Jane Linfoot - Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

Alice smoothes her fingers across her cheekbones, then drags her bob behind her ears. ‘If it’s easier, think of yourself as head bridesmaid.’

‘Oh my.’ Worse and worse. When I signed up for bridesmaid duties it was to look awful in a dress for twelve hours, while carrying a posy. And smile for the photographer, so long as he wasn’t arsey. Something tells me if I agree to this, I’m about to add in a whole lot more.

‘Every detail’s covered. It’s just a matter of making it all happen. It’s all in the Wedding Handbook – you’ve got that haven’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Despite myself, I’m grinning. It’s under the waste-paper mountain in the studio. I opened it at a random page, saw a sentence about the bridal party not sleeping together, and slammed it shut again. But given how fat it is, I suspect Alice has every item nailed. Apart from her late arrival, obviously. And the groom’s friends who won’t do as they’re told.

‘Stop worrying, you’ll be awesome. You might even enjoy it.’ She’s suddenly sounding a whole lot better. ‘Dan’s best man’s got your number, he’ll pick you up in the morning. He said “ten at the Surf Shack”. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Yes.’ It’s my local caf, but I’m hyperventilating too hard to say.

That’s the thing about Alice. She isn’t exactly a Bridezilla, because she never makes a fuss, she simply powers through. And if I’ve got to step in to keep her plans on track, even if it’s only for a couple of days, it’s a huge responsibility. What happens if I break the wedding?

‘There you go. Knowing the Surf Shack, that’s a great start.’ Alice’s air punch is so unlike her it leaves me blinking as her fist rushes towards the screen. ‘We’re Team Bride, Sera. We’ll do this together.’

Which kind of sounds like a bit of a contradiction, given she’s not going to be here.

‘Any other queries, ring me, okay?’

Did I actually agree to do this? There’s a thousand questions I should be asking, but my mind’s gone blank. As for who the best man is, I want to weave that in too, but Alice has started again.

‘Thanks so much, Sera, I’ll catch you very soon, I promise. And good luck.’ Then the screen goes blank. And she’s gone.

***

‘What a morning.’ First Johnny, then this. I’m stomping around in my kitten heels, pink-sequined tulle flapping against my legs. Right now I’m thinking of heading for the beach, and running. And not stopping until I reach Scotland. Or maybe Wales?

‘What am I going to do, Jess? I mean you know me, it’ll be a disaster.’

Jess is still on the chaise longue, with wiggles in her forehead I haven’t seen before. ‘I know I “baby” you at times, Sera. But it’s time you took more responsibility.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Read Alice’s Wedding Book carefully. Then go and smash it. And Dan’s friends will be helping too.’ That thought smoothes out the lines on her brow. ‘Weddings are romantic times. Throw in Christmas, and who knows what will happen.’

Hang on. Whatever happened to our Brides by the Sea singles solidarity? Jess came to it because of a disgusting divorce, which makes it all the more surprising that she managed to rubbish our whole ethos in one tiny sentence there.

‘Forget Christmas and cupid dust, Jess, I’m not on the market.’ I grit my teeth. ‘In any case, it clearly says in the manual “no hook-ups in the bridal party”.’ Go Alice. Sometimes she really does think she can control the world.

‘Really?’ Jess looks gobsmacked.

If there’s one teensy bit of silver lining in this very black wedding cloud, it’s that I’m off the coupledom hook here.

As my pointy boots finally get the better of me, I sink down into one of the Louis Quatorze chairs that are meant for mums of our brides. The last time I collapsed into one of these chairs was when I found out Josie Redman wanted me to design her wedding dress. That pushed me a thousand miles out of my comfort zone, but it was nothing compared to this.

Jess beams. ‘I’ve got a feeling this might be the making of you, Sera. Remember our mantra? “Feel the fear and do it anyway”.’

I think she might have said that last time too. But last time, there was gin, which frankly I could do with now. And so long as I kept my nerve, last time I only had to do my job and design a fabulous dress. And if I’d messed up, there were a hundred people waiting to take my place. So that was easy in comparison.

This time failure is not an option, and I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing. And this is Alice’s wedding at stake. That’s not just any wedding. This will have to be the most perfect wedding, in the world. Ever. Delivered exactly as Alice ordered it.

I scrunch up my face and try to find a thought to get me through. It’s a few short days. It’ll be over before I know it. And a few days never changed anyone, did they?

A lot later that evening, hours after everyone else left, I’m up in the studio. Perching on a stool, in a pool of light, at the high cutting table. Sorting through swatches of lace, fingering pieces of silk. Staring out of the blackness of the windows, to see the distant lights of boats on the sea. Starting a drawing, then tossing it aside and beginning another. Even if I’m making no progress at all on the designs, at least I feel like I’m putting the time in.

I love my long workshop, three floors above the mews, with its stacks of magazines and the inspiration clippings pinned to a huge board. After the snowy neatness of the shop, the studio is a complete contrast, with its creative chaos of dressmakers’ mannequins, ironing boards and giant scissors. Up here the tulle and silk are on rolls, and the rails are full of fragments of dresses. Bodices with ragged edges, half-finished petticoats.

Each of the beautiful dresses hanging in the shop downstairs began as a sketch. Those few first lines on paper capture the whole essence. You can’t imagine the work that goes in to get from one to the other. But without those first sketches there’s no guide to create the pattern. And without the pattern, the dress can’t come to life.

I can’t blame it all on Johnny. It wasn’t as if the work was going well before he turned up. But since he did, somehow my brain can’t get beyond those words.

‘ Wedding… Christmas… best man… ’

I can’t stop thinking how awful it’ll be if he turns up at Alice’s wedding. And how gutted I’ll be if he doesn’t.

But right now I have to forget that Johnny is in Cornwall. I have to block out that on a windy day we might almost be breathing the same air. And I’ve got to come up with some startling new sketch designs. Because if I don’t, instead of bursting with an astonishing new collection, next Autumn the Seraphina East rails are going to be empty.

Hi Sera, Alice’s best man here, heading for the Surf Shack Cafe at 10. See you there :)

Texting? In St Aidan? I hope this best man – whoever he is – knows he’s damned lucky that message arrived. Signal here is patchy. To be honest, in most parts smoke signals would be more reliable than a mobile.

Unless they’re Cornwall devotees, most Londoners don’t have a clue what it’s like down here. When they arrive for the wedding, Alice’s friends are going to have their eyes opened, big time. It’s like the rest of the world used to be, in the days before technology. Locals scratch their heads over Wi-Fi, and give you blank looks if you mention broadband. Why would you want those when you can phone each other on the landline? Or – shock horror – talk, face to face. For me that’s why I like it here. As for where Best Man has chosen to meet up, I couldn’t have chosen better myself.