Jane Linfoot - Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop - Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!

‘Holleeeeeeeeee …’

I turn as I hear my name. A shriek like that can only mean one person. ‘Poppy?’

She’s haring down the mews, blonde pigtails shining in a sudden shaft of afternoon sun, her Barbour coat flapping. ‘Great transport, Hols! Here’s me searching for you everywhere and you’ve been hijacked by Santa. How wild is that?’ Her forehead wrinkles into an appalled frown as she comes close. ‘Jeez, what happened here? Did you drive through a car wash?’

Frankly I’m relieved it’s not worse. ‘We collided with an early Christmas wave.’ Now I’m climbing down and shaking the sand out of my hair, it’s easier to laugh it off. ‘But thanks for the lift, Santa, it was way more exciting than a taxi. Take this for your charity box.’ I grab a tenner out of my pocket and push it into his hand.

Poppy leaps backwards as I land next to her. ‘No hugs for you when you’re this wet, even if you do look like an adorable baby seal.’ Poppy’s great, because she always sees the good side. Even from a distance, the air kisses she tosses a foot from my cheek smell of warm vanilla, icing sugar and waxed jacket. She turns to Santa and the elf, who’s grappling with my suitcase. ‘I’ve just made some Christmas pudding muffins if you’d like to come in and try some?’ That’s another good thing about her. Poppy’s always looking for testers for her baking.

The elf grimaces at his thighs as he hands me my rucksack. ‘Sorry, not today. I’m struggling with a see-through tights situation.’

Poppy glances at the elf’s tiny tunic as it rides up, then looks away quickly. ‘Eeek, I completely get where you’re coming from on that. Wait here, I’ll bring the cakes out.’ She jostles my arm excitedly and makes a lunge for my case. For someone pregnant who needs my help, she’s incredibly energetic. ‘Come on, Hols, I’m so pleased you’re here, and I promise we’re all going to have the most amazing Christmas.’

‘Great.’ There’s no time to remind her I won’t be doing Christmas. A second later, she’s dragging me and my case on wheels down the cobbled street towards the shop door.

Saturday, 2nd December

At Brides by the Sea: Small talk and straight lines

Later that evening, as Poppy clears away the papers from the fish and chip supper we’ve just had in the tiny kitchen in the attic flat, she’s doing her best to talk me into what sounds suspiciously like a party.

‘There’s no Brides by the Sea Christmas bash this year because Jess is away. So tonight’s her consolation prize. It’s just a few friends for drinks. You’ll know everyone, you have to come down.’ She pushes the cake box towards me. ‘Another?’

Even though there’s a huge kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm, Poppy still does a lot of her cooking here in the flat above the shop. Blaming her boyfriend Rafe for eating the cakes is probably only half the story. Every time I come through to the blue-painted cupboard fronts and shelves of brightly coloured, mismatched crockery, crammed with bowls and baking trays of every size, I can see it’s not a place you’d give up easily. Which is probably why she keeps working here and has as many friends to stay as she can find excuses for.

If Poppy’s trying to soften me up with sugar, I’m confident I can fit in a second Christmas pudding muffin and still resist the invitation. ‘I was planning a quiet evening, listening to the roar of the wind and the crash of the sea. Googling hot tips on wedding photography and getting ready for my practice shoot with Nate and Becky tomorrow.’ In case she’s forgotten, I’m here to hide not go out on the razz. Peeling my holly leaf off the muffin top, I bite through the white dribbled icing. Then my teeth sink into that familiar dark chocolate sponge heaven.

Poppy’s cakes take me all the way back to the cosy kitchen at her mum’s house, with its table covered in cake crumbs and icing sugar. The warmth and the smell of baking, and the house always full of Poppy’s friends, including me and Freya. It reminds me of how as teenagers, when we dribbled icing onto buns and made feathery patterns with a knife, I didn’t have to think about my big sister never coming back again. They were happy times.

She tidies up a stack of mixing bowls and grins at me as I get up from my stool. ‘Your shirt and trousers look great. You showered earlier, your hair’s fab. A bit of lippy, you’ll be good to go for the get-together.’

As I scrunch up my muffin cases and head for the bin, I’m still holding out. Then I peep out through one of the porthole windows. Even on winter days, the postcard views across St Aidan bay will have some kind of sparkle about them. Tonight as I look down on the shimmering light reflections bouncing off the inky water, I’m so grateful to Poppy for bringing me here. However much I’d rather avoid a crowd, I have to go with her to the shop’s Christmas ‘do’. ‘Okay, let me find my bag.’

She’s already passing it to me. ‘Right answer. Jess said she wanted a word too.’ Dipping into her own bag, she takes long enough to wave her mascara wand at her reflection in the kettle. Then she’s hurrying me towards the landing. ‘Great, there’s champagne cocktails down there, we don’t want to be late. Mine will be a virgin one, of course, but I like to pretend.’

Considering the size of Poppy’s bump, we clatter down the stairs alarmingly fast. As we arrive in the ground-floor hallway the tree we pass is on the large side of stonking, but the all-white colour scheme means it blends perfectly into the background, and doesn’t set my Christmas alarm bells jangling too loudly.

Bracing myself for my first evening out in ages, I peer gingerly into the White Room, with its rails of white and cream dresses, and drifts of tulle and chiffon. The shop windows beyond are studded with a thousand tiny fairy lights that spark off the beading, where white-glittered ivy falls in cascades behind slinky satin skirts. I turn to Poppy. ‘It’s very quiet. Where is everyone?’

Poppy wiggles her eyebrows. ‘We’re going all the way down to Lily’s new department in the basement. It’s way more practical when you don’t have to worry about spilling drinks on the dresses.’ Lily is another friend from Rose Hill who we grew up with. She was always flower-crazy and worked here when we were all younger. Now, thanks to one of Jess’s career-building schemes, she’s extended her florist’s skills and moved onto styling.

As we get to the bottom of the next flight of stairs and edge our way into the white-painted brick rooms of the lowest floor of the shop, the crowd of people in sparkly clothes waving cocktail glasses around is the first clue. The table groaning under the weight of champagne bottles and ice buckets, which Poppy steers me towards is the final giveaway.

‘Right, Hols, I give in, it is a party. But it’s only small, and I promise it’ll look better through an alcoholic haze.’ She’s looking very guilty as she rams a fruit-filled glass at me. ‘Kick off with a Christmosa, which is grape juice and Champagne. Here’s a Tickled Pink, which is pomegranate and Prosecco.’ A glass of pink liquid lands in my other hand. ‘And try not to miss the Christmas Margaritas.’

I shiver as the Champagne bubbles prick my nose. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ It’s so long since I last went out, it won’t take much.

She picks up a tumbler for herself. ‘Not at all. But I’m stuck on pomegranate juice and fizzy water, so think of it as drinking for me.’ The grin she flashes at me is triumphant. ‘Cheers, Hols, and well done for coming. Truly, it’s time you learned how to have fun again. Come on, let’s see who’s here.’