Jane Linfoot - The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

Cate laughs. ‘Okay, no tiaras.’ She bites back a grin. ‘How about floral crowns made from daisies?’

‘Worse and worse.’ Immie’s pulling her vomit face again.

‘There’s no such thing as a happy bridesmaid,’ I say to Sera. Given she’s brought up three bottles of prosecco, I’d say she’s catching on fast.

‘Okay, my turn next.’ I grab a Miranda in cream, and head into the empty fitting room.

I’ve helped with enough bridesmaid fittings this last few months to know the majority of bridesmaids walk down the aisle in a dress they would prefer not to be wearing. But they all love their brides too much to argue. I’m already cringing at how the scoop back is going to show off my muffin tops. But that’s a minor worry when I think that next week I’m going to have to make contact with a bride and groom to plan their special day and admit I know nothing about it. And somehow I have to persuade the worst tempered guy in Cornwall to come out for cocktails. Cate might think throwing Immie and Rafe together is the recipe for true love and an easy year, but from what I know of both of them, tiaras or no tiaras, it’s more likely to cause World War Three.

Things to do first thing Monday …

Chase up the missing Bride and Groom, who’ve had their phone off all weekend

Tackle Rafe about sharing office with chickens!!!!

Chase up Portaloo company

Organise work trip to Jaggers

Sort out Daisy Hill Website

Daisy Hill Farm Weddings Facebook Page??? :(

‘Morning Pops!’ Immie dashes into the office, trips over a chicken, and sends us both into a spin as she saves herself by grabbing onto the padded arm of my executive swivel chair. As she comes to a halt, she’s practically sitting in my lap. ‘Oh my god, you’re on Facebook …’ Her squawk echoes in my ear, as her chin bumps against my shoulder.

So this is me with my self-imposed Facebook embargo, caught red handed. It’s the first time I’ve logged on since the morning I had the second most horrible shock of my life – being faced with Brett, tagged right left and centre in a friend’s stag night photos, his mouth surgically attached to some bimbo. It wasn’t as if it was just the once. This tonsil hockey was on a tournament scale, and they looked like they were playing for England. And enjoying it. Even thinking about it now brings the sick into my throat. Two days later we’d broken up, and I’ve stayed away from Facebook since.

‘Happy Monday to you too.’ I take a slurp of the coffee I made when I arrived half an hour earlier, and try to change the subject. ‘Drink?’ Brett was full of excuses, but with thirty odd guys all posting their take on the party, his cheating was covered from every angle. I scoured the photos frame by frame. I pieced the whole sordid evening together before you could say ‘hangover’. There’s nowhere to hide when a thousand people around the world have seen the pictures.

‘No time for tea, I’ve got lots of cottages to sort after weekend checkouts.’ Immie slides back to standing, addressing me, then the bird. ‘Sorry for squashing you, Pops. Sorry for kicking you, Henrietta.’

We’ll have words about her talking to the poultry later, not to mention the whole ‘hens in the office’ issue. As for Brett, in the end he put the blame on me, and at the time I went with that, because I wasn’t in the habit of disagreeing with him.

‘So why Facebook? After all this time?’ Immie screws up her face as she puzzles. You have to give her full marks for persistence. ‘You vowed you’d never go on again.’

I sigh. ‘The farm needs a Facebook presence.’ We both know that’s true. ‘And when I looked down today’s work list, making a Facebook page for the wedding venue was the easiest job.’ I’ve rushed the page together, using a picture of calves from my phone, from last week’s farm tour, and added in some dreamy half focused photos of lace and sparkles I took in the shop yesterday. Somehow using Facebook for work is okay. The last thing I’m going to do is stalk Brett. ‘The rest of my jobs for today are worse, believe me.’ Explaining to the bride that we’d lost her details is bad enough. Reassuring her that she can trust us with her wedding is something else.

‘Nice photos.’ Immie nods as she scrolls down the screen looking at the new Facebook page. ‘I think you should call the page Weddings at Daisy Hill Farm though.’

‘Brilliant idea,’ I say. ‘I wanted to get the page up and running, to catch people who might have fallen through the holes in Carrie’s booking net. If we get everyone we know to share the page, I can offer a gift for every couple with a booking who get in touch via the page.’

There’s a flurry of wings and feathers and squawks in the corner, as Henrietta flies onto the top of the filing cabinet.

‘Good thinking Mrs.’ Immie scratches Henrietta’s head as she settles herself down next to the broken document shredder.

I’m cringing at the thought of touching feathers, when there’s a knock, and the door pushes open. Immie and I turn. As a guy in a soft grey parka walks in, muffled against the cold with a bright stripey scarf, our mouths open in a silent, but collective, ‘wow’.

There aren’t that many guys around here who look like they’ve escaped from some high fashion magazine, complete with the expensive clothes. True, there are some good looking surfer types at the beach, but none of them go in for the kind of grooming we’ve got here.

‘Hi.’ He shakes his perfectly cut, artfully messy, nut brown hair, and holds out his hand. ‘I’m Jules, I’m here for the photo shoot. Rafe said to come on in.’ His gaze is a startling topaz blue. ‘I take it that’s okay?’ As his coat slips open to reveal a chunky knit that might have walked off the pages of Telegraph Living, there’s a delicious waft of expensive aftershave.

He has to keep on talking, because Immie and I are still gawping. We’re halfway between being lost for words, and convulsing in giggles.

No surprise that Immie recovers first. ‘Fine, come on in.’ Immie leaps forward and grabs his hand which looks clean and buffed. ‘I’m not sure you’re at the right place though,’ she adds doubtfully ‘Definitely haven’t seen any cameras or lights anywhere round here this morning.’

That makes him smile, and when he smiles his cheeks crack into deep lines. You know those long ironic dimples you get on guys like Johnny Depp? The ones that make your legs dissolve? That’s what I’m talking here. And from the way Immie has sprawled against the desk, I’m guessing in her case, dissolving is fully complete.

Then he gives a long low laugh that bounces off the whitewashed office walls and leaves me helpless too.

‘No, I’m bringing the cameras, I’m the photographer.’ The smile he flashes is luminous enough to suggest he’s on great terms with his dental hygienist.

‘Remind me what you’re taking pictures of?’ Immie’s doing well here, given her legs are all floppy, and she hasn’t got a clue what he’s talking about.

‘The engagement shoot for Lara and Ben’s wedding … back in December we booked to have it here this afternoon …?’ Those blue eyes are full of hope as they search our faces.

I struggle to make my expression less blank as he goes on.

‘I say engagement shoot, it’s really just to get the happy couple relaxed in front of the camera before the big day. Some people do their engagement shots in New York or Paris or somewhere exotic, but these two went for Cornwall in February. I came early to check out the best shots. Let’s hope the weather’s improved for the real thing at Easter … it’s only four weeks away now.’