kind of sparkle about them. Tonight as I look down on the shimmering light reflections bouncing off the inky water, I’m so grateful to Poppy for bringing me here. However much I’d rather avoid a crowd, I have to go with her to the shop’s Christmas ‘do’. ‘Okay, let me find my bag.’
She’s already passing it to me. ‘Right answer. Jess said she wanted a word too.’ Dipping into her own bag, she takes long enough to wave her mascara wand at her reflection in the kettle. Then she’s hurrying me towards the landing. ‘Great, there’s champagne cocktails down there, we don’t want to be late. Mine will be a virgin one, of course, but I like to pretend.’
Considering the size of Poppy’s bump, we clatter down the stairs alarmingly fast. As we arrive in the ground-floor hallway the tree we pass is on the large side of stonking, but the all-white colour scheme means it blends perfectly into the background, and doesn’t set my Christmas alarm bells jangling too loudly.
Bracing myself for my first evening out in ages, I peer gingerly into the White Room, with its rails of white and cream dresses, and drifts of tulle and chiffon. The shop windows beyond are studded with a thousand tiny fairy lights that spark off the beading, where white-glittered ivy falls in cascades behind slinky satin skirts. I turn to Poppy. ‘It’s very quiet. Where is everyone?’
Poppy wiggles her eyebrows. ‘We’re going all the way down to Lily’s new department in the basement. It’s way more practical when you don’t have to worry about spilling drinks on the dresses.’ Lily is another friend from Rose Hill who we grew up with. She was always flower-crazy and worked here when we were all younger. Now, thanks to one of Jess’s career-building schemes, she’s extended her florist’s skills and moved onto styling.
As we get to the bottom of the next flight of stairs and edge our way into the white-painted brick rooms of the lowest floor of the shop, the crowd of people in sparkly clothes waving cocktail glasses around is the first clue. The table groaning under the weight of champagne bottles and ice buckets, which Poppy steers me towards is the final giveaway.
‘Right, Hols, I give in, it is a party. But it’s only small, and I promise it’ll look better through an alcoholic haze.’ She’s looking very guilty as she rams a fruit-filled glass at me. ‘Kick off with a Christmosa, which is grape juice and Champagne. Here’s a Tickled Pink, which is pomegranate and Prosecco.’ A glass of pink liquid lands in my other hand. ‘And try not to miss the Christmas Margaritas.’
I shiver as the Champagne bubbles prick my nose. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ It’s so long since I last went out, it won’t take much.
She picks up a tumbler for herself. ‘Not at all. But I’m stuck on pomegranate juice and fizzy water, so think of it as drinking for me.’ The grin she flashes at me is triumphant. ‘Cheers, Hols, and well done for coming. Truly, it’s time you learned how to have fun again. Come on, let’s see who’s here.’
But before we move off Jess comes towards us, her chiffon blouse billowing. ‘Holly, lovely you’ve made it. First, I must apologise for our local Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They might be St Aidan’s answer to Boy George and the late, great Pete Burns, but Gary and Ken get well out of hand at times.’
‘No worries.’ I’m smiling because my ride in Santa’s cart seems so long ago. Then I scan the room hurriedly to check no one else from this afternoon is about to creep up on me unexpectedly. When I was doing my best to avoid the non-party, the waking nightmare of Rory Sanderson being here hadn’t actually crossed my mind. But then neither had Ken and Gary.
Poppy sees my head swiveling. ‘Don’t worry. There’s Lip Sync Karaoke at the Hungry Shark. Ken and Gary won’t miss a second of that. They’ll probably catch us up when we move on to Jaggers’ Warm up for Christmas night later.’
I let out a silent groan. Jaggers is the local bar dedicated to happy hours and teenage drinkers. I can’t personally think of many things worse than necking cocktails by the jugful and falling into bed at three a.m. so that’s one after-party I’ll be wriggling out of. But once I’ve gazed round the whole room without anyone giving me heart failure, I give Sera and Lily from the shop a little wave. Then I turn back to find Jess is staring at me hard.
‘So, Holly, we’re both about to hurl ourselves off cliffs. Do you have any tips to offer me?’
‘Tips?’ I’m blinking at her blankly, because Jess doesn’t usually ask for advice. Being that bit older and having built up her empire from one room in the basement selling flowers, she’s pretty much seen it all. Let’s face it, this fabulous department is only a fraction of the shop, especially now she’s bought next door too.
Even after another sip of Christmosa, and one more slug of Tickled Pink I’m still confused. ‘Which cliffs are you talking about, exactly?’
That makes her smile. ‘The cliffs are proverbial, Holly. The unnerving bit is I’m about to go on holiday with a man I barely know and you’re here to be a wedding photographer when you haven’t got the first clue how to be one.’ She pauses long enough for that to sink in. ‘I always tell people to feel the fear and do it anyway but now it comes to me, it’s not that easy.’
As party talk goes this is a bit deep. And whereas my little surfie wedding isn’t quite the big deal for me she’s making out, it’s true Jess is about to dive out of her comfort zone. After years of being defiantly single, she’s taken everyone by surprise and got together with a guy called Bart, who she first met as a teenager. Bart’s main claims to fame are an all-year-round tan and being loaded. As well as owning the fabulous Rose Hill Manor just outside the village where I grew up, he’s got places in the Caribbean and Switzerland. He lets out the Manor for occasional weddings, which are now run by Poppy and Rafe’s wedding team, from nearby Daisy Hill Farm. With a couple of December bookings coming up, he’s decided to go away, and has persuaded Jess to go with him. But as Jess hasn’t had a day away from the shop in ten years, being whisked off to the Alps by Bart is a huge deal for her. So I can completely see why she’s feeling less in control than usual.
‘To be honest, Jess, I’m hoping we’ll iron out any problems for the wedding when we do our practice shoot tomorrow.’
She gives a disbelieving sniff. ‘Well, I’m glad you feel so chipper. But that still leaves me with two weeks at Bart’s mountain hideaway in Klosters. I’ll be going mad worrying about the shop. And all that time alone with Bart, too.’ The corners of her mouth couldn’t be pulled any further down. ‘I don’t even like snow.’
The note of panic in her voice sweeps me back to my first time away with Luc. That was when I saw his passport said Luke, and found out he’d swapped the ‘ke’ for a ‘c’ in a bid to look less geeky. We went for two weeks in Madeira with his parents, because that’s what he’d done every year before he met me. Although holidaying with his mum wasn’t a great idea for someone trying to look cool. I swear I only stayed sane getting sloshed on cane rum cocktails and eating my own weight in honey cake. Then the ticking time bomb of all-inclusive caught up with me. By the second week the only holiday clothes I could get into were my travel leggings. You wouldn’t believe how badly fleecy joggers chafe at thirty degrees. Not that Jess will have that problem, with her wide-leg linen trousers in sub-zero Klosters.
‘Some time apart every day might help?’ I’m remembering how burying myself in a book got me through. ‘And take thermal leggings.’
Jess knocks back her Margarita in one go and reaches for another. ‘Good thinking. My trouble is, Bart can be such a wind-up merchant.’
Poppy laughs as she joins in. ‘You know we’ll be fine here, Jess. And
