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Jane Linfoot
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Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop
Sequins & Snowflakes
JANE LINFOOT


A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2016

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design by HarperCollinsPublishers

Cover design by Cherie Chapman

Jane Linfoot asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

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written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008190507

Source ISBN: 9780008197100

Version 2017-06-26

PRAISE FOR JANE LINFOOT

‘Jane Linfoot has got out the mixing bowl and whipped up a truly gorgeous story… A deliciously scrumptious treat’

Rebecca Pugh, bestselling author of Return to Bluebell Hill

‘Just like the perfect wedding cake, Cupcakes and Confetti is beautifully crafted and wrapped in romance’

Heidi Swain, bestselling author of The Cherry Tree Café

‘A pure delight… fabulous, fun and unforgettable’

Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of The Birthday That Changed Everything

‘Simply stunning’

A Spoonful of Happy Endings

‘Gorgeous book with characters full of heart, and an impassioned story to make you smile’

Reviewed the Book

‘This author packs a punch’

My Little Book Blog

‘Loved this book. The main characters are vividly drawn… the writing is fast and feisty’

Contemporary Romance Reviews

‘With every book I read I fall more in love’

Booky Ramblings

Dedication

For Anna and Jamie, Indi and Richard, Max and Caroline, M and Phil xx

Women are like tea bags. You never know how strong they are until they get into hot water.

Eleanor Roosevelt

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Linfoot

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Acknowledgements

Favourite Christmas Cocktails from Brides by the Sea

Favourite Recipes from Brides by the Sea

Coming Soon from Jane Linfoot

About the Author

Also by Jane Linfoot

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

1
Friday, 16th December
Brides by the Sea: Crossed hearts and mermaid tails

‘Leave the Closed sign up for now, Sera.’

Jess, my boss and mentor, is thinking ahead as usual, talking to me over her shoulder, as I wait for her to unlock the door to Brides by the Sea, the most popular wedding shop in all of Cornwall and where I’m lucky enough to work. Even though I pass them every day, the trails of frosted ivy and those cascades of tulle in the Christmas window displays still send shivers down my spine which are nothing to do with the icy blast of the December wind that’s howling across St Aidan Bay. I know most brides choose to get married in summer, but when I see the whirl of hanging snowflakes and the sparkle of sequins against the snowy lace dresses, I completely understand why my sister, Alice, fell in love with the idea of getting married at Christmas. In less than a week’s time, a hundred and fifty guests will be descending on a Cornish country house for her four-day-long wedding celebration. Yes, it’s as epic and ambitious as it sounds. Only a power house like Alice would ever try to pull it off. As for whether she’ll succeed… Well, watch this space.

Coming back down to earth this morning, beyond the suspended silver baubles flashing with the reflections of a thousand fairy lights of the window displays, the remnants of last night’s staff Christmas-drinks party are waiting for us inside the shop. As the warm air of the entrance hall wraps around us, I peer through into The White Room, where we were partying last night, then pull back sharply.

‘Jeez, it looks as if a giant party popper exploded in there.’ The low whistle I let out is to hide my horror at the mess. From the number of glasses, you’d have thought we’d invited the whole town, not just a few close friends from the business.

As I stoop to ease a cashew nut out of the gap in the floorboards and flick on the lights on the giant Christmas tree in the hall, my head throbs. There’s a tinkle of dangling sleigh bells as I nudge the branches on my way back up, and set the white painted pine cones spinning on their ribbons.

I pick up a tumbler and shudder at the dying raspberries in the bottom. In the cold light of morning, I can’t believe we got so carried away by Christmas that we flouted Jess’s ‘clear drinks only in the wedding shop’ rule and went for red punch. Or worse, that we were rash enough to float exotic fruits in the Ruby Duchess cocktails next to so many precious and beautiful white dresses.

‘We had a lot to celebrate, Sera, we’ve had a fantastic year.’ Jess is looking surprisingly upbeat for someone who was at the after-party until four, and has come in to find her main bridal room trashed. It’s possible she might still be drunk. She’s also building up to a purr, so even though she said it all last night ten times at least, it’s obvious what’s coming next. ‘All thanks to you and your wonderful Seraphina East dresses.’ Truly, someone needs to move her on from this loop to save me all the blushes. However hard I try, she doesn’t take any notice.

In case you’re wondering, I’m Sera, short for Seraphina, and I design a lot of the wedding dresses Jess sells in the shop. And if you don’t already know, Brides by the Sea is four floors of bridal gorgeousness, in the seaside town of Saint Aidan. No prizes for guessing it’s almost on the beach, which is where I wandered in from, with my scrap book of dress designs eight years ago. And I’ve been here ever since. Jess, the owner, began by doing wedding flowers in one tiny room, and built her way up to what is here today – a Bridal Emporium containing everything you could need for a wedding. And brides flock here from Devon, Cornwall, and the world beyond.

And what Jess is talking about here is me getting the chance to design a celebrity wedding dress earlier this year. Which obviously was great for the shop, and is why my designs now have a dedicated room of their own, and why my name is painted on every shop window. But given I hate the attention being on me, it’s also meant I’ve spent the last few months trying to hide in corners.

‘Weddings taking off at Daisy Hill Farm brought us a lot of business too,’ I say. I’m trying to shift the glory off myself here, because last year Poppy, the wedding-cake maker who lived upstairs and worked at the shop, became a wedding organiser at a local farm. So if we’ve had a brilliant year, it’s down to her too.

‘It was so nice to see Poppy again,’ I muse. However awesome the party, my high point last night was Poppy coming home after a couple of months in London, and looking so happy to be back. Come to think of it, I could murder a giant piece of Poppy’s carrot cake right now.

‘I’m so pleased Poppy’s come to her senses and grabbed Rafe at last,’ Jess says. ‘We could all do with a farmer like him, he’s completely yummy.’

Jess is talking about very own Brides by the Sea in-house romance, which was finally sealed yesterday evening. After a whole year, Poppy is finally going out with Rafe, her boss from the farm.

Jess begins to unwind her silk scarf. ‘I haven’t booked any brides in for this morning, because we’ve got so much work to do here.’ She’s not joking about that. And given most days she’s meticulous enough to have us wiping away the rings on the coasters every time someone lifts a prosecco glass, we need to get cracking.

‘Great, shall I collect glasses and you do surfaces?’ I rub my hands together to show that despite my headache, I’m ready to get stuck in.

Jess sends me one of the despairing looks she saves for when I’m being dense. ‘We aren’t here to clear up, Sera.’

‘We’re not?’ This is news to me.

There’s more purring going on. ‘Two tame and very sweet bar boys from Jaggers will be arriving any minute to look after that.’ So that explains that purr. Jaggers Cocktail Bar is Jess’s favourite hang out in town. Even though the clientele are half her age, when it comes to downing cocktails, Jess can drink most of them under the purple plastic designer tables, no problem. And given she spends so much time there, she’s great friends with the staff.

‘So what are we doing?’ If Jess doesn’t have cleaning plans for me, I’ll head upstairs to my studio. Not that I’ve told her, but I’m very behind with my dress designs for next season’s collection.

Jess sends me another despairing look. ‘Sera, please tell me you haven’t forgotten. We’re sorting out your bridesmaid’s dress. Obviously.’

‘Oh shit.’ My groan is long and heartfelt as I hitch up my shorts.

I design dresses, I don’t wear them. Ever. And I know I have to make an exception for my sister’s Christmas Eve wedding, but thus far I’ve been in denial. Although the bridesmaid’s dress arrived weeks ago, despite Jess’s best efforts, I’ve dodged trying it on. Although, as I think about Alice, I let out a shriek. ‘Oh shit, Alice wants a Skype call, I need to set up my laptop. Like now…’

If someone said ditsy, I’d have to hold my hands up to that one. I’m the dreamy person, with the attention span of a gnat. The one who’s so easily distracted that when I dunk a biscuit, it invariably falls in my tea. Let’s face it, I’m creative. Coordination and organisation aren’t in my mindset. Which is why Jess is so great for me to work with. She keeps me on track.

‘Set up your Skype in your room, Sera, I’ll get your dress from the store. That sister of yours can wait five minutes while you try it on.’

Jess deals in orders, not suggestions. She might be bossy, but I forgive her every time. In the last eight years, it’s her hard business head and her drive that have taken me from a student with a sketch book to a designer with a studio and a dedicated room in her shop. Plus an annual collection, and more couture clients than I can handle. If it hadn’t been for Jess, I would still be lazing on my beach towel, drawing and dreaming. And Jess has supported me all the way, financially too, which is unthinkably generous and why I don’t mind her railroading me sometimes.

I mean who – except Jess – would have imagined that five minutes later, instead of washing up I’d be emerging from the fitting room in a dress…

‘It’s very pink.’ As I gaze down at myself, a croak is the most I can manage. Imagine an explosion in a glitter factory colliding with an avalanche and you’ll still only be halfway there. Although that might be the least of my problems, given the skirt is fluffing out to the size of a small tree. And right now I have to forget I’d ever hoped for cloud grey tulle, with tiny silver flecks.

‘I’d say it’s oyster rather than rose.’ Jess’s voice is breathy. ‘And it’s exquisite, just look at these seed pearls… did you ever see sequins so tiny?’

Don’t worry about the hyperventilating. Jess can’t help getting excited over anything with lace and sparkles. That’s why she’s got such a great wedding shop. At least she’s temporarily suspended her disapproval of all things Alice, though.

Alice, importing her entire wedding from London to Rose Hill Manor, the Cornwall country house, where she’s getting married, got the ‘thumbs down’ from Jess. Big time. Alice has somehow blagged the most spectacular wedding venue from a friend of Dan, her fiancé. But Alice not shopping at Brides by the Sea for her bridesmaids caused a tidal wave of discontent from Jess. As for Alice choosing a wedding dress from another designer when she could have chosen me, in Jess’s eyes that’s SO awful, we haven’t even got onto talking about it yet.

‘Forget about their size, did you ever see so many sequins in one place at one time?’ I ask. No way can I be as enthusiastic as Jess when I’m the one wearing them all.

Don’t worry, I’m completely cool with Alice shopping elsewhere. A bride has to find the perfect dress, and Alice and I have always been very different. Where I’m boho and scruffy, she’s super-stylish and uber-smart. We live in entirely different worlds, our tastes don’t coincide. So my dresses wouldn’t be her thing at all. As for how we’re going to get on when we’re thrown together for the wedding… that’s another instance of ‘watch this space’.

I try a tentative swish with the skirt. ‘Maybe maximalist bridesmaids will set off Alice’s minimalist dress.’ The sketch she showed me was so severe and pared back, it only had two lines. I’m guessing it’s some kind of haute couture silk column. ‘She’s definitely embracing the “Snow Queen” theme.’

Alice’s favourite book when we were kids was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. She starred in the Christmas production at school when she was ten and I was eight. Whereas I was a snowflake, and I fluffed my entrance, I’m not sure Alice ever forgot her triumph as Queen Susan. But Alice going for a full-blown Narnia wedding still came as a shock. Somehow I hadn’t pegged my ambitious, order-obsessed, high-flying sister as nostalgic.

‘If she’s hoping for snow she’ll be disappointed.’ Jess is smoothing out my skirts now. ‘This is Cornwall not Krakow. Someone should have told her – the climate’s oceanic.’ Jess drops onto her hands and knees, and begins to work her way around, giving the hem gentle tugs as she goes.

‘Okay, stand still, I’ll see how the length is. And while we’re here, you can tell me how your collection designs are coming along.’

The question floats upwards through waves of tulle, but it still makes me stiffen so hard that my spine goes ramrod straight. Jess is talking about my ideas for my next collection of dresses.

‘Alright… I s’pose…’ I try to make the lie sound nonchalant and laid-back.

‘Hadn’t you hoped to be finished by this weekend?’ Jess is slipping the questions between tweaks, but, believe me, there’s nothing casual about them. This is the interrogation I’ve been dodging for more weeks than the dress.

We both know that I usually get all my design sketches consolidated easily, in two short weeks while I laze on some exotic beach in the cheap off-peak time before Christmas. And we both know, with Alice’s wedding coming up, I’m here, not there. And somehow Cornwall in winter isn’t doing it for me like Bali does. I’d promised myself and Jess I’d work my butt off, and whatever happened I’d have everything sorted by this weekend. But somehow it hasn’t worked out like that. I’m a beachy girl, and that’s where I do my best work. The designs flow much more easily when I’m flat out on the sand. Add in the crippling worry that I’m never going to be good enough again after designing for a celebrity, and I haven’t been able to draw a thing. Between us, I feel about as creative as a turnip. I’ve got no designs finalised at all, but even worse, I haven’t any ideas either. So where there should be a complete collection of worked-up designs, instead there’s an empty sketch book. Sometime in the next week I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.

‘Realistically, nothing gets going again until after Christmas.’ I’m bluffing here. ‘I decided it’s way more sensible to give myself a New Year deadline.’ I’m staring in the mirror over Jess’s head, exchanging OMG glances with myself. Praying that the word ‘sensible’ will be the one Jess hones in on.

‘I see…’ Jess says, sounding like she really doesn’t.

I’m dragging in a breath so huge it almost makes my eyes pop, waiting to see if I’ve got away with this when there’s a loud squawk at floor level.

‘Sera, what the hell have you got on your feet under here?’

Shit. I’ve been rumbled. Which is really bad luck, considering exactly how many layers of dress there are between Jess and my…

‘Biker boots?’ Jess’s voice rises to a scream that makes my hangover head reverberate horribly. ‘You have to be joking me. Where are the white bridesmaid’s boots Alice sent you, Sera?’

My feet in those pointy toes? It’s not happening. But I might as well come clean. ‘The kitten heels are upstairs in the studio.’ Buried under a week’s worth of completely useless sketches. Along with the white fur jacket and the wedding manual she also sent. ‘They totally kill my feet.’ I can tell excuses are falling flat. ‘The heels on these are pretty much the same height.’

Jess is staring up at me, her arm like a signpost, finger pointing at the door. ‘Go.’

‘Fine,’ I say, with a sniff.

‘And come back wearing the proper boots.’ Her shouting softens. ‘You’ll have to break them in some time. You might as well start now.’

I look down at the skirt the width of the bay and know there’s no way I’ll make it up the narrow stairs to the studio in the dress. There’s only one thing for it. I squirm, undo the zip, let the dress fall to the floor. As I leap across the bunched-up acres of skirt, being careful not to trample it with my biker boots, there’s another howl from Jess.

‘Sera, I don’t believe it! You’ve got all your clothes on under there!’

‘And?’ I stare down at my leopard-print leggings, shorts and shirt. ‘Good thing too, now I’ve had to strip off.’ Honestly, it’s December, there’s no point being colder than I have to be. And if the dress is the size of a snowstorm, no one’s going to notice a bit of underwear. Besides, Jess is the original inventor of the mantra, ‘No one’s looking at the bridesmaids’. So I sense she’s being a) a bit of a stickler and b) slightly hypocritical here.

Five minutes later, when we resume, I’m wearing the kitten heels – yes, they’re agony, in case you’re wondering – and I’ve compromised hugely by taking off my shorts. And Jess has gone in to attack the hem with her pins. My toes feeling like they’re dropping off is a small price to pay when the heat’s off my designs. Or the lack of them. Which Jess appears to have completely forgotten about now.

‘You’re lucky Alice hasn’t got you in six-inch stilettos,’ Jess says.

I don’t bother to tell her that’s really not Alice’s look. Instead I lock my knees, settle down to listen to the gentle sound of guys washing up two rooms away, as I stare out of the window. Although, with the explosion of Christmas sparkle on the glass, it’s hard to make out exactly what’s going on in the world beyond, other than a solitary figure pausing to look at the displays.

‘Jess…’ One of the helpers has stopped clattering glasses and is calling through. ‘There’s someone at the shop door, wanting to come in.’

‘Take a break, Sera, I won’t be long.’

In a second Jess pushes herself up, shoves her feet back into her loafers and marches out into the hallway. Although the shop is technically closed, so long as Jess is in the building, there is the potential for trade. She’s never one to let the opportunity of a sale slip by. Sure enough, next thing, I hear her opening the shop door.

‘Come in… it’s horribly cold outside… definitely no snow though… yes, we’re closed, but we always make exceptions…do tell me, what can I do to help?’

Call me cynical, but from the welcome, I already know it’s a guy. Thirty to forty, to judge by Jess’s pitch. A smile spreads across my face, because the supercharge of charm tells me he’s probably good looking too. And just because I’m nosey, and amused, and a little bit bored, I tilt my head to hear better.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry to bother you…’ Male, with a nudge of Scottish in the accent. And the kind of chocolate-fudge undertones that make you shiver. ‘But there’s something I spotted in the window…’

My back goes rigid. You know that thing when you instantly know a voice? Even though it’s from years ago, this particular voice is indelibly logged, deep in my unconscious brain. Five tiny words, from twenty feet away, and my heart is hammering so hard that the sequins on my bodice are jolting.

Shit.

You spend years furtively looking round corners, in case a particular person might be there. Even though you know there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of them being around. And then you go so long without it happening that eventually you relax. Get lazy. You forget to look out. There are even days you forget they ever existed. And then…BANG! They’re there.

The last person in the world I want to see.

I’ll spare you the worst details. Enough to say, his name was Johnny, it was back in uni days, and my humiliation was complete. End of.

Shrinking back against the line of hanging dresses, I try to make myself invisible as I creep forwards to hear better. I’m literally turning my ears inside out, but as the voices move through into The White Room the volume fades. Which is extremely annoying, because they seem to be chatting for ages. And whatever I said about this being the last person in the world I want to see, part of me is aching to catch a glimpse. Just the teensiest peep to see if I’m right. And despite my sensible head screaming ‘no, no, no’ it’s as if my bad-girl feet have a will of their own.

Before I know it, I’m through in the hallway. My bridesmaid’s dress might be expansive, but desperate times and all that… A second later, I’m swirling the skirt, winding tulle around my legs, like I’m folding an umbrella. Hauling it into some kind of diagonal surrender. By the end my ankles are clamped so tight under the twists of fabric, I have to jump to move. But the good news is I’m slender enough to squeeze in beside the Christmas tree and duck behind the mannequin that’s dressed in an Alexandra Pettigrew Sophia dress. And despite the occasional soft jingle from the sleigh bell Christmas deccies I disturbed, I’m enjoying an unrivalled, yet concealed, view of the shop door. What’s more, I’m pretty certain so long as I don’t move I won’t be spotted.

‘Cross my heart, promise I’ll literally only look for a nanosecond.’ I whisper to myself, making ridiculous bargains with whatever fates hurled Johnny across my path. I mean St Aidan is on the edge of Cornwall. No one comes here by accident.

So long as I remember not to breathe, and not to let my heart bang too loudly, that’s everything covered. Which is damn good timing, because the next thing I know, there’s the clatter of loafers on floor boards and they’re back.

‘Well thanks for the bears.’ That throaty lilt sailing over Jess’s shoulder has to be Johnny’s.

Even thinking his name makes me cringe. But bears? Everyone wants to buy the knitted bear wedding couple from the White Room window because they’re unbelievably cute and dinky. But no one’s allowed to because they’re our Brides by the Sea shop mascots. They’ve been here as long as we’ve been open.

‘My pleasure.’ Jess’s triple-volume croon says it all.

We all know Jess would sell her grandmother given half a chance, but surely not those particular six-inch-high, knitted bears?

Suddenly there’s no need to move because Jess takes one step sideways and leaves me a clear view. There’s that feeling where your whole stomach drops so fast you feel it’s left your body. And then it’s like there’s water rushing through your ears, and a whole flock of seagulls just got loose in your chest.

It’s him.

Except older. And thinner. And ten years more worn. But still the same hollow cheekbones, still flipping that same piece of hair back off his forehead. For a second I think I’m going to die. But then Jess begins to talk again.

She’s got her hand on his arm as she reaches for the door handle. ‘So enjoy the wedding… and Christmas… and good luck with your best-man’s speech…’

Wedding? He’s here for a wedding? I gulp so hard at that I almost inhale the veil that’s dangling next to my cheek. As the shock of the word makes me lurch, there’s the softest tinkle of a bell. And even though it’s the tiniest sound, two heads whip round towards the tree. And just as my eyes lock with Johnny’s dark brown ones, and I see his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, Jess lets out a squawk.

‘Sera? What are you doing behind the Christmas tree?’

Just what I didn’t need. But I can still bluff it. My brain’s racing so fast it’s already reached the excuses pile. Nuts between floor boards. Loose mice. Lost bears. I’m wavering, weighing up the long-term pitfalls of each answer. I’ve pretty much decided to go with the pistachio, and I’m this close to getting away with it when one kitten heel gets jammed in a knot hole in the floorboards. Had my feet been free to move, I might very well have got away with it. Working with the tourniquet of my twisted skirt, I don’t stand a chance. Balance? I’ve completely lost it.

What begins as a tiny wobble, expands to a series of lurches. I’m aware I’m somehow in free fall, and from the hideously loud jangling beside me, I’m guessing I’m taking the Christmas tree with me. Before I know it, I’m in a nose dive, and the floor’s rushing towards me.

‘Waaaaaaaaa‌aaaaaahhhhhhhh…’ My scream has to be huge, because I can’t hear the sleigh bells any more.

In a last-minute effort to avoid a face plant, I hurl myself over onto my back. As the sequins on my dress splinter across the floorboards, and the tree comes crashing down, the face I’m looking up into is Johnny’s. On the up side, the thump of the impact has apparently culled the entire seagull flock. And even though my breathing has turned to gasps, there still isn’t enough force in my chest to make words.

Johnny’s pushing the tree back to the vertical with one hand, still holding his bag of bears in the other. Which pretty much sums up my life. The guy catches the tree, while I end up on the floor. Sprawled horizontal is never the best look, even if my legs are wrapped up like a mermaid’s tail. Especially when my beachy blonde hair and freckles look so bad with the colour of the dress. That’s why I concentrate on my career, every time.

And for once, that cool sardonic smile of Johnny’s is bursting into a laugh.

‘Seraphina East. All in pink.’ He rubs the back of his free hand across his forehead as he looks down at me. ‘I knew there could only be one of you in the world. We must stop meeting like this.’

And then he’s stooping, grasping my hand, and before I know it, a waft of delicious man scent whooshes past my nose, and he’s whisked me back onto my feet. What’s more, as I drag a stray pine cone out of my hair, my dress is unravelling as if it’s alive. In the time it takes to blink, I’m back to the shape of one of those doll birthday cakes, with a Barbie body, and a sponge made in a pudding basin. Except in my case, it’s without the boobs.

‘You see… he said “pink” too.’ I’m sticking my chin out at Jess. ‘And what about the bloody bears? Who said you could sell them?’

It’s not often that Jess is lost for words, but for some reason it must be catching, because she’s opening her mouth and closing it again, and no sound’s coming out. And we’re all standing staring at each other when there’s a warbling noise from The Seraphina East Room.

Johnny’s the first to react. He raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyone expecting a Skype call?’

Fate works in mysterious ways. Johnny disappearing at the speed of light? Or me? Either is good.

‘That one’s mine.’ I hurl myself towards the sanctuary of The Seraphina East Room.

Johnny’s voice echoes after me. ‘Sorry to have disturbed your Friday. I’ll let you get on, then.’ So like him to want the last word. Although that’s not exactly true. The last time I contacted him he didn’t get back to me. At all.

A second later I’m in front of the laptop, staring at an empty chair on the screen, wondering where the heck my Bridezilla sister has got to.

2
Friday, 16th December
Brides by the Sea: Red carpets and wild ideas

‘So is Alice online yet? I’m dying to see her.’

As Jess swoops in next to me on the chaise lounge, she almost knocks my laptop off my knee. With any luck, Alice will move her on from Johnny. Although I’m aching to find out if he mentioned where the wedding was he was going to. Not that he can possibly have any link to Alice’s wedding. Can he?

‘Alice will be along any second.’ I’m whispering to Jess in case Alice comes back on screen. ‘She’s in Brussels, with an army of builders.’ As planned, the ‘b’ words have Jess leaning in even more intently.

In case you’re wondering, Alice works in international interiors. We’re currently waiting for her to attend to urgent site business, which probably means she’s bringing her make-up up to speed before she comes on screen properly.

As Alice’s figure sweeps past the webcam, Jess’s voice shoots high with surprise. ‘Oh, she’s dark. And beautifully groomed. So you’re not alike at all, then?’

Despite the insult, I can’t help laughing, because it’s true. Alice rocks the ‘Audrey Hepburn, poised for the red carpet’ look. Whereas I’m more ‘Courtney Love, the morning after’.

‘Great, I’m here now…’ As Alice slides into view again, she’s got her professional voice on, although it’s less snippy than usual.

‘And she’s so glossy.’ Given Jess is murmuring at my elbow, I take it she’s set on joining in and making this a conference call.

As for the gloss, it’s the expensive sort, not the flashy kind. The prefix high-end applies to every item in Alice’s life. But despite ten minutes spent applying concealer, she’s still got tired-shadows under her eyes.

‘I’ve been trying to get you for hours, Sera…’ She’s exaggerating. Obviously. It’s barely eleven and I’ve been next to my laptop for ages.

But whatever, the tension between us is already crackling. And I’ve no idea why exactly. When we were kids she was the kind of older sister who bossed me about without mercy, but she always stuck up for me when the going got tough. Since we left home, we respect each other’s views and lifestyle choices. Although they’re not the ones we’d choose for ourselves, we care about each other from a safe distance. And like so many other siblings, when we get together, we revert to type.

As for the Skype call, if I know Alice this is my reminder to pick her up when she flies in tomorrow. So I’m getting in first.

‘Don’t worry Alice, I’ve set my alarm for six, I’ll be in Exeter when you land… promise…’

There’s a pause, as she rolls her eyes, not believing a word.

‘That’s why I’ve rung…’ Her second hesitation is long enough for her forehead to pucker under her fringe. ‘Actually I’m not going to be able to come tomorrow after all.’

‘But why not?’ My voice is shrill with shock. Alice never breaks appointments. And what about her wedding? There has to be shedloads of work left to do for that.

‘I’m overseeing a polished-concrete installation, and the frigging mix hasn’t set.’

It’s a rarefied world she lives in. Only Alice would polish concrete. And she doesn’t usually swear either.

‘I see,’ I say, even though I don’t at all. ‘Isn’t it all a bit last minute?’

Her cheeks blow out. ‘It’s a rush job for a diplomat. I pulled it in to help pay for all the wedding extras.’ The heartfelt groan she lets out is very unlike her. ‘I so want all our guests to have a white Christmas they’ll remember forever.’

There you go. I knew she was counting on snow. And with expectations like that, she’s setting herself up for a fall. I try to let her down gently. ‘I’m not completely sure it will be white.’ In fact I’m a hundred percent sure it won’t be.

‘It simply has to snow, Sera.’ She’s wringing her hands, and her wail is so loud my laptop vibrates. ‘What’s the point in getting married at Christmas otherwise?’

Between us, a lot of people get married in December because it’s cheaper. Not that I’m cynical, but Alice getting married in Cornwall has more to do with the fabulous venue they’ve got their hands on, than the location itself.

‘The sparkle will be seriously special with all your gorgeous touches,’ I say, feeling weird that I’m suddenly trying to sell this to her. ‘And the log fires.’ I’m trying my hardest to reassure her here. ‘And it’ll be great getting everyone together.’

‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she says, calmer now. Although she can’t be completely herself, because she doesn’t usually go overboard with the gratitude. ‘And I promise I’ll be with you as soon as I can. But until I get there, please can you look after things for me? Be my stand-in project manager on the ground?’

I’m blinking, screwing up my face. ‘What… me…?’ She can’t be serious.

It’s no secret the rest of my family are all hugely brainy and successful. But where Alice surpassed all expectations, I’m the big let-down. From full-on public humiliation when I had to re-take GCSE maths, to going off to college to do fashion, I’ve been the family embarrassment my entire life. We both know I struggle to manage my own tiny life. Not to mention the designs I should be doing. Adding in more is asking for trouble.

‘Don’t worry, the earliest jobs are mainly humping stuff around,’ she says, making me wonder why I’m needed at all. ‘Dan’s besties will be providing the muscle, but you’ll oversee.’ Her face lights up with a new thought. ‘You can be navigator. You’re the perfect person to guide them around. Go with them. Keep an eye on what they’re doing.’ Her nod is horribly decided.

‘Navigator?’ I mouth back at her, my voice a squeak. Alice really has no idea. I barely know my way round St Aidan, let alone anywhere else. I go from the shop, to the bakery, to the cottage, to the beach. And back again via the corner shop or café. I’ve barely done a thousand miles in gran’s car in the three years since she died. The airport was going to be a major challenge. Then I have my own brainwave. ‘There has to be someone better than me?’

We’re family and we’ll always have that tie. But the last few years you couldn’t say we’ve been close. Although my parents appreciated me coming down to Cornwall to keep an eye on my gran when I gave up my gap-year travel, I’m not sure Alice approved. After that there was always a distance between us. And it was about more than the miles between here and London. Gran and I liked to think of ourselves as the Cornish free-spirit family outpost. And when Gran died two years ago, everyone in London was happy to let me stay on in her cottage by the harbour. But Alice has never been interested in my life down here.

‘Actually I’ve thought about this very carefully.’ She’s tapping her pen on her front tooth. ‘You’re my sister, you’re genetically programmed to stand up for me. I won’t get better than that.’

‘Really.’ I can’t hold back my ironic smile. It’s so like Alice to analyse her problem so clinically.

She looks vaguely hurt. ‘Truly, Sera, you’re the only person I can truly trust for this. Deep down, you’re the one who knows me best, you instinctively know the choices I’d make. Which makes you the perfect person to make them for me, until I arrive. And to back me up when I get there too. Pleeeease say you will. There’s so much to do.’

If I’m blinking at her, it’s because she sounds so desperate. She’s strong, she never begs.

As she comes towards the screen her voice drops to a whisper. ‘I had no idea I’d find it this tough, it’s all turning out to be a total nightmare. As for Dan and his friends, if I’m not there to control them, anything could happen. You’re the only one who’ll understand what I’d mind about. You’re the one who’ll care enough to fight my corner… head them off… sort them out… stamp on their wilder ideas. You know what guys can be like? Sometimes I get the feeling they don’t give a damn at all…’

Actually I don’t have the first idea about guys, given I’m singleton of the decade. But I am familiar with Alice’s mindset. I know she’s meticulous about every detail, and maddeningly uncompromising. And I can see how uptight she is. What’s more, she’s right. I completely understand where she’s coming from, even if I don’t always get it. The only problem is, I’m a complete wimp. I’ve never fought anyone in my life. I’ve never had to. Because Alice always did the fighting for me.

Looking back on our childhood we didn’t have a bad time. It’s just our parents were busy with other things. But Alice was the kind of big sister who looked out for me every step of the way. I can still hear her bawling at the kids who made fun of me because my corkscrew curls were almost white. And when my wedding Barbie’s head dropped off, Alice toasted marsh mallows over a candle to make me smile again. Then my first week at senior school when I got to the top of the wall bars and froze, she ran out of her chemistry lesson to talk me down. I know I took her for granted back then, but looking back, she was the person who made every day okay for me. This is my first chance ever to pay her back. I owe it to her to step up here.

Alice smoothes her fingers across her cheekbones, then drags her bob behind her ears. ‘If it’s easier, think of yourself as head bridesmaid.’

‘Oh my.’ Worse and worse. When I signed up for bridesmaid duties it was to look awful in a dress for twelve hours, while carrying a posy. And smile for the photographer, so long as he wasn’t arsey. Something tells me if I agree to this, I’m about to add in a whole lot more.

‘Every detail’s covered. It’s just a matter of making it all happen. It’s all in the Wedding Handbook – you’ve got that haven’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Despite myself, I’m grinning. It’s under the waste-paper mountain in the studio. I opened it at a random page, saw a sentence about the bridal party not sleeping together, and slammed it shut again. But given how fat it is, I suspect Alice has every item nailed. Apart from her late arrival, obviously. And the groom’s friends who won’t do as they’re told.

‘Stop worrying, you’ll be awesome. You might even enjoy it.’ She’s suddenly sounding a whole lot better. ‘Dan’s best man’s got your number, he’ll pick you up in the morning. He said “ten at the Surf Shack”. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Yes.’ It’s my local caf, but I’m hyperventilating too hard to say.

That’s the thing about Alice. She isn’t exactly a Bridezilla, because she never makes a fuss, she simply powers through. And if I’ve got to step in to keep her plans on track, even if it’s only for a couple of days, it’s a huge responsibility. What happens if I break the wedding?

‘There you go. Knowing the Surf Shack, that’s a great start.’ Alice’s air punch is so unlike her it leaves me blinking as her fist rushes towards the screen. ‘We’re Team Bride, Sera. We’ll do this together.’

Which kind of sounds like a bit of a contradiction, given she’s not going to be here.

‘Any other queries, ring me, okay?’

Did I actually agree to do this? There’s a thousand questions I should be asking, but my mind’s gone blank. As for who the best man is, I want to weave that in too, but Alice has started again.

‘Thanks so much, Sera, I’ll catch you very soon, I promise. And good luck.’ Then the screen goes blank. And she’s gone.

***

‘What a morning.’ First Johnny, then this. I’m stomping around in my kitten heels, pink-sequined tulle flapping against my legs. Right now I’m thinking of heading for the beach, and running. And not stopping until I reach Scotland. Or maybe Wales?

‘What am I going to do, Jess? I mean you know me, it’ll be a disaster.’

Jess is still on the chaise longue, with wiggles in her forehead I haven’t seen before. ‘I know I “baby” you at times, Sera. But it’s time you took more responsibility.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Read Alice’s Wedding Book carefully. Then go and smash it. And Dan’s friends will be helping too.’ That thought smoothes out the lines on her brow. ‘Weddings are romantic times. Throw in Christmas, and who knows what will happen.’

Hang on. Whatever happened to our Brides by the Sea singles solidarity? Jess came to it because of a disgusting divorce, which makes it all the more surprising that she managed to rubbish our whole ethos in one tiny sentence there.

‘Forget Christmas and cupid dust, Jess, I’m not on the market.’ I grit my teeth. ‘In any case, it clearly says in the manual “no hook-ups in the bridal party”.’ Go Alice. Sometimes she really does think she can control the world.

‘Really?’ Jess looks gobsmacked.

If there’s one teensy bit of silver lining in this very black wedding cloud, it’s that I’m off the coupledom hook here.

As my pointy boots finally get the better of me, I sink down into one of the Louis Quatorze chairs that are meant for mums of our brides. The last time I collapsed into one of these chairs was when I found out Josie Redman wanted me to design her wedding dress. That pushed me a thousand miles out of my comfort zone, but it was nothing compared to this.

Jess beams. ‘I’ve got a feeling this might be the making of you, Sera. Remember our mantra? “Feel the fear and do it anyway”.’

I think she might have said that last time too. But last time, there was gin, which frankly I could do with now. And so long as I kept my nerve, last time I only had to do my job and design a fabulous dress. And if I’d messed up, there were a hundred people waiting to take my place. So that was easy in comparison.

This time failure is not an option, and I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing. And this is Alice’s wedding at stake. That’s not just any wedding. This will have to be the most perfect wedding, in the world. Ever. Delivered exactly as Alice ordered it.

I scrunch up my face and try to find a thought to get me through. It’s a few short days. It’ll be over before I know it. And a few days never changed anyone, did they?

3
Friday, 16th December
In the studio at Brides by the Sea: After dark

A lot later that evening, hours after everyone else left, I’m up in the studio. Perching on a stool, in a pool of light, at the high cutting table. Sorting through swatches of lace, fingering pieces of silk. Staring out of the blackness of the windows, to see the distant lights of boats on the sea. Starting a drawing, then tossing it aside and beginning another. Even if I’m making no progress at all on the designs, at least I feel like I’m putting the time in.

I love my long workshop, three floors above the mews, with its stacks of magazines and the inspiration clippings pinned to a huge board. After the snowy neatness of the shop, the studio is a complete contrast, with its creative chaos of dressmakers’ mannequins, ironing boards and giant scissors. Up here the tulle and silk are on rolls, and the rails are full of fragments of dresses. Bodices with ragged edges, half-finished petticoats.

Each of the beautiful dresses hanging in the shop downstairs began as a sketch. Those few first lines on paper capture the whole essence. You can’t imagine the work that goes in to get from one to the other. But without those first sketches there’s no guide to create the pattern. And without the pattern, the dress can’t come to life.

I can’t blame it all on Johnny. It wasn’t as if the work was going well before he turned up. But since he did, somehow my brain can’t get beyond those words.

‘Wedding… Christmas… best man…’

I can’t stop thinking how awful it’ll be if he turns up at Alice’s wedding. And how gutted I’ll be if he doesn’t.

But right now I have to forget that Johnny is in Cornwall. I have to block out that on a windy day we might almost be breathing the same air. And I’ve got to come up with some startling new sketch designs. Because if I don’t, instead of bursting with an astonishing new collection, next Autumn the Seraphina East rails are going to be empty.

4
Saturday, 17th December
At The Surf Shack Café: Dark chocolate chips and flashing decorations

Hi Sera, Alice’s best man here, heading for the Surf Shack Cafe at 10. See you there :)

Texting? In St Aidan? I hope this best man – whoever he is – knows he’s damned lucky that message arrived. Signal here is patchy. To be honest, in most parts smoke signals would be more reliable than a mobile.

Unless they’re Cornwall devotees, most Londoners don’t have a clue what it’s like down here. When they arrive for the wedding, Alice’s friends are going to have their eyes opened, big time. It’s like the rest of the world used to be, in the days before technology. Locals scratch their heads over Wi-Fi, and give you blank looks if you mention broadband. Why would you want those when you can phone each other on the landline? Or – shock horror – talk, face to face. For me that’s why I like it here. As for where Best Man has chosen to meet up, I couldn’t have chosen better myself.

‘So here we go.’ I pull a face at Poppy, as we pick our way between the empty tables on the terrace deck of the Surf Shack Café. Poppy’s the cake baker from the shop, who just came back from London, and one of my closest friends.

‘You’ll be fine, so long as you remember to breathe,’ she says, making a good point.

Now I think about it, the last time I drew a breath was when we started walking along the sea front. When Poppy dropped in to pick up some baking trays from her attic kitchen, Jess muscled in, and sent her along with me, supposedly to make sure I don’t chicken out and leg it down the beach. But this way Jess also gets a full report immediately Poppy gets back to the shop.

Unlike many of the beachside cafés which bear no resemblance to their names, the Surf Shack cabin is as rickety and weathered as it sounds, which is why everyone likes it. Add in excellent coffee, delectable cocoa and the fattest sandwiches on the bay, and you’ll see why it’s such a winner. What’s more, it appears to have been knocked together from a thousand random bits of wood. Sometime most days, winter and summer, this is where I hang out. And while Poppy’s been in London this is also where most of my calorie intake has come from.

On the dot of nine-thirty I shoot her a final grimace and brace myself. As we push through the swing door into the café, we’re hit by a rush of warm air and the scent of fresh coffee. The owner, Brin, is grinning at me from behind a spikey electric-blue Christmas tree, perched on the counter.

‘Mornin’ Sera. Nice to see you back, Poppy,’ he says, as he rubs his hands on his striped apron. ‘Frothy hot chocolate, XXL, with dark chocolate sprinkles and a swirl of salted caramel?’

‘Please.’ I glance up at the glittery festive garlands that are criss-crossing the ceiling. That’s my usual winter order. It takes at least twenty minutes to do justice to a Surf Shack hot chocolate, so the timing should be perfect. The mugs they come in are bucket-size, and the toppings aren’t so much sprinkled on as added by the shovelful. ‘What about you, Poppy?’

She wrinkles her nose as she studies the list on the chalk board.

‘Hot chocolate… super-sized please… with whipped cream… and marshmallows… and white chocolate chips… and a double chocolate muffin please.’ She gives a guilty grin. ‘Rafe cooked me breakfast, but that was hours ago. And I’ve so missed the Surf Shack.’

‘Have these on the house today, ladies, seeing as it’s Christmas.’

I blow Brin an air kiss as we wander off to choose a table.

Poppy nods towards a table with its own mini Christmas tree, complete with flashing lights, then steers me towards a chair. ‘This one’s good, if you sit there it gives you a clear view of the door.’ She tilts her head towards Brin. ‘You still haven’t been on that date he’s always asking for?’

I laugh. ‘You remember my gran always said it’s better not to have a guy at all, than to be with the wrong one.’ I guess she repeated it so often it stuck fast in my head. ‘Anyway, I’m too busy, guys aren’t worth the trouble.’ I say, as I slip my wool jacket over the back of a chair and unwind my scarf.

By the time Brin comes over with our order, Poppy’s ready to dive straight in. As she begins to demolish her muffin, even though it’s still long before ten, I have half an eye on my hot chocolate, half on the door, with its outline of multi-coloured chaser fairy lights. I’m more or less ignoring the boarding guys who walk in. Not pre-judging, but I’m guessing any friend of Dan’s who’s made it past Alice’s eagle eye to be best man will stick out a mile as a smart London type. Especially given she’s hanging out with diplomats these days.

And why did I think I’d be able to drink even a sip of hot chocolate, when there’s a million-to-one chance Johnny might walk in the door any second? In a weird twist of fate, could he really be Dan’s best man?

Poppy studies me as I sit, not touching my drink.

‘I can see you with a surfer.’ She scrapes a fingerful of cream from the top of her hot chocolate and sucks on it. ‘I reckon a hunky, beachy, free-spirit type would suit you.’

‘Just because you’ve finally given in to Rafe.’ I laugh. ‘For the record, I’m definitely not looking for a guy of any type.’ And just to clear it up, I don’t surf or swim either. My beach appreciation is definitely limited to the shore. ‘But anyway, I’m hardly going to pull anyone in a suit, am I?’ I gesture to my messy bun and general laid-back appearance.

‘Who knows? Opposites attract.’ Poppy teases. ‘Some smart city barrister might have a thing for ripped denim shorts.’ She leans in towards me. ‘Actually, don’t look now, but I think I just spotted your perfect soulmate. You know that thing where you’re supposed to choose a partner who looks just like you. He’s over by the coffee machines.’

‘You don’t say.’ I’m not even going to bother to look. Sometimes Poppy is so unknowingly ridiculous she’s hilarious.

‘He’s well fit. Pretty ripped under that baggy top of his, too.’ She’s not holding back on the details. ‘All sun-bleached blonde hair, just like you. Stubble – not like you, but whatever, his denim’s as threadbare as yours. You definitely look like you’d share an essence.’

If Poppy’s talking about essences, it’s time to stop her. ‘Bollocks!’ I say, meaning to hiss but it comes out a lot louder than it should. The momentary lull in the café’s buzz gives me enough time to go crimson to my ear lobes.

Poppy leans in again. ‘I’m right, he’s totally checking you out now.’

This is why I avoid nights out in bars.

‘Properly.’ She takes another triumphant slurp of whipped cream.

I laugh at her. ‘I just shouted “bollocks” at the top of my voice. Everyone’s looking at me. Obviously.’ But I might as well prove her wrong. Out of all the thousands of surfers who’ve wandered through St Aidan in the last ten years, I have clicked with zero this far. Enough said. I might as well do the job properly and make my point. I give it a second, pray this won’t be the moment that Best Man chooses to walk through the door, and sneak the fastest-possible glance over my shoulder.

I only mean it to be a nano-second. But when I flick around and take in the ragged blonde hair and the sloppy sweater, something holds my gaze. And I can’t turn away. I’m smiling at scuffed suede boots that could almost belong to me. One minute I’m running my gaze up over that stubble, the next there’s a flash of blue green and our eyes have locked. When his delightfully lived-in face breaks into a grin and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles, my tummy flips. Nothing so huge that it officially leaves the building. But enough to throw me right off.

Shit. I force myself to wrestle my gaze away. As soon as Best Man shows up I’ll be out of here, and I’ll never have to look at this ‘soulmate’ guy again.

‘See what I mean?’ Poppy’s laughing. ‘So what’s the verdict?’

I make sure my shrug is spectacularly diffident and make a big thing of trying to stir my hot chocolate. Then I clear my throat and swallow madly, because somehow all my saliva has disappeared. ‘Nothing special,’ I croak, desperately playing for time. ‘Although you’ve got a point about his jeans. They could make great summer cut-offs.

‘Oh my God…’

At first I assume Poppy’s perfect ‘O’-shaped mouth is because she’s so shocked and disgusted I’ve rejected my perfect match.

‘Oh my God…oh my God…’ The third time she says it and her voice is mounting to a shriek, it has to be something else. ‘Oh my God, you might be in here…’

‘What…?’

‘Don’t look now,’ she says, completely unnecessarily, ‘but he’s… COMING OVER.’ She mouths those last two words silently. Which frankly is a bit stupid seeing as the whole café’s been scrutinising us since she screamed OMG.

I can tell he’s arriving way before I see him. First there’s Poppy’s completely uncool flapping of her fingers in front of her face. Although strictly, with my puce chops, I’m the one who should be doing the hand-fanning. And second, there’s the way she’s puffed out her cheeks so far she looks like a football about to pop. And bear in mind surf hunk is getting the full benefit of this as he comes towards us. Which I assume he has, because there’s suddenly the most fabulous scent of hunky male. Definitely not salty skin and seaweed, with an undertow of testosterone, which, let’s face it, is what most guys smell of here when they drag themselves up the beach. More, expensive cologne, crashing into a motorcycle engine, in a cedar forest.

I draw in a long breath as he circles the table and swaggers to a halt. After waiting a couple of seconds – I’m guessing to maximise the swoon effect – he seeks out my gaze with a disarming grin. As his broad hand extends towards me, I grit my teeth, and will my heart to stop galloping.

‘Hi, it’s Sera isn’t it? I’m Quinn,’ he says, his low voice resonating as he hesitates. ‘Quinn Penryn…?’ The questioning tone of his introduction makes him sound even more super-confident than he obviously is. It’s as if he’s so famous he thinks I should know him, and believe me I don’t.

Random guys hurling themselves at me is the last thing I want. And I’m not about to bend my rules now. Not for anyone, no matter how much I covet their jeans. The faster I stop this, the better for everyone. What’s more, I’m horribly aware that the whole café is watching us like we’re some kind of floor show. There’s no time to lose, so I launch.

‘Sorry,’ I say, throwing in the most distant, yet benign and unsexy, smile I can muster. ‘I’m going to cut you short here, Quinn. Because I’m really not interested.’ I’m actually feeling bloody empowered here. Not to mention proud of myself, for the small detail of slipping in his name too. ‘It’ll save us both a lot of time and trouble if I’m honest here,’ I add, by way of explanation. Because although I want to sound decided, I don’t want to come across as a complete bitch. Especially as we’ve got an audience.

The way his eyebrows shoot up, I’m guessing he’s not used to getting the knock back. Which is very probably the case, because close up, he’s even more delectable than he was from across The Shack. But something about his surprise supercharges my new-found confidence. I’m on a roll here.

‘Pickups by strangers really aren’t my thing.’ I say, and fix my smile, determined to hold it until he’s backed off. ‘So, thanks, but no thanks.’

I look back at my hot chocolate, give it another stir. And wait for him to go. How much more of a dismissal does Quinn Pen-whatever he’s called expect? He’s still here, because when I look down I can see those distressed boots of his. Which is the exact point I remember that eternal question we were obsessed with at school. That thing about the relationship between a guy’s shoe size and something else significant. Which, embarrassingly, is exactly what I’m staring at, at table level beyond my hot chocolate. If schoolgirl legend is true, and there is a link between the two, his feet are going to be size twelves. At least.

Screwing up my eyes to block out the view, I will Quinn to leave. To make it clear that I’ve moved on with my life, and I expect him to do the same, I take a massive gulp of hot chocolate. As my cup clatters back down, Poppy begins to flap again. From the way her eyes are popping like saucers, I’m guessing she’s trying to tell me something hugely important. But I’m not getting it. As she draws her forefinger under her nose, my frown deepens. If this dammed Quinn wasn’t still hanging around, Poppy and I would probably have collapsed in a heap of giggles by now.

The free sample has ended.

$3.59
Age restriction:
0+
Release date on Litres:
09 May 2019
Volume:
344 p. 7 illustrations
ISBN:
9780008190507
Copyright Holder::
HarperCollins

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