticisms’ been raining down since nineteen eighty-four. Mostly I shrug it off.
‘Part of the Penryn empire went to the wall recently.’ David’s rubbing his chin, musing as he waits for my mum to finish. ‘It was all over the FT, as I remember.’
My mum raises a querying eyebrow. ‘The what?’
‘The Financial Times.’
As my frown meets David’s in the driving mirror, his is worried, while mine is disbelieving. I suppose he has to read something when he’s on his exercise bike. Or he might be making it up.
My mum brushes away his concerns, as she flips the sun visor up again. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, dahling.’
Meanwhile I file that information snippet safely in my ‘good to know for a later date’ box, because it’s always useful to have something to hold over a Penryn. And as the tyres scrunch along the gravel drive, I’m horrified to find I’m scanning the horizon for logs and tractors. But thankfully they’ve all gone.
‘Let’s just hope “old Kip” pulls his finger out, and stays solvent here until September.’ I say, as we roar off up the lane towards the village. Because if he fails on either count we’re all in trouble.
Tuesday, 28th February
At Brides by the Sea: Gold paper and personalised T-shirts
Despite Immie’s desperation to get started immediately, we’d deferred her appointment until today. If she’s going to play the reluctant bride, it’s best she does it in an empty shop. When Immie was a bridesmaid last summer, despite softening her with alcohol, they practically had to winch her into the fitting room for the first trying-on session. But as we hit the kitchen to sort the Prosecco, she’s not hanging back.
As I get the glasses off the shelf, she frowns. ‘Forget champagne flutes, I need a proper glass. Give me the biggest you’ve got.’
I hand her a tumbler, and fill it with fizzy wine. But before Poppy comes in half a minute later, I’m already topping it up.
‘What the hell are those?’ Immie wrinkles her nose at the dainty biscuits on the plate Poppy’s carrying.
‘Amaretti cookies, just out of the oven. They’re great when you’re trying on, because they’re tasty, but very light.’ Poppy’s coaxing is falling on deaf ears.
‘Stuff light. I’m going to need cupcakes at the very least. Big ones too, not those piddling bite sized things. What the hell’s the point of those?’
Poppy grins as she reaches for the box under the plate. ‘I thought you might say that. Vanilla okay for you? With heart sprinkles to get you in the mood.’
If I thought Nicole was demanding, a nervous Immie is leaving her standing.
‘You’ll feel better once you have a calorie hit, Immie,’ I say, trying to encourage her. As I snaffle one too, I can tell from the weight they’re XXL specials. By the time I’m peeling down the gold paper case, and dipping my finger into the buttercream on mine, Immie’s sinking her teeth into her second.
Poppy bites into her own. ‘And your We’re getting married at Daisy Hill Farm T-shirt is looking fab too.’ It’s one of the first of a new line, with personalised happy-couple names, as masterminded by Rafe. Eat your heart out, Not On The High Street.
‘The king of the chest-front slogan gets full marks for these.’ I’m wiping the crumbs off my hands, bracing myself for what’s coming. ‘I love the glittery print.’
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