Jane Linfoot - The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

‘Poppy, great to …’ His voice grinds to a halt. From the way the guy from yesterday’s ditch is suddenly lost for words, I’m guessing we’re both equally gob smacked to see each other again. When he said ‘see you around’, I’m sure he didn’t intend it to be this soon.

I dig deep. Actually I’ve nothing to lose here. There’s no need to give a damn at all. I simply have to spend a few minutes not getting this job, and I can be off.

‘Hi again.’ I jump forward, and grasp his hand. ‘No mud wrestling today for me.’ I get that in early and throw out a tentative smile, hoping my smartest black jeans and the white shirt Immie lent me will cut it. With Cate’s borrowed wellies to show I mean business, now I’ve got this far I might as well go for broke. ‘And I left the labradoodles at home too.’ Hopefully he won’t recognise the Barbour jacket is Immie’s too.

I turn my full beam smile onto him, and try to put the brakes on any babbling. ‘Brill, shall we get on with it then?’

He takes back his hand, rubs his chin and gives a deep sigh. ‘Remind me again why you’re here?’

The dark circles under his eyes suggest he’s as tired as he sounds. Probably knackered from having sex all night. Not that it’s anything to do with me. I shove that thought away, and try to pick up my bounce where I left off.

‘The wedding coordinator job … Immie sorted the interview …’ Given he isn’t reacting at all, I recklessly go on. ‘Immie emailed you my fabulous CV yesterday?’ My ‘tada’ arm flourish wilts as he fails to react, although it does get a raised eyebrow from the dog.

‘Weddings … right.’ He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I’ve been in the barn all night with a difficult calving.’

Fine. So now we know there wasn’t any hot sex.

‘And how did that go?’ I toss in another smile.

Land Rover Guy exhales again loudly, and drops into his swivel chair. ‘We lost the calf.’

I carry on smiling, determined to see the positive side here. ‘Great. Or at least it will be when you find it again.’

‘Lost, as in died. The calf died.’ He says, as if on remote control, and leans back and taps on his keyboard. Finally getting round to reading my application.

I kick myself for that blunder. ‘Sorry.’

He clears his throat, but doesn’t look up from the screen. ‘It happens. There’s a big vet’s bill, but at least we saved the mother.’ If he’s reading my CV, I take it from the way the corners of his mouth are turning down that he’s spectacularly unimpressed.

He looks up momentarily. ‘Okay, you’re hired. Welcome to the team.’

‘What?’ If my voice has gone all high, it’s because I’m astonished. Even the dog has pricked up his ears in shock.

‘Start tomorrow …’ He’s already focusing back on the screen in front of him. ‘How does nine sound?’

Talk about bish bash bosh. ‘This isn’t how you interview people.’ I have to tell him, I can’t let this go. ‘Excuse me for asking, but what part of my background and experience makes you think I’m qualified to be a wedding coordinator … on a farm of all places?’

‘Your background?’ He stares vaguely, then looks at his computer screen and his lips twitch into some twisted kind of sardonic grimace. ‘I’m not reading about you here. I don’t even know where your CV is.’

Worse and worse. ‘So how do you know I can do the job?’

He finally bothers to turn his attention to me. ‘To be honest, I don’t.’ He rests his chin on his knuckles, and pauses long enough for that blinder to sink in. ‘But Immie thinks you can, and I trust her.’ He sits back, locks his fingers behind his head. ‘And to be brutally honest a second time, you’d have to be a complete imbecile to make a bigger mess of the weddings here than they are in already.’

I take in the way his voice resonates over the word trust. Those hazel flecked eyes. And that scar on his right cheek bone. Then I move on swiftly, and focus instead on a gaze that is as direct as any I’ve ever met. My breath catches.

‘Thanks for coming.’ With one swoop he’s on his feet and grasping my hand again. ‘But I have to rush. I’ll deal with contracts and questions in the morning, although from what you’ve said I doubt if you’ll be in any position to bargain, given your lack of experience.’

If he wasn’t already out of the door, I’d shut my gaping mouth and call him on that. As it stands I’ll have to wait until tomorrow. He’s still shouting as he disappears across the yard.

‘Oh, and don’t look at this as long term, it’s strictly temporary and it definitely won’t develop into anything more permanent.’

And that’s fine by me. The sooner it’s over the better. I just hope Cate appreciates what I’m doing for her here.

‘So the previous wedding coordinator, Carrie, didn’t have an office, and she shared the desk and computer with you?’ Despite me swivelling in Rafe’s swanky up-market chair, and him perching on the inferior – folding Ikea, in case you’re wondering – chair opposite, by the end of the first morning I’m beginning to see every reason why the wedding business is in trouble.

Rafe frowns. ‘I’m rarely here, and this way you can cover the phone too. Think of it as hot desking.’

Hot desking? If he’d said that with the tiniest bit of humour, I’d have laughed. As it is his morose expression hasn’t cracked once, although every time I mention Carrie, his scowl gets worse. Whatever Immie’s psychology books say about body language, I’m picking up tension over the absent Carrie.

Lunchtime has arrived without me noticing, and as my stomach rumbles I finally take a slurp of cold tea and a bite of the carrot cake I got out for elevenses. ‘As for hot desking …’ I’m spluttering through my crumbs. ‘We’re in rural Cornwall, not central London.’ Pointing out the obvious here, but sometimes you have to. And space is definitely not at a premium, given there are out buildings as far as the eye can see. ‘And hot desking only works if you follow strict rules.’ I scowl at the paperwork piles collapsing across the table. ‘Like tidying up, for example.’

He’s straight in there, snapping my head off. ‘Well you’re the one dropping cake. Eating is taboo at a shared desks unless you clean up afterwards.’

How did I imagine farmers were relaxed? Just my luck to meet one the only one in the world who’s anal about crumbs.

‘Sorry, would you like some cake? It’s carrot with almonds in.’ I offer, kicking myself for letting my hunger get ahead of my manners. ‘Trial baking is the up-side of being a cake maker.’

Only when he looks bemused do I realise that he hasn’t got the foggiest idea about what I do when I’m not here. He still hasn’t bothered to read my CV.

He shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m not big on cake.’

Sorry for being judgmental, but that explains a lot.

‘I’m only scratching the surface with the paperwork.’ I begin tentatively, not wanting to drop Carrie in it. ‘But the record keeping seems pretty chaotic.’

This is the nice way of saying there’s no diary, no list of bookings, no client details, and as yet, no record of transactions. All I have to work with is a carrier bag of scribbles on scraps of paper. As for Cate’s booking, so far there’s no trace at all.

He gives a dismissive shrug. ‘Nothing more or less than I expected.’

Despite my fears about fighting for desk space, something tells me that bad mood bear Rafe might not be around that often. If we’re seriously doing questions and answers, this might be my only chance to go for it. ‘So last year was your first round of weddings.’ I take in his slow nod. ‘How many did you do?’