me.
I’m shouting back to Poppy now. ‘And remind me whose wedding it is tonight?’ As we’re pretty much crashing their party, it might be useful to know.
‘Dave and Betty, better known locally as Danny and Sandy. She’s head of Year 12, and the whole sixth form is invited. That’s why they’ve gone with the High School theme and they’re having the party here. But they’re from further along the coast so there won’t be too many people here we know.’ If this is her way of reassuring me we’re not going to run into Nic Trendell, I’m happy to cross that off my worry list.
I have to admit as we bounce along beside excited hordes of girls and women in their full, brightly coloured skirts, and guys flicking their Elvis quiffs, it’s a long way from the quiet Saturday evening I’d anticipated.
Poppy’s best friend, Immie, has also been roped in, and she jabs me in the ribs. ‘And as you’ve kindly volunteered as designated driver, Milla, expect Pops and me to cut loose!’
Immie looks after the holiday cottages at Daisy Hill Farm where Poppy lives with Rafe. I’ve known her my whole life too and she’s always been the same – as wide as she is tall, telling it like it is. Taking on the world for her friends, while drinking Cornwall dry and whooping it to the max – the same way she’s stepped in tonight. Although it sounds like leaving the dads in charge at home has gone to her head. If she’s whirling her Barbour jacket in the air this early, we could all be in trouble.
There’s another jab from Immie. ‘You do know your van’s getting more attention than those swanky American cars parked by the entrance, Milla.’
I laugh. ‘There’s no hiding it, I’m a driving advert for matrimony wherever I go.’ More’s the pity.
Immie wrinkles her nose. ‘I know that pink you’ve painted it is supposed to be feminine, but it does remind me of fanny pads.’ This is Immie. She doesn’t hold back, but that’s part of the whole honesty package. When I was at home with Mum, and not going to school, there was never a day when she didn’t drop by. There was always shopping from her gran, or a snippet of goss from the school bus, or a magazine for Mum, passed on from one of her many aunties. Obviously we had carers coming in and out, and Poppy and her mum always came round with baking too. But along with them Immie was my main link to the outside world. So, after the way she kept me sane then, she can be as rude as she likes about my paint job.
Poppy’s rolling her eyes at me. ‘She won’t be grumbling when you deliver us home. And with that light-up sign right along the roof, however plastered she is, she should get in the right van.’
Poppy said to me earlier, as she hauled me off the sofa, that Immie wouldn’t have been her first choice to serve cocktails on roller skates at a wedding. At Daisy Hill events she’s mostly back-of-house and under strict instructions not to swear in front of the guests. But thanks to the Falmouth Roller Derby team having a dodgy takeaway last night, they’ve been dropping like flies all day. The call for extra bodies to skate around adding atmosphere to the wedding party was less of a special request, more a howl of desperation. And as the bride is a friend of Jess’s from way back, this is a favour rather than a big-money job. So here we are, swishing our ponytails, rocking our red pouts, and literally ready to roll.
As Poppy swings the door open, we can hear the sound of a twangy guitar and the first bars of Baby I Love You. ‘The spare skates and clothes are in the changing rooms, we’ll have to do the best we can.’
I pull a face at her. ‘Seeing as none of us have skated for twenty years, I’d say the dresses are the least of our problems.’
Poppy sniffs. ‘Don’t worry about skating, it’s exactly the same principle as Jilly’s dance spectaculars when we were young. You do remember those?’
‘As if I’d forget.’ Along with every girl in Rose Hill, we spent our Saturdays doing dance classes at the village hall. And at the regular shows, so long as there was one fabulous dancer pirouetting across the stage and sliding into the splits, all the rest of