to wince at the thought of cashmere hitting mud, because the dogs bound on.
As the dogs all come face to face, there’s a blur of dog limbs, and excited yelps. They tumble and roll, thump into me at knee height, and I slither sideways. As the barking subsides, I come to a soggy and chilling halt in the gully below the hedge.
‘Bolly, Brioche …’ It’s hard to sound masterful when I’m on my back, bum deep in the ditch. More icy water, this time seeping up my spine. On the plus side I’m actually pretty proud that I’m still hanging on to the leads.
A stream of angry swear words comes from the guy as he scrambles to his feet.
‘No need to panic, they’re only playing.’ Mr Land Rover is hauling Black Dog out of the heap by the collar. He shoulders the dog back into the car. ‘They’re wagging their tails, see? But seriously, you need to get those dogs of yours better trained. It’s completely irresponsible to let dogs run wild in the countryside.’
Excuse me? I’m the one who kept hold of the leads here.
‘At least they haven’t killed each other.’ I mutter. ‘It might have helped if yours had been on a lead.’
He ignores that and is looming over me now, holding out his hand expectantly.
Shit. Introductions. I remember my manners and stick out my spare hand. ‘Pleased to meet you too …’ I realise I’m mumbling as well as lying. And why the hell am I rubbing the mud off my face with my sleeve and trying for a smile?
He lets out a low laugh. ‘It’s not an introduction, I thought I could pull you out. Unless you’d rather stay there?’
Anywhere else I might have shrivelled at my mistake, but when you’re soaking wet in a hedge bottom there’s not much point. A moment later, he’s yanked on my arm, and I’m back on my feet by the roadside, dripping for England. I’m not sure my festival wellies would have saved me here either.
‘Your phone …’ He hands it to me. ‘You’re very wet …’
This guy goes in for stating the obvious. As he passes over the phone I’m distracted by how his rugged hand doesn’t fit with his expensive jumper.
‘Although if you go rampaging around with two mad hounds, hurling yourself into ditches, you can hardly expect to stay dry. I’d offer you a lift, but …’ He trails off awkwardly.
The way he’s screwing up his face, we both understand. ‘But’ is the meaningful part of that sentence. No way is he inviting me and two sopping dogs into his precious Land Rover. He needn’t worry. Even if I did accept lifts from total strangers, I’m not about to ruin his up-market seat covers with puddles and labradoodle splatters.
‘I’m so sorry … don’t worry … it’s completely fine … we don’t have far to go …’ I’m doing it again. Babbling. And apologising. Both things that Immie’s trying to train me not to do. Anyone else but me would have managed to laugh it off by now with a witty quip about mud wrestling.
‘It’s no-one’s fault.’ He shrugs as he reaches for the car door. ‘Sorry all the same. I bet you didn’t plan on mud wrestling when you set out?’
There you go. Why couldn’t I do that?
As he moves back to the car his expression softens. ‘I guess I’ll see you around then.’
If he’s glad to see the back of us, the feeling’s mutual. ‘See you.’ I say this airily, safe in the knowledge that I absolutely won’t. Ever.
I know I should be over being embarrassed about stuff like falling into a ditch. And I’m working on it, okay? As long as the clean up doesn’t delay the shopping trip, the girls will most likely wet themselves laughing about it.
‘C’mon dogs.’ Two furry faces instantly turn to me. Mud up to their ears, but still looking like butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Hurry up, there are dresses to try on …’ As we set off, my wet jeans are stiff, and the water in my Uggs sloshes with every step, but for some reason my mouth still curls into a broad smile.
Land Rover Guy might have avoided me and the dogs muddying up his Landy, but from the mud slick on the back of his jeans, I’d say he’s going to leave a pretty good bum impression on the driver’s seat.
At Brides by the Sea: Dimples and Saturday girls
Saturday is the busiest day at Brides by the Sea. As Cate and I push through the door on the dot of nine, the shop is already buzzing. We manage to pass the chaise lounge and the shoe cabinet without getting waylaid by any rampaging bridezillas. Then just as we reach the stairs Jess comes hurtling towards us, a dress in a cover in one hand, and a tiara and veil in the other.
‘Cate, lovely to see you.’ As Jess flies past she tosses us air kisses. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve sorted this pick-up.’
Cate, phone in hand, looks doubtful. ‘Sorry, it’s only me at the moment, apparently Immie’s running late.’
When she’s not studying for her psychology degree, Immie works at the local farm, running the gorgeous barn conversion holiday cottages. We know she’s delegated most of her jobs for today so she can come to the fitting so this must mean she’s tied up with her family. Immie has a shed-load of brothers who she hauls of trouble. Saturday mornings at the police station are a regular thing.
Dodging a large display of freesias, I call over my shoulder. ‘We’ll grab a coffee upstairs while we wait for Immie.’
Jess calls back through a cloud of tulle. ‘No worries. Come down to the Bridesmaids’ Beach Hut as soon as she arrives and we’ll go through the dresses.’
As we finally finish our climb to my attic, I drop my bag in the flat hallway, and lead the way to my kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’
One look at Cate’s pained face, and I turn on the oven.
She groans. ‘I’m ravenous, more so now I’m up here with the permanent smell of baking.’ She’s still battling to lose the baby weight from George in time for her wedding, although the curves really suit her. She gazes up at the shelves groaning under the weight of mixing bowls and wooden spoons and cake stands and recipe books.
‘I know it isn’t a tenth of the size of Brett’s place’ I say, assuming she’s making the comparison. ‘But I don’t miss getting the cake mix splatters off his expensive, polished surfaces.’ My baking things were the one thing I brought with me when I left.
Cate pulls up a stool. ‘This kitchen suits you way better.’ She leans to sniffs the daffodils in the red tin jug. ‘I love it because it feels so like your mum’s. When I think of all the wonderful cakes that have come out of your kitchens over the years, I’m drooling.’
‘How about I make pancakes while we wait for Immie? Or better still, muffins.’ I grab a bowl from the stack on the shelf, and I’ve cracked the eggs and added the oil and milk before she can argue.
Cate, Immie and I grew up together, breathing in the delicious smell of my mum’s baking.
