tilts her head. ‘Think of it as your nest egg. It’s always good to have one.’
I gawp at her middle aged thinking. ‘I’m thirty two, I’m way too young to think about stuff like that.’ My squeal of protest fades as I remember exactly where the dress came from. Bought with the money my mum gave me just before she died. ‘A nest egg’ was exactly how she put it too. I swallow back the lump in my throat. My mum would have loved to see me marry in that dress. In any dress for that matter. I squeeze my arms around my chest as I take a reality check. No family. No Brett. I’m completely on my own. If it wasn’t for Jess and her attic I’d be homeless and jobless. I support myself entirely by baking cakes and helping in the shop. I can’t afford to shy away from this.
Jess drains her glass. ‘Our scars make us who we are. Wear them proudly, and move forward.’ Her smile acknowledges that she’s said that same line to me more times than I can count in the last six months, then she narrows one eye. ‘Moving forward being the important thing now.’ She waggles her glass at me. ‘As soon as you’ve got me a refill that is.’
As I rush off for another pint of gin, deep inside I know she’s right.
In Rose Cross village: Ice breakers and a handful of hounds
‘Bolly, Brioche stop pulling!’
The wind whooshes away my wail as I stagger after two lurching honey-coloured bottoms and wagging tails. Dog walking is never like this on the IAMS adverts.
‘Brioche, Bolly, heel pleeeeeeease!’
I’m doing my best to be in control, but channelling my inner dog-charming goddess is impossible this early in the morning. The extra early start is because Cate, Immie and I have a big shopping day ahead of us. They don’t come much bigger than shopping for bridesmaids’ dresses, especially when we’re shopping for eight. And if you think eight bridesmaids sounds excessive, you should see the rest of Cate’s plans. Her wedding is shaping up to be the Cornish country wedding of the decade.
As an in control dog walker, I score an epic fail every time. You’d hardly think I’d been doing this most Saturdays for six months, which is how long it is since I decided to dedicate my scarily empty Friday evenings to a babysitting sleepover, so my bestie, Cate, and her soon-to-be husband, Liam, can have a weekly night out together. With four kids, two lively labradoodles and full-time jobs, they find it hard to spend any quality time together. Although sometimes when I’m tucked up on their sofa with little George, and the three older kids, it’s more as if they’re the ones looking after me.
As a cake maker I like to match people with their perfect cake. Cate’s cake is a delicious Moroccan orange sponge, with a covering of perfectly piped buttercream, and crystallised orange trimmings. Cool, yet sophisticated. Sometimes I still think of Cate as she was when we were six, when we were at Dancing Jillie’s tap class in the village hall. Cate was the one who could do all the steps, not a blonde curl out of place, tapping away like she could give Ginger Rogers a run for her money, while I was the one getting my legs in the arm-holes of my lycra all-in-one, and losing my shoes. But Cate’s luck ran out at twenty five when her husband ran off with a woman from the reprographics department. Left with three kids under four, she grappled her way through the next few years. Now she’s finally found the guy she deserves, and had another baby, I couldn’t be happier for her.
Back to the labradoodles, I swear we crossed the last three fields without my feet touching the ground. Although today fast is good. When I get back, Cate will have finished giving George his breakfast. And then we’ll meet up with Immie, whose signature cake is either a donut or a double chocolate muffin. She’s had the same stocky build and no-nonsense short hair since we were kids, and however much we try to persuade her into other outfits, she always wears jeans and a sweatshirt. We’re heading to Brides by the Sea, which is where we all know Cate’s going to buy the bridesmaid dresses. It helps I get mates’ rates.
My feet finally make contact with land again as we come to a stile. The dogs bound over into a muddy puddle the size of St Aidan Bay, making tidal waves as they leap. As I follow them Bolly does a double bounce that soaks me, then yanks me off the hillock I’m balanced on.
‘Nooooo Bolly …’
I let out a wail as my left Ugg plunges deep under water. Blinking, I scrape the mud splat out of my eye with my fist, and let out a deep sigh as cold oozes round my toes.
Whereas a mud pedi on a Tuesday morning in a salon in St Aidan would be bliss – not that I can afford them these days – I could do without a DIY Cornwall countryside version. The same goes for the leopard print pattern of mud, dappled all the way up my jeans. We’ll all be in line for a hose down from Cate when we get back home. It’s completely my own fault. If I’d taken a removal van instead of a flight bag when I left Brett in a hurry, I’d be wearing my beloved purple festival wellies, and my feet would be dry now.
As we work our way back along the lane towards the village, Rose Cross, the dogs are beginning to flag, but the cluster of house roofs peeping over the hedges, and the promise of some civilisation perks me up no end. This is the village where Cate, Immie and I grew up. But whereas they love the countryside, I think of it as wilderness. At eighteen I couldn’t wait to leave for London. Even coming out here from St Aidan on a Friday night gives me a culture shock, and not in a good way.
Taking advantage of the slack leads, I slide out my phone to check I’m not running late. Then, as we round a bend, we come across a grey Land Rover Defender parked on the verge ahead. Impressed by my car knowledge? All gathered when I had to make a Land Rover fortieth cake for a 4x4 obsessive, with full detail and chocolate mud splatters. I inherited the cake baking gene from my mum, picking it up because she did so much of it when I was little. My earliest memory is standing on a chair in our cosy kitchen, licking out cake mix bowls, and drawing shapes with my finger in the dusting of icing sugar on the kitchen table. Give me a sponge and some icing and I can work wonders Whether it’s fairy castles, dumper trucks for birthdays, or the multi-tiered wedding cakes I make so many of now, they come easily. Sadly, if icing isn’t involved, I have a great talent for stuffing up.
I’m in my own world, thinking about mum as a guy in faded jeans saunters from behind the Land Rover. Two words pop into my mind.
Perfect ten.
Talking about the guy here, not the car, obviously. Although that’s definitely not a compliment. More of a warning to myself to avoid at all costs. When they have it on a plate like that, they rarely learn to be nice.
My gaze slides past a cashmere sweater, and comes to rest on what has to be one of the most cross looking mouths in the south west. This guy might be a straight ten, but he looks way too bad tempered to be working those good looks. Yes, Immie, who’s studying psychology at university, would have a lot to say about me honing in on the lips, but in this case I’m only reading the situation. I don’t need a degree to recognise obstinate when I see it.
A sharp tug from Bolly and Brioche jolts me back to reality, knocks my phone out of my hand, and as it skids across the dirt track I see why they’re pulling.
Somehow I’ve failed to notice the guy has a dog with him. It’s huge and black, and it’s bounding towards us now. Before I can scramble to reach for my phone, I’m in mid-air as the dogs lunge. Whereas Bolly and Brioche are careful where they put their gigantic paws in the house, when they’re in midflight they don’t give a damn.
‘Look
