When I finally screw up my courage and dare to tiptoe upstairs, I find a dozen lovely bedrooms, all decorated in the same chic yet uncluttered style as down below. There are a couple of gorgeous master suites, with understated four-posters and French-style wardrobes practically the size of my cottage. Between us, if I had one of those at home, I’d put more effort in and the pile of clothes by my bed might be less chaotic. The rest of the bedrooms are still luxurious, in diminishing sizes, all with en suites. And then there are attic rooms too. Lingering by the window, I’m looking out over what could almost be a hidden kingdom nestling in the surrounding hills. Beyond the gardens, there’s parkland and fields, then the lake beyond, which is huge.
It’s much easier putting out goodies in the guest bedrooms here than in the holiday cottages. I zoom from room to room, being careful to keep an ear out for the delivery van, or vans.
By the time Quinn should have reached the airport, each bedroom has its own table-top tree, complete with burnished gold baubles and matching pine cones, and swags across the fireplaces. I’ve put out candles with the scent of angel’s wings, – yes, really – warming bath essences, hessian bows, cashmere throws, cinnamon-spiced pot pourri in hammered metal bowls, spring water in glass bottles with snowflakes on. Oh, and champagne truffles, Turkish delight and crystallised ginger. Everything’s there, except for the mistletoe. Let’s face it, when there’s a hunk like Quinn rampaging around the place, mistletoe is better left until the last possible moment.
By the time I step outside to take the empty boxes out to the old stable block, it’s way past lunchtime and a biting wind cuts through my cardi. Although there’s no sign of the elusive ceiling, there’s a white van parked by the coach house. I’m guessing, from the distant noise of grinding metal, that the handyman Quinn mentioned yesterday is working on Alice’s horse-drawn carriage. As I pass and peer in through the half-open door, I can see some kind of cart, which isn’t quite the Cinderella coach I’d imagined. In the yellow light beyond, there’s a figure in a welding mask leaning over a work bench.
If I were more like Poppy, I’d bounce over and say hello. If I were Jess I’d probably go and try to sell him a wedding suit, or at the very least, I’d invite him to Jaggers. As it is, I’m dithering, wondering if I should go and offer him a sandwich, or some tea. But then I spot a kettle and mugs, and if he’s busy he won’t want me to disturb him. So instead I pull my cardi more tightly around me and hurry back to the house. As I dive for the back door and the warmth of the kitchen, if I didn’t know better I’d have sworn there were specks of snow blowing. Which reminds me, we still haven’t collected the snow machines yet.
I know some people hate ironing, but pressing the fabric is so much a part of making dresses that I love it. When I unpack the chair covers, they are dreamy cotton voile and when they’re pressed they come up a treat. With the steam iron hissing, the repetition is so soothing that the afternoon whizzes by.
I was hoping that hours of ironing would provide the space for some design ideas to pop into my head. But it hasn’t happened. As the afternoon light fades and I finally stop for a coffee, I get the latest copy of Vogue out of my satchel to flick through as I drink.
When you’re a designer it’s a bit like being a sponge. You devour magazines, absorb the trends. Find out everything you can about styles and fabrics and celebrity fashions. When you’ve soaked it all up, you let your brain work on it, to give it your own individual spin. Then the designs come out pretty much on their own.
At least that’s what’s always happened in the past. But this time, something’s gone wrong. Because nothing’s coming out. And the more I’m worrying about it, the worse it’s getting.
I’ve moved onto Hello! when I finally hear the throb of an engine outside. This time I pull on my coat, shoot out of the kitchen door and rush around the front of the house, expecting to see a lorry. But instead it’s Quinn, climbing out of his car. Alone.
‘What have you done with Alice?’ I know for sure she won’t have missed her flight.
Quinn rolls his eyes and tugs at his hair. ‘Long story.’ For someone so chilled, he looks remarkably stressed. ‘Alice’s cases were too big for the boot of my car.’
‘Ouch.’ I can imagine how that went down.
‘First she hit the roof,’ he confirms. ‘Then she hired a car of her own. She said to tell you she’s going straight to the farm.’ He shakes his head. ‘Talking of roofs, give me some good news. How’s the ceiling coming on?’
‘It’s not,’ I say flatly. ‘It hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘Shit.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I seriously doubt it’ll be coming now. Probably best not tell Alice, unless she specifically asks.’ As he stares over my shoulder, his frown lines deepen and he mutters. ‘What the hell is he doing here still…?’
As I turn to discover exactly what Quinn is so pissed off about, I see the guy from the coach house coming towards us in the dusk, welding mask in hand.
‘Hey, I thought I heard voices…’
Those six words are enough to send a seismic shiver down my spine. I try to ignore the fact that my heart is pounding so hard that all three of us will be able to hear it. If my feet weren’t rooted to the spot, I might just run. As for what Johnny’s doing here…
Quinn cuts in. ‘Actually, we’re just leaving.’
If I hold my breath Quinn might just pull off his second fairy godmother trick of the day and magic me out of here.
‘We?’ There’s a mocking antagonism in Johnny’s voice. ‘Anyone I should be introduced to before you rush off?’
Right now I can’t dwell on why the guy who was doing his PhD on car engines in Bristol back in the day, should have popped up here of all places, doing something as ridiculous as welding Alice’s Cinderella coach. As if coming face to face with Johnny all over again isn’t bad enough, doing it all in front of Quinn makes it ten times more embarrassing.
Between us, I’m the last person in the world to think on my feet. Whatever I’ve done, for the last eight years, fast-thinking Jess has always been there to leap in and save me. But suddenly it’s all down to me. And just this once I astonish myself so much, I’m surprised my mouth doesn’t lock into a wide-open ‘O’.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m smiling a very broad, very rigid smile. Next thing, I’ve whipped around to face Johnny, head on. And even though my voice is hoarse and I sound as breathy as Marilyn Monroe, at least the words are coming out.
‘Hi Johnny… again. Alice is my sister, by the way… and I’m her bridesmaid.’ And then his words from two days ago pop into my head and straight out of my mouth. ‘We must stop meeting like this…’ I hurl out my hand towards Johnny, daring him to grasp it.
‘Sera…?’ He’s blinking at me in the half light.
At least this way I have the unexpected advantage of seeing smooth-talking Johnny being the one who’s struggling to find words.
Quinn’s staggering backwards. ‘You two know each other?’
I make it as airy and throw-away as I can. ‘Our paths crossed at uni. Briefly.’ That should make it even less significant. ‘And the other day in the shop.’
I’m so busy basking in my own glorious moment, I entirely miss Johnny getting his act together. When his hand comes towards mine, I jump.
‘Great to meet you again too, Sera – or is it Seraphina now?’ His narrowed eyes are glittering with irony. ‘And vertical not horizontal this time. It must be my lucky day.’
There’s a second when my hand is lurching wildly in space and then he grasps it, and anchors me. And then he lets go again.
It only seems right to turn back to Quinn and involve him in the conversation. ‘And Johnny is here because…?’ Somehow Johnny’s not acting like the lowly handyman he’s been billed as.
Before Quinn can reply, Johnny’s in there. ‘I’m Dan’s best man.’
‘Sorry? Is there something I’m missing here?’ I look at Quinn. ‘But aren’t you…?’
Johnny’s back in there, looking like he’s laughing at some private joke. ‘He’s best man’s assistant.’
Quinn quashes that in an instant. ‘We’re both best men. Best man one – me – and he’s best man two.’
‘There are two of you?’ Excuse me for being incredulous, but…
Johnny gives a shrug. ‘Actually it’s the other way around. Dan and I go way back. I sat next to him on my first day at junior school in Suffolk, when my parents flew south from Edinburgh. Whereas Quinn’s known Dan since uni. And J comes before Q in the alphabet. Just saying.’
So that explains it. Strange we never made the connection before. But Alice and Dan never visited me at uni and Johnny rarely spoke about home. So how could we?
And there’s another question I have to ask. ‘Does Alice know she’s doubled up on her best man?’ Because somehow I can’t see her being happy about an arrangement this unorthodox.
Johnny’s doing all the talking here. ‘She got her head around it eventually. In the end she put us down in her book as our generic title, without names.’ Ahh, the book. He’s got one too, of course.
At least it explains why I couldn’t find who the best man was when I looked. And funny how Quinn didn’t admit to this earlier, because it was sure to come out eventually. But maybe that might explain why he’s looking particularly pissed off as he turns to me.
‘Come on, Sera we really should go and get those snow machines. They should have been picked up yesterday.’
I might have avoided gawping before, but I’m making up for it now. When did snow machines suddenly go back on the agenda?
‘Probably not that urgent.’ Johnny’s low laugh sounds as if he’s mocking again. ‘Given there’s snow coming in on the forecast.’ All these years and he still hasn’t lost that Ewan McGregor lilt. It killed me then and it’s killing me now. But this time I really don’t want to hear it.
‘It won’t snow,’ I say quickly. Not that I’m taking sides, but I’ve hung out with Quinn for the last thirty hours. And I’m eternally grateful he did my airport run. What’s more, this is the perfect excuse to be air-lifted away from Johnny. I wrack my brains to remember why it isn’t going to snow. ‘It doesn’t snow here because the climate is… err… Pacific.’
There’s a second of silence while the guys momentarily suspend hostilities and stare at each other with puzzled frowns.
Then Quinn jumps to the rescue. ‘I think “oceanic” is the word you’re looking for,’ he says, helpfully.
‘Thank you, Quinn, that’s the one.’ I knew it had something to do with the sea. In fact I was pretty damned close for someone who doesn’t have the first clue. ‘So we’ll be off then,’ I say, as I dive towards Quinn’s car. ‘Catch you later, Johnny.’
This is where we make our quick getaway. A squeal of tyres on the gravel and we’ll be away. I fling open the car door. And that’s where the fast part ends. By the time I’ve managed to contort myself enough to squeeze into the seat, Johnny is standing right next to me. Staring down at the tangle of my legs like I’m some comedy show.
‘Catch you later then, Fi.’ The interior light illuminates his sardonic smile. And that last word makes my chest implode. He’s the only person I ever knew who shortened Seraphina to Fi.
We’re half a mile down the road by the time I remember I’ve left my bag in the kitchen and the house unlocked.