Jane Linfoot - The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

This is typical Immie. She’s always reading the subtext. As for Brett and I, we’re well and truly over, whatever she’s implying.

‘Sorry but you’re wrong there, Mrs Freud.’ I move things on. ‘Actually I wish someone would send me my stuff.’ I say that in the hope it’ll shut her up, although in reality I’m not sure I even want it any more. ‘No wonder Rafe’s grumpy though, if Carrie dumped him.’

Immie’s voice rises in surprise. ‘Carrie and Rafe were never an item, what made you think that?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe the way Rafe has smoke coming out of his ears whenever she’s mentioned?’ Although now I come to think of it, I seem to have that effect on him too.

Immie gives an eye roll. ‘Carrie was Rafe’s mum’s latest attempt at matchmaking. Carrie planned to make herself indispensable doing weddings, and grab herself some landed gentry into the bargain.’

‘Rafe is landed gentry?’ I’ve temporarily stopped picking up icing triangles for my cupcake bunting.

‘He’s not short of a few acres. That was good enough for Carrie.’

‘You don’t sound as if you like her much?’

‘I know Rafe’s a grumpy bugger.’ Immie gave a rueful grin. ‘But taking an all-round view, I reckon he deserved better.’

I’m trying to work out if this is Immie ‘seeing things as they truly are’, or if, underneath her gruffness, she’s hiding a soft spot for her boss.

‘I’m not sure which he hated most,’ she says, ‘bridal parties processing all over his best grazing fields, or Carrie with her Knightsbridge ideas and her red lipstick.’

I try to sound neutral. ‘It’s no fun having a meddling mother when you’re his age, even if she does choose you women with jewels on their knickers.’

‘His mum was only trying to help,’ Immie goes on. ‘Rafe used to live with a nice girl called Helen, but she dumped him and married his best friend.’

‘That’s tough.’ At least I got cheated on, then did the dumping, although when you’ve sunk to ranking getting left, it’s pretty sad.

‘It was years ago, she left because Rafe refused to get married. It’s time he manned up and moved on.’ Immie gives the tea bags a last vigorous dunking and pushes a mug towards me.

Given the tea is the colour of tar, I go back to my bunting instead. Picking up some triangles, I line them up along my icing line.

‘Which reminds me …’ Immie grins at me over her mug. ‘Rafe said he’ll throw in a cottage as part of your employment package.’

The shock of that makes me push my last flag into completely the wrong place. If I splodge this cupcake any more I’ll have to give it to Immie.

‘I told you he would.’ Ignoring my reaction, she takes another bite of cake. She’s enjoying a free tenancy in one of Rafe’s cottages down in the village. And she’s determined I should do the same.

I sigh, pick up two more cupcakes and pop a sugar rose on each of them. Then I go back to dots.

‘Thanks, but I really don’t want a cottage.’ Jess came to my rescue by offering me the flat above the shop when I left Brett. My attic may be little more than a cupboard, but I pick up a lot of orders by being on the spot at Brides by the Sea. What’s more, I’m finally beginning to feel settled. ‘Even if it’s bigger than here, who’d want a cottage in the middle of nowhere, tied to a temporary job?’

‘Whatever.’ Her disgusted sniff suggests she disagrees. ‘Anyway Rafe said tomorrow’s good for the grand tour.’

‘What?’ I look up blankly from the spots I’m arranging.

Immie laughs. ‘Keep up Mrs. The tour of the farm he’s supposed to give you – the wedding area, the cows, remember?’

Cows. My favourite. Not. ‘Couldn’t you show me round instead?’ It’s a plea.

She shakes her head. ‘Rafe’s adamant. He said be there for two, and wrap up warm.’

Another afternoon with the world’s most joyless farmer and I might just lose the will to live. ‘I’m not going to get out of this?’

‘No point trying.’ She laughs. ‘But the good news is this mocha cake is delicious. Is there any more?’

If only I’d stuck to cake making.

First things first. Please don’t look at what I’m wearing or I might just die of shame.

‘You can’t go out in a flimsy little thing like that to see a farm,’ Rafe says, pointing to my thickest warmest fur-lined winter parka, as I arrive in the yard the next day. ‘I’ll find you a Barbour.’

The way he says the B word, he makes it resonate, as if it’s full of spiritual significance, and then he rushes off to the house. ‘Great,’ I say, remembering the short almost on-trend jacket Immie lent me on Sunday. Except what he brings back isn’t anything related to that at all. It might go by the same name, but it’s definitely not the same species. Somewhere along the line it’s mutated, which is why I’m currently doing an impression of a yurt on legs.

‘Thanks.’ I’m not wanting to sound ungrateful, but a marquee would have fitted better. Although I have to admit there’s something immediately addictive about the smell of the wax oiled fabric.

If news on the style front is disastrous, as long as you ignore that we are not travelling by car, we are not even travelling by Landy, we are actually travelling by tractor – and that is the kind with four wheels all approximately the size of the London eye, where you practically need a ladder to get on board – the rest is better.

An hour later, my brain is popping with information on feed prices and milk quotas, not to mention every fun fact there is to know about organic farming methods, past and present. What’s more mind boggling still, it seems that Rafe’s family collect land and farms at approximately the same rate I collect Kate Moss dresses from eBay. But on the plus side I’ve discovered that the way to soften up Rafe is by talking cows not cake. We’re standing in a drafty barn, but the good part is there’s bouncy yellow straw on the floor, and we’re watching some very cute black and white calves with wobbly legs, skittering around.

‘The last time I saw straw like this was in a nativity play when I was at infant school.’ This is the extent of my conversation on the subject of straw, I just hope the man appreciates it.

‘Come over here …’ Rafe’s voice is low.

A calf is sticking its nose through the railings, and is nuzzling his hand.

‘If you put your finger in its mouth, it’ll suck,’ he says.

I shudder, and not in a good way. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’

‘You might find you like it. People do …’ Rafe is rubbing the calf, tickling the tufty hair between its ears

Cow slobber? I steal myself, and creep towards them. The next thing, there’s a slimy wet nose pushing against the palm of my hand.

‘Oh my.’ Waxed jackets were obviously designed with slobber in mind. I’m just totally relieved this isn’t happening to the front of my best parka.

‘Not so bad is it?’ Rafe’s letting out the nearest thing to a laugh I’ve heard, but then I realise he’s talking to the calf, not to me.

‘Awww … his eyes are blue … and look at his lashes …’ I might sound besotted, but it’s always the eyes that get you with babies. According to Immie we’re biologically programmed to react to them, and kick into care and protect mode.

‘Here.’ Rafe takes my hand and gently guides my fingers into the calf’s mouth.

Its tongue is raspy and sticky, warm on my hand. As it begins to suck I let out a gasp.

‘We don’t do this too often, or they give up drinking from the bucket,’ he says. ‘But it’s a good way of making the humans less nervous.’