Jane Linfoot - Summer at the Little Wedding Shop - The hottest new release of summer 2017 - perfect for the beach!

His lips begin to curl into a slow smile. ‘You’re not looking for a venue at all, are you? Or you wouldn’t be so dismissive. You’re not even wearing an engagement ring.’

Dammit. For the first time in years, I wish I was. Just to prove him wrong. And not all engaged women wear rings, but I’m not going to get into that. So maybe he’s not quite as in tune with the business of getting married as he thinks.

‘I’m not personally searching for a venue, but I know people who are. Hence the pic.’ At least that’s explained. No way do I want him thinking I’m a sad single, taking selfies in front of a wedding sign. Although I’d settle for that, rather than the truth. It’s way worse to be caught out spying.

‘If there really aren’t any takers, you can always give me a call,’ he says with a wicked smile.

‘Sorry?’ Now I’m the one who can’t work out what he’s talking about, it’s not so great.

‘If you’ve got a free evening we could go for a drink? I’m new round here, I don’t know many people.’

Or more likely, people know him too well, and avoid him like the plague.

What a cheek. ‘A pick up on the lane? You are joking? You might be desperate, but I’m not.’ As I make a dive for my car door, it’s total bad planning because it means he gets the last word.

‘Your loss.’

Two tiny words which pretty much sum up the arrogance of the guy. As for Weddings at Rose Hill Manor, I suspect this operation is way slicker and more of a threat than any of us imagined.

The only good thing is that for five minutes it took my mind off where I’m going next. As I coax Gucci into a thirty-four-point turn in the lane, and zoom off towards the village for tea with my mum and her new squeeze I feel sick. I would not mind missing the next hour in my life.

‘Ring the bell? Knock and say “hi”? Or what …?’

It’s the weirdest feeling. Standing in front of the house where I lived since I was eleven. Muttering. Staring at the stonework, not daring to go in, because so much changed in those few minutes’ yesterday afternoon. It’s not only what I might be interrupting. Walking in on my mum snogging? Don’t even go there. It just doesn’t have the certainty of home any more.

‘Dahling, it’s you!’

‘Shit.’ I jolt as the door opens. And I’m off to a bad start, dammit, given Heavenly Heights is a curse-free cul-de-sac. The language at this altitude is so clean, they don’t even need swear boxes. It’s also the kind of road where domestic perfection is a competition sport. If home tidying was in the Olympics, they’d have more gold medals than Bradley Wiggins.

‘Well, this is a lovely surprise. But where did all that dirt come from?’ One glance at my feet, and my mum’s already got her long-suffering face on. Sad to say, it’s pretty much her full-time resting expression when we’re together. ‘Why are you loitering out here, come on in.’ She never looks this disappointed when she’s with her friends.

It might be worth flagging up here that of her two kids, she’d always rather see my brother, Zac. Eleven months younger than me, he’s always been her real dahling. But since he absconded to the job of the century in Silicon Valley in the US, she’s been stuck with second best. And what the hell does she mean by ‘surprise’ when I rang to pre-book eight hours ago? Remembering Poppy’s ‘act happy’ instruction, I wrench my mouth into a smile.

Then as I stumble past a terracotta pot in the porch, I get my lucky break. ‘Hey, lovely primroses.’ My mum warms to compliments, as much as I’m warming to these flowers. ‘Orange ones too.’ My dad’s favourite. His winter borders in our gardens were always bursting with polyanthus plants. We used to love pouring over the plant catalogues together, planning the colour schemes. I can still remember the thrill of persuading him to try oranges and yellows, when he was still a sucker for blues and reds. Every October, from when I was small, he’d wrap me up in his warmest windcheater, and he’d dig the holes, and I’d hand him the plants. And even though my fingers were burning with the cold, I’d stay out there with him for as long as it took to get every last plant into the borders. It’s a relief to find there’s still a little bit of that left. Even if it’s just one pot.

My mum’s pained expression melts with the compliment. ‘David helped me do it. He bought the pot when we went for lunch at the Happy Dolphin Garden Centre.’

‘David?’ From nowhere, there’s an iron hand gripping my guts. Although I’m going to have to get used to the name. And he has to be tame, if he’s up for traipsing round garden centres. It was a point of honour. My dad preferred nurseries, and he refused point blank to go to places with poncey names, and logos depicting frolicking sea life. Then I do a double take that leaves my heart racing so hard, I almost have a coronary. ‘What the hell’s that?’ I’m pointing at a plastic gnome. And lurid doesn’t begin to describe it.

My mum laughs. ‘Oh, that’s Trevor. He’s another of David’s gifts. Don’t his tangerine trousers go perfectly with the petals?’ She lets out a kind of high, spontaneous giggle I haven’t heard before. Very unlike her.

‘But you don’t like gnomes. You think they’re tasteless and moronic.’ I’m quoting here, and I can’t help that my voice has gone all high either. It goes with the ‘gobsmacked’ territory. That gnome might fit in with my mum’s obsession to have her entire life colour matched, but he’s a million miles away from her style guide. In full view, on her front doorstep. Where everyone can see him, and judge her. Up to now I was under the impression she’d got engaged, but she appears to have had a personality transplant too.

‘Don’t be silly, dahling. He’s only a joke. Whatever happened your sense of humour?’ She’s staring at me as if I’m the one with the problem here. ‘Hurry up and take off your shoes, there’s someone in here I’m dying for you to meet. And please, at least try to look happy for us. Even if you’re not.’

My efforts at ‘delighted’ are falling flat then. But on the up side, this might be the first time in my life my mum has seen me in jeans and not complained. Come to think of it, she’s pretty dressed down herself, in button through floral silk, and fluffy sheepskin mules. What’s more, as I follow her down the hall, the accent wallpaper hasn’t changed since my last visit. Back in January I’d have sworn the yellow and grey geometric print was on its way out. My mum’s always been obsessed with redecorating, but since my dad died she does it before the paint has even dried. Although, thinking about it, most of that time since then, she’s been away with her bestie, Jenny. Lately, if my mum hasn’t been up to her ears in home makeovers, she’s been away on a cruise.

As we turn into the living area, I close my eyes. No idea what’s coming, but I’ll try not to pre-judge. When I open them again, there’s a figure standing by the French doors, looking out to the lawn. I have to smother a pang that my dad used to stand in the same spot doing just that. He loved to unwind on the golf course. Then he’d come home for what he called his ‘garden gazing’. Whenever I visited I’d stand there beside him, and join in. Nod as he pointed out his latest Tinkerbell primulas, poured out his hopes for his Grandissimo violas. Smile at the promise of sweet peas with dreamy names like Cherub Northern Lights, Berry Kiss, or Cream Eggs.

The funny thing is that arranging my dad’s blooms for the village show as a kid was how I discovered I could throw flowers into a jam jar in a way that made them look better than everyone else’s. Back then he called me his lucky charm. It’s true, he never won when he arranged his own. Better still, somewhere along the line, I found out that picking flowers, and making them look pretty made me happy in a way nothing else did. Dad always claimed his first prize for sweet peas back in nineteen ninety-two was the reason I became a florist. It’s one of those family legends we’ve heard so often, we all believe it now.