out?’ I query, as I sink onto a stripy director’s chair. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Cocktails here in town might be good?’ Cate gives a satisfied nod, as if it’s already in the bag. ‘You’ll thank me for this. It’ll make the run up to the wedding easier for all of us.’
Cate’s wiggling her eyebrows excitedly. ‘We could start at Jaggers.’
‘You go to Jaggers too? So does Jess.’ If I hadn’t already sunk into a chair, I would do now.
‘We often call in there on Fridays, they do great mojitos, you should try them.’ She shakes her head at me. ‘You need to get out more, Poppy. Starting this week. I’ve been too easy on you, giving you the excuse of babysitting for me. I shouldn’t be taking advantage. You need a life too.’
And here’s me thinking that Cate and Liam barely get further than the village pub. Has the whole world gone mad while I’ve been hiding under my duvet?
‘Everything going okay here?’ Jess breezes through the doorway that leads to the shoe department, a pair of rhinestone stilettos balanced on each hand.
‘Immie’s currently trying the Miranda, in blush,’ I tell her. Every dress in the shop is allocated a different girls name, and that’s how we refer to them.
‘Well done, we don’t often get bridesmaids as reluctant as Immie,’ Jess raises her eyebrows. ‘There’s good news from downstairs too, Poppy.’
‘Celebrity gossip?’ Given the fall out after last week’s Josie Redman Twitter storm and Sera’s huge spike in popularity, I’m not sure I can cope with more.
‘No, no much closer to home … I think I’ve found your lost couple.’ Jess flashes a triumphant beam. ‘My six o’clock bride just mentioned she’s getting married at Daisy Hill Farm the week before Easter. I’ll give you her number later.’ Jess gazes doubtfully at the shoes in her hands. ‘I’m not sure these will mix with mud though. If you’re going to be putting on lots of weddings in fields we’ll need to order in some sparkly wellies.’
Before I have time to tell Jess that any weddings in fields will be strictly short term she’s sped off back to her bride, and Immie is pushing her way out of the fitting room, face like a stormy sea.
‘Great news, we’ve found our missing Easter bride.’ I say it brightly to take her mind off what she’s wearing.
Immie’s talking through gritted teeth. ‘Well my news is, I’d rather wear the curtains than this dress.’ She’s wading through waves of chiffon.
As Cate and I stand back to assess, I’m ready for the worst.
We both hold our breath.
‘It is a bit long,’ I say, ‘but actually you’ve got curves for the first time since … forever.’ It’s surprising to think Immie’s been hiding that hour glass figure under her baggy T-shirts. ‘You have to admit, you’re looking pretty sassy.’ Despite her cropped hair, the pretty dress suits her.
Immie’s holding her hand in front of her chest, screwing up her face. ‘You know I hate fitting rooms,’ she protests. ‘I refuse to look, it’s too humiliating.’
Cate bites her lip. ‘If you lose the anger, and have a yard chopped off the bottom, you’ll look amazing. Maybe with a little tiara too …’
Immie lets out a yowl. ‘I’m not wearing a fucking …’
Cate laughs. ‘Okay, no tiaras.’ She bites back a grin. ‘How about floral crowns made from daisies?’
‘Worse and worse.’ Immie’s pulling her vomit face again.
‘There’s no such thing as a happy bridesmaid,’ I say to Sera. Given she’s brought up three bottles of prosecco, I’d say she’s catching on fast.
‘Okay, my turn next.’ I grab a Miranda in cream, and head into the empty fitting room.
I’ve helped with enough bridesmaid fittings this last few months to know the majority of bridesmaids walk down the aisle in a dress they would prefer not to be wearing. But they all love their brides too much to argue. I’m already cringing at how the scoop back is going to show off my muffin tops. But that’s a minor worry when I think that next week I’m going to have to make contact with a bride and groom to plan their special day and admit I know nothing about it. And somehow I have to persuade the worst tempered guy in Cornwall to come out for cocktails. Cate might think throwing Immie and Rafe together is the recipe for true love and an easy year, but from what I know of both of them, tiaras or no tiaras, it’s more likely to cause World War Three.
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Monday blues and craggy trees
Things to do first thing Monday …
Chase up the missing Bride and Groom, who’ve had their phone off all weekend
Tackle Rafe about sharing office with chickens!!!!
Chase up Portaloo company
Organise work trip to Jaggers
Sort out Daisy Hill Website
Daisy Hill Farm Weddings Facebook Page??? :(
‘Morning Pops!’ Immie dashes into the office, trips over a chicken, and sends us both into a spin as she saves herself by grabbing onto the padded arm of my executive swivel chair. As she comes to a halt, she’s practically sitting in my lap. ‘Oh my god, you’re on Facebook …’ Her squawk echoes in my ear, as her chin bumps against my shoulder.
So this is me with my self-imposed Facebook embargo, caught red handed. It’s the first time I’ve logged on since the morning I had the second most horrible shock of my life – being faced with Brett, tagged right left and centre in a friend’s stag night photos, his mouth surgically attached to some bimbo. It wasn’t as if it was just the once. This tonsil hockey was on a tournament scale, and they looked like they were playing for England. And enjoying it. Even thinking about it now brings the sick into my throat. Two days later we’d broken up, and I’ve stayed away from Facebook since.
‘Happy Monday to you too.’ I take a slurp of the coffee I made when I arrived half an hour earlier, and try to change the subject. ‘Drink?’ Brett was full of excuses, but with thirty odd guys all posting their take on the party, his cheating was covered from every angle. I scoured the photos frame by frame. I pieced the whole sordid evening together before you could say ‘hangover’. There’s nowhere to hide when a thousand people around the world have seen the pictures.
‘No time for tea, I’ve got lots of cottages to sort after weekend checkouts.’ Immie slides back to standing, addressing me, then the bird. ‘Sorry for squashing you, Pops. Sorry for kicking you, Henrietta.’
We’ll have words about her talking to the poultry later, not to mention the whole ‘hens in the office’ issue.
