Love at the Little Wedding Shop by the Sea - Jane Linfoot Page 0,99
He wafts his hand towards the country-garden blooms in bottles on Clemmie’s tables. ‘… And flowers like those ones.’
I’m opening and closing my mouth. ‘Just like that … you decide three things all at once?’
He’s looking pleased with himself. ‘I’m not deliberately awkward, I just hadn’t seen anything right for Pixie before.’ He’s raising a finger. ‘And the woman from The Deck gallery in St Aidan …’
I’m narrowing my eyes. ‘You mean Plum?’
He nods. ‘That’s the one – we’ll have her sea-glass key fobs, and invitations with the shells painted on. And Rory’s personalised Mr and Mrs beer.’
I’m picking my jaw up off the floor. ‘So, twenty minutes’ browsing and you’re almost done?’
‘Hell, no, Milla.’ He’s looking at me like I’m the amateur here. ‘There’s some serious tasting to do on that last one. You have no idea how many beers there are to choose from. And I’m no closer to deciding on the cocktails.’
‘But great progress otherwise?’ As Clemmie passes with a plate of mini cream-filled meringues, I take one and pop it in my mouth. Then as I crunch and the powdery sweetness explodes onto my tongue I let out a soft moan of pleasure.
Again, Nic stares at me like I’ve gone mad. ‘You saw the thickness of that wedding file. We’re barely scratching the surface. There’s still all the clothes to do.’
I’m mentally comparing his laid-back country choices today with his weakness for slash-to-the-waist dresses at Cally’s wedding. ‘I may need a word with the bride about the dress.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You think?’ It’s obvious he doesn’t.
‘The dress can make or break a bride’s day, so it’s important Pixie feels amazing and relaxed.’ It could be a big part of the budget too – not that he ever mentions that. But with the extra considerations of her wheelchair combined with her reluctance, we might struggle to get this right. ‘If I have a chat with her, I promise not to give any of the other secrets away.’
‘Great, we’ll sort you some FaceTime.’ He’s staring off into the distance. ‘In the meantime, what the hell is that huge red thing over there?’
I peer at where he’s looking, but fail to see over the heads of the crowd. ‘Please tell me it’s not a fire engine.’
He coughs. ‘It’s way bigger than that. More like the Starship Enterprise on wheels. It’s possibly a pushchair being steered by a woman with full eff-off four-by-four-driver attitude who embodies the whole resting-bitch-face thing.’
My wail is for women everywhere. ‘You shouldn’t say that say about anyone!’
He shrugs. ‘I’m sorry, but you didn’t see the dead-eye she gave me. She’s gone now, but from the way she was mowing people down, I hope you’re insured for third party injuries.’
I’m turning to go and check for myself when Clemmie comes over, a plate in each hand.
She smiles. ‘I promised Nic a taster but he wanted to wait for you, Milla.’
I’m hesitating. ‘Is it okay if I take it to eat on the run?’
Nic’s tilting his head on one side as he stares at me. ‘I bet you haven’t stopped since breakfast.’
‘Breakfast? There was no time for that! But I have been grazing.’
Nic’s hand is behind my back. ‘Five minutes – I promise the world will keep on turning, the fair will keep on buzzing – and then you can go back to work.’
As we leave the crowds behind and reach the far end of the garden by the pond, Nic’s looking at the ground. ‘Shall we sit down?’
‘Absolutely not, or I’ll never get up again. Let’s stand and watch the fish.’ I know that standing like this I’ve got my back to the action, but Nic’s right about stopping – it’s blissful. I turn my attention to my plate. ‘Aren’t the teensy jam tarts adorable?’
Nic’s holding up a small goat’s cheese and tomato flan. ‘Mini-quiches and pizzas, brioches with ham and cheese, and then scones and muffins too. It’s all delicious.’
‘I’m on my third meringue.’ Even as I say it, I know I’m mumbling through my mouthful.
Nic’s licking his fingers beside me. ‘Careful not to drop crumbs in the water – do fish eat sausage rolls?’
I’ve no need to grin as widely as I am. ‘Why do you always ask me the hard questions?’
I’m hoovering the last sugar crumbs off the meringue paper when there’s a jab in my back, then a squawk. ‘It is you, Milla, isn’t it? No one else would be out with a skirt that creased.’