Jane Linfoot - Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

‘As you said before, Alice and I are very different people. My dresses wouldn’t suit her at all. I’m a bit dreamy, whereas she’s…’ I hesitate, wanting to be fair.

‘Uptight and dictatorial? Controlling and completely un-chilled?’

I wince. Quinn filling in the gap sounds a lot harsher than me thinking it.

He laughs. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t have to pretend, we both know her. And mostly we forgive her.’ He leans across and taps my bag. ‘I’m guessing that’s where you’re hiding Alice’s Book of Wedding Law ?’ He gives a conspiratorial nod towards the back of the car. ‘Mine’s in the boot.’

‘You got one too?’ I ask, fumbling with the buckles on my bag.

‘I did,’ he says, amusement lilting around his lips.

Somehow I’ve been so blown away by Quinn, I completely forgot to check the small print for today. I look at my watch. ‘So did you read what we’re supposed to be doing now? Ten-thirty, Saturday, what job did the itinerary say?’

His face cracks into a smile. ‘Much as I love Alice, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s driving at.

‘You have two hundred pages of detailed instructions in your bag. But given the person who wrote them isn’t here we don’t have to follow them to the letter.’ He slaps the steering wheel triumphantly.

‘Isn’t that all the more reason we should stick to them?’ I’m starting to see why I’m here.

A low laugh comes from Quinn’s throat. ‘You’re more like your sister than you like to think, Sera. From where I stand, what you’re clinging onto in that bag of yours is a whole load of suggestions. And it’s our job, as creative directors, to implement these to the best of our ability. But we’ll do that so much better if we do it in our own way.’

Actually I think he might have lost me a mile out of St Aidan. ‘There’s a difference?’

‘Of course there’s a difference.’ He’s almost shouting now. ‘I’m a free spirit, I’m categorically incapable of obeying orders. But I’m damned amazing at making things happen. What you’re holding is a blueprint, but we’re not going to be enslaved. We’re going to wing it.’

‘Oh shit.’ I sigh. All Alice’s hard work and I can see it imploding in front of my eyes. What’s more, I’m kicking myself for not reading every single page of the wedding manual. Three times. At least. By only skimming the first two pages, I’ve really let Alice down. Because without the facts, I have no idea how far off course Quinn is taking us.

‘Let’s face it, we’d have no fun at all doing it Alice’s way,’ he says. ‘These days she sucks the joy out of everything.’

I hate hearing him talk about Alice like this. But he might have a point. She used to like to steer, but lately she’s become horribly rigid. But only because her wedding’s so important. ‘But at least we could try it Alice’s way?’ I reason. ‘And go off-piste if it doesn’t work?’

Quinn gives a loud sigh. ‘So currently, in the world according to Alice, we should be picking up snow machines in Truro. Whereas as I see it, it’s way more important to let you see the venue first. That way you’ll get a real handle on the event.’

I wince at the jargon. ‘Snow machines? What are they for?’

‘Sera, please tell me you didn’t just ask that.’

I know Alice wants a white wedding in every way. I screw up my face and my courage, and hazard a guess. ‘You mean they are literally what it says on the tin?’ Don’t blame me. I spend a lot of time in my own little design world, either on the beach or in the studio. Sometimes I miss out on crucial cultural developments. Somehow I’ve missed out that snow machines even exist.

‘You put water in, fire them up and end up with a snow storm. Of sorts. They can be a bit hit and miss. You only have to read the reviews on Trip Advisor to know they disappoint more often than they thrill. Which is why I suspect she’s ordered so many.’

I think I get what he means. ‘So if it really starts to snow, we get to skip a whole trip to Truro.’ I’m hoping to show I’ve got the idea and I’m willing to give it a go, at least in part.

‘It won’t,’ he says, making no sense at all.

‘Won’t what?’

‘It’s not going to snow.’ He sounds definite on that, as he jumps on the brakes and makes a sharp left-hand turn off the lane we’re racing along. ‘So we will need those machines, but they’re not top of our list.’

As we accelerate out of the turn, the cluster of buildings coming into view on the hill ahead is comfortingly familiar. ‘But this is Daisy Hill Farm. Where the wedding guests are staying.’

‘Got it in one.’ He gives a low laugh. ‘See, you know your way around better than you think.’

I’m trying to keep up and failing. ‘But I thought we were going to the venue?’

‘I’m staying in the cosiest little holiday cottage at the farm, and there’s a fridge full of food.’ There’s that unrepentant grin again. ‘So unless you want to spend all day sitting next to someone who smells like the beach, I reckon our first priority is a shower and breakfast.’

‘Brill.’ I say, because I’m really regretting not finishing my hot chocolate earlier. What’s more my tummy is growling at the mention of breakfast. But all the same, my alarm bells are ringing.

Something tells me I’m going to have to up my game here. And fast. I’m going to have to pull out all the stops to keep Quinn in hand. Or Alice’s wedding will be careering off the rails quicker than I can say ‘fried eggs’.

‘Come on in…’ The warmth hits us the moment Quinn pushes open the pale grey door of the cottage. He leads the way into a wide open-plan living room with exposed beams and whitewashed stone walls. ‘This is home… at least it is until we move up to the manor house for the wedding.’

Quinn wasn’t joking when he said the cottage is cosy. Daisy Hill Farm is the most amazing summer wedding venue, owned by Rafe Barker, who is the guy Poppy has finally got together with. I came up to the farm a couple of times last year with Jess and Poppy, but I haven’t been in the holiday cottages before. The converted outbuildings, clustered around a courtyard could literally have come off a picture postcard. And they’re the ideal accommodation for the guests who won’t fit into the manor.

When he kicks off his boots by the door, Quinn’s feet are bare, with traces of sand between his toes. ‘Help yourself to a hot drink,’ he says, nodding towards the kitchen area. After pushing on some flip flops, he strides across to a wood burner in a huge rustic fireplace, throws on a couple of logs, and rattles the fire back to life. ‘I’ll grab a quick shower and then I’ll cook. Farm eggs, scrambled, with local sausages and cherry tomatoes okay?’

By the time I swallow my drool enough to reply, he’s already disappeared to the bathroom.

Sipping hot chocolate, toasting my toes in front of a roaring fire, when we should be out collecting snow machines? As I look at it, I’m re-grouping. And making up for my previous slacking. And this time, curled up on a velvet sofa with lots of squishy cushions, and Alice’s Wedding Book resting heavy on my knees, I’m reading with a new urgency. And what’s more, I’m making sure every word of it is logged in my brain. So much for fast showers. I’ve actually got as far as page ten, when there’s a knock on the outside door. As there’s still no sign of Quinn, I go to answer it, and find Immie, the holiday-cottage manager, on the doorstep. Immie has known Poppy since they were toddlers. I’ve met her at the shop over the years and seen a lot more of her lately, with Alice’s wedding coming up. After a flying visit to see the venue, Alice has organised most things remotely, occasionally using me as go-between. So no one at the farm has actually met her in person yet.