There are also the weddings at Bart’s Manor too. And it looks like I might have been completely set up here. As Poppy wiggles her eyebrows expectantly, my heart sinks.
I let out a sigh, because it’s all so impossible. ‘It’s really sweet of you to think of me.’ But leave London and become a wedding photographer? How the hell do I express that those are the two last things I’d do – in the world, ever – without sounding ungrateful? ‘I’ll do my best today. And get back to you on that one.’
‘There is another thing.’ The way Poppy’s screwing up her mouth tells me I may need to brace myself for bad news.
‘Yes?’ I’ve got no idea what’s coming, but it can’t be any worse than the last suggestion.
‘You’d be way more likely to find a new partner here than in London. Especially given who’s staying in the cottages.’ She wiggles her eyebrows madly.
What the hell is she hinting at? ‘Surely you can’t mean …?’
She grins. ‘Yes, I’m talking about Rory. Truly, once you get past the joking around he’s all heart, and way too nice to be on his own. You two always had the hots for each other. Twenty years on might be a good time to finally check that out?’
I let out a shriek. ‘We TOTALLY did not!’ However much I want to stamp on this, I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘hots’. ‘The guy drives me round the bend. If we were stranded on a desert island together, I swear I’d swim to get away from him. And you know how much I hate water.’
Poppy’s making no effort to hide her laughter as she looks down at her bump. ‘They don’t call me elephant memory just because I’m huge, you know. Deny it as much as you like, but I remember the way you two always had your heads together, back in the day. And he always looked out for you too. That time you got off your face on cider punch at Hannah Peveril’s birthday because you thought it was lemonade with colouring in, he was the one who insisted on walking you round until you sobered up, then driving you home.’
I stifle a shudder. ‘Trust you to rake that up. That night was so awful, it still makes me groan with embarrassment even now.’ And moving neatly on from Mr Sanderson … ‘My mum went ape about that, and Hannah’s dad never forgave me for throwing up all over his Gertrude Jekyll prize roses.’
But Poppy’s seen what I’ve done there and she’s not having it. ‘Better still, Rory delivered you home in one piece, without driving into any ditches or off any precipices. He might have been older, but he was wonderfully protective of you. Pretty besotted, if you ask me.’
I have to close this down. ‘Which I definitely didn’t.’ She’s sounding like she’s teasing, but we both know she’s not.
As her laughter fades, she gives me one of her stern stares. ‘You broke up with Luc almost a year ago now, though. It’s definitely time you moved on.’
‘That’s the problem, Pops. I haven’t even begun to think of myself as free.’ Saying it out loud now, I’m realising it’s totally true. My heart hasn’t actually let go yet. Although I’m not sure I can admit that to anyone.
Her smile is sympathetic. ‘What’s that old phrase? You’re still holding a candle for Luc, even though it’s over.’
My shrug is as noncommittal as I can make it. ‘Maybe.’ In truth it’s probably more like a bloody great beacon flare than a candle. Which is yet another reason why it’s best to push on here. ‘Anyway, I’d better get these cakes to Zoe. Before she spontaneously combusts. Or whatever it is brides do.’
If Poppy’s on the matchmaking warpath, I need to get the hell out of here. If I hang around with her in this mood, she’s so determined that I’m quite likely to get bumped into an arranged marriage before Zoe and Aidan even get to theirs. And if Poppy’s got Rory in her sights for me, all I can say is, her taste in other people’s men is appalling.
I hadn’t counted on bolting back down the yard so soon, or so fast. Although since I left the wedding venue a huge and fabulous winter wreath has appeared on the front door. The heavy twines of ivy and pale eucalyptus in a circle the size of a hoola hoop have me skidding to a halt on the flag path. How many ways are there to photograph a wreath this awesome? At least it takes my mind off Poppy’s shudderingly awful suggestion. It’s a perfect expression of winter against the warm sandstone, untinged by the negative overlay of Christmas. A broad hessian bow which trails to the floor. White frosted mistletoe berries against the dove grey paintwork. I admit I’m so lost in the prettiness of the moment I barely hear the car engine thrumming down the yard. And when I hear a shout, I jolt so hard I nearly drop my battery pack.
‘Holly Berry, what the hell? When did you join the paparazzi?’
Rory? I’ve been so busy worrying about being a wedding crasher and putting Poppy right, I’ve overlooked this particular pitfall in my day. And completely failed to have a contingency plan for it. Which is beyond stupid, given the guy’s staying in a holiday cottage barely a hundred yards away. I drag in a deep breath and repeat my mantra. Never rush. Take your time for that perfect shot.
‘Rory. And your beer-mobile. Great to see you too.’ I don’t need to look. Right now I can guarantee my cheeks are blazing red instead of deathly pale. ‘Haven’t you got some fizz to sell, or a brewery to go to?’
I don’t hang around to enjoy the moment my words hit his ears. Instead I fling open the front door, hurtle to the safety of the bustling venue interior and slam the door behind me. And even though the door is monumental, hand hewn from oak planks in the seventeen hundreds, when I lean my back against it, it’s still not thick enough to keep out the echo of Rory Sanderson’s laugh.
Tuesday 5th December
At Daisy Hill Farm House: Miracles and bows
‘Awesome transformation or what?’ Lily’s beaming at me as I come back in from the hallway.
And it’s true. She and the catering team have been working miracles while I’ve been away. By the time I wind my way through the area where the wedding breakfast will be held, the tables have been laid with snowy linen cloths and decorated with an array of lanterns, with buckets of gypsophila, vintage lilac roses and pheasant feathers, and hessian bows to match the outside wreath. Through the line of sash windows along one wall I can see across the garden, to where Kip and Rafe are walking across the back lawn. They’ve both swapped their jeans for dark suits. One note for fashion slaves, Rafe’s still wearing his Barbour too, for now. Although Poppy assured me earlier, it’s his best one. Definitely not the one he feeds the cows in then.
As I dip here and there clicking my shutter, the crystal ware and cutlery on the tables are sparkling in the light from the chandeliers above. Then I hurry through to the fabulous orangery, with its ancient black and white tiles and floor-to-ceiling windows, which is where the ceremony chairs are arranged. Each has its own hessian bow on the side, holding a bunch of gyp like a miniature snowstorm. There’s a fabulous grand piano in the room where the evening dancing will be, and that makes a lovely picture too. And for the sake of completion, I snap the Ladies, with its deep-blue painted walls and massive mirrors. Then I hurry along to the Dressing Room with my cake box, knock and tiptoe in.
I brace myself, then make the announcement. ‘I
