Jane Linfoot - The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

How the hell did his voice get this chocolatey without eating any brownies?

‘You might want to visit at tea time, they knock you over to get to their milk.’ His lips twitch into a semi smile. ‘Not all farming is this cosy, but it’s a good place to start.’

Everything I had to say about weddings has gone. Which is a pity, because while Rafe is all relaxed and chatty, it might be an ideal opportunity to run a few things past him.

‘Daisy Hill Farm needs a website you know.’ I blurt out the first item from my list of priorities as it pops into my head.

A second calf is sniffing now, and before I know, Rafe grasps my other hand, and what do you know, I’ve got two calves sucking on my fingers.

‘Set one up then.’ He says not even bothering to look in my direction. Blunt as that.

‘Me?’ Now I’m warmer and out of the wind, I can smell a hint of delicious aftershave wafting up from the corduroy collar of my borrowed coat. I try to block out that it might be his.

‘You’re the one that wanted the job. It’s down to you. Do whatever you have to.’

‘Great.’ This should be easy, so why is he making it sound hard?

‘One condition –’ this time he does look at me, and it’s almost a glare. ‘– don’t bother me with it, because I don’t want to know.’

‘Right.’ So what about the other hundred items on my list that all need answers?

‘If that’s clear, when you can bear to drag yourself away, I’ll take you to see the wedding field.’

I’m strangely reluctant to detach myself from the snuffly noses, but I do. Slowly.

After a long goodbye, he hands me a towel, which is good because I’ve never known slime like it. I’m still wiping my hands on the back of my jeans as the barn door clangs shut behind us.

‘As for your contract, Wedding Coordinator doesn’t adequately describe the responsibility you’ll be taking here. You won’t just be planning, you’ll be the one everyone turns to on the day. The one in total charge. In other words, it’s your head on the block.’ He’s ushering me towards the tractor, and shouting over the roar of the wind. ‘You’d better change your job title to Events Manager.’

Immie was so right when she said this guy has no idea.

‘So if you were having a birthday cake, I think either a tractor, or a cow would suit you.’ I’m musing here. Allocating cake designs to people? It’s a thing I like to do as soon as I get to know a little about someone. Even if they are blowing hot and cold.

We’re bowling along rutted tracks back to the main farm, and to be honest there’s simply no space left in my head for another fact about cows or sheep or fertilizer or slurry. Slurry? It’s the most disgusting thing out. Take it from me, you DO NOT want to know details. And don’t write me off as an air head, but my brain is officially rammed. There’s enough agricultural information in there to last at least two lifetimes, which is why I decided I have to fill the space as we drive back to the farm with a conversation about normal stuff.

‘Why the hell would I want a birthday cake?’ Rafe sends me another of his disbelieving sideways glances. I’ve noticed he resorts to these a lot when it’s me doing the talking not him.

I’m torn between frustration at him being so unreceptive, and a horrible pang of sympathy for someone who obviously hasn’t blown out any candles in a very long time. How can a guy be so out of touch with the fun side of life?

‘When did you last have one?’ This is less rude than it sounds, I’m only trying to keep the conversation on topic. And asking questions will save me from what Immie calls my nervous splurging.

‘How do I know? Probably when I was about five.’

Probably not true at all. Isn’t it a typical guy thing to dismiss what doesn’t interest them?

‘My mum made the most awesome birthday cakes,’ I say. It’s out before I can stop myself, because usually I’d rather not talk about my mum, especially not with strangers, so I move on swiftly. ‘For my fifth birthday I had the most amazing merry-go-round cake, with prancing horses and barley sugar twists holding up the roof.’ Growing up in a kitchen with the table covered in icing bowls and piping bags definitely rubbed off on me, but there’s no point sharing that with a cake hater.

‘So I grew up with cows and tractors, you grew up with cake. That explains a lot.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh. ‘It’s always the kids who have easy childhoods who grow up to be annoyingly happy adults.’

Two side swipes in one breath. I doubt that my mum bringing me up on her own counted as easy for her, not that I’m going to tell Rafe that. My dad died when I was too young to remember, we never had much money or owned a home, but my mum made up for it in every other way. Our home might have been tiny, but it was filled with warmth and love and colour. If those digs were meant to shut me up, I’m not letting him get away with it.

‘Whereas you had so much, and still turned out moody and bad tempered,’ I snap back. That came out more harshly than I intended, but maybe someone needs to tell him.

He comes straight back at me. ‘Well, sorry I don’t go round wearing spotty wellies and thinking the whole world should be made of sugar, but some people have responsibilities.’

I had no idea he’d even noticed Cate’s red boots. What kind of guy takes offence at wellies?

He gives a snort. ‘And just so you know, in-your-face red hair might match your name, and it might be fine if you want to scream “happy hippy”, but I’m not sure it sends out the right message for a Wedding Coordinator.’

I’m wearing borrowed wellies, have go-wild-after-break-up hair, and I’ve been thrown into the job. I take a minute to collect myself in the face of that attack.

‘Actually, I’m not a Wedding Coordinator, I’m an Events Manager according to you.’ I throw that at him for starters. And whereas I might have been thinking along those lines myself about the hair a couple of weeks down the line, now he’s been so rude, I’m damned if I’m going to tone it down. ‘As for my name, I’m called after the blue poppy, not the red one.’ My mum’s favourite flower, our garden was bursting with them. ‘Known as meconopsis.’

His only reply is to lean forward and flick on the stereo, and we roar up the lane back towards the farm. Oasis blasts away the silence, and the beat is loud enough to make my head throb. As we pass the farmhouse Immie is there waving her arms, and there’s lucky respite as Rafe cuts the music and slides open the window.

‘You two getting on okay? No more falling in ditches I hope?’ She asks with a breezy laugh.

I’d say overall it’s a big fat ‘no’ to both those questions, but she isn’t waiting for an answer.

‘By the way Rafe, Morgan texted, says he’ll be round to help with the engine rebuild later,’ she adds.

‘Fine.’ Another monosyllabic reply from Rafe.

Immie’s fourteen year old son, Morgan, has morphed from a sweet boy to a monster overnight due to a testosterone rush. That’s Immie’s description, not mine. But if Rafe is an example of Immie’s choice of fun male role models to keep Morgan out of trouble, I feel sorry for poor Morgan.

‘We’re just off to see the venue field, I’ll be back for him in a bit.’ Rafe says, as he slams the window shut, and then we’re bouncing off down the lane again.

As he turns through a gateway with an open five bar gate, I’m a) still fuming b) thinking we need some signage.

‘So what would yours be then?’ His question comes from nowhere as we skid down a field.

‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.