Love at the Little Wedding Shop by the Sea - Jane Linfoot Page 0,11

camper van in a hurry, me getting the hell out of here. Just saying.

Jess is beaming. ‘Except you might not be, Milla.’

‘Cupid’s honour, I will.’ That’s one thing I’m certain of.

She narrows one eye. ‘I’m pretty confident I may be changing your mind on that very soon.’

Windcheater guy chimes in too. ‘If you’re sticking around then keep the permit as long as you want.’

Jess spins round to windcheater guy. ‘So if you’re all plastered up, unless you’d like to propose to anyone here right now and get the bridal ball rolling, we’ll look forward to seeing you again when you’re back to claim your discount. Anything and everything to do with weddings, we take it on. Remember, no job too large or too small!’

He ignores her immediate challenge, but his lips twist again. ‘I’ll see you very soon then.’ He hesitates. ‘Unless I can tempt you to carry on at mine? It’s not my yacht, but it’s big enough for all of us. I can soon whip up some rum and banana pancakes with cream and toffee sauce. You’re very welcome to come aboard.’

I watch Jess weighing it up. Even though she’s with Bart, she’s never one to turn down offers from dreamboats, especially ones with their own sea-going transport.

She sounds a lot more decided than I expected. ‘We’re actually having a small private function here later, so sadly we’ll have to pass on that one.’

That’s Jess speaking for herself but using the royal “we”. In my head I’m already digging into a stack of pancakes with lashings of whipped cream. ‘Well maybe I could …’

Jess lets out a cry. ‘A private party with you as guest of honour, Milla.’ She lets out a husky laugh. ‘Be in the studio in half an hour’s time, I’ve a proposition for you.’

We all know that’s not a tone you argue with. And I’m bracing myself for what she’s going to hit me with. Because however much I dislike what she might suggest, I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to resist.

But on the plus side, I’ve got through tonight without too much wailing in public. I have slightly impaled a customer, but I’ve managed not to spill drinks on anyone. And even though I’m a crappy cupid, it’s probably better that my arrow didn’t score a direct hit on windcheater guy’s heart. I’m in enough trouble with that one as it is.

Chapter 3

Friday, Valentine’s Day.

The Studio, Brides by the Sea, St Aidan.

Bubbles and big bangs.

‘I’d love to be heading into our anniversary year with business looking up not down, Milla, but like everyone else, we’ve felt the squeeze lately.’

Poppy, Jess, and I have climbed the narrow winding stairs leading from the downstairs showroom to the studio, crossed the creaking waxed-wood floor, and now we’re peering out of the small square panes of the sash window at the far end of the room. Far below, the dark ripples of the water are giving way to pale lines of breakers as they slide backwards and forwards up the beach. And after the upbeat whoosh of free cocktails, the truth feels like a chilly wind. I know the fun has gone out of weddings for me for a totally different reason but where the industry was seriously overheating seven years ago, now it’s entering an ice age. I’m just surprised a rock-solid outfit like Jess’s is feeling the effects.

‘You’re surely not telling me Brides by the Sea is in trouble?’

Jess raises an eyebrow. ‘We never use the “t” word here, Milla. Even when a mother-of-the-groom chopped too much off the bottom of a beautiful bridal dress the night before the wedding, we called it an issue not a disaster.’

Poppy’s face crumples. ‘Truly, that must have been the worst night, but I missed it because I was in hospital with fake contractions.’ She turns to me. ‘Didn’t you do a blog piece about it afterwards?’

I’m nodding. ‘It did feature in my tips for taking care with dress alterations. It would be less of a problem now since the most forward-thinking Bristol brides are showing ankles.’

Poppy blows out a breath. ‘The point was, everyone pulled together and by morning they came through smiling.’

Jess nods. ‘Just as we will this time.’

As I look around the white-painted walls of the studio, the half-finished dresses hanging on rails are silky in the pools of light from hanging shades. There are fragments of lace scattered across the work area, and sketches and scraps of pictures covering the pinboard and I’m already