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

‘So you see why we like it?’

My mum’s suddenly less sure of herself, hanging back as we get out of the car.

It’s one of those times when my memory plays tricks with scale. Somehow now we’ve pulled up on the gravel at the front, Rose Hill Manor’s bigger than I remember from the few times I came here as a teenager. Sharper too. But the windows are irregular, and the stone is so mellow, its warmth pulls you in. And the huge front door is open and inviting. Although whoever’s organised the parking has scored a mammoth fail, because there’s no signage, and there’s a jam of cars as drivers try to work out where to go.

‘It’s lovely.’ My hand’s on the handle of the car door, when it hits me that my mum’s about to commit to something huge here. ‘You are sure about this? You don’t want to wait a bit?’ She wouldn’t be the first woman to sign up for a wedding just because she fell in love with the venue.

She picks up her handbag, and she’s missed the point by a mile. ‘So long as we’re quick, we should beat the stampede. There were a lot of cars in that queue.’

I let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m not talking about now, I’m asking if you should be waiting longer to get married. You could have the wedding next year instead?’ I mean, how would she react if I said I was rushing into marrying someone I barely knew?

My mum’s expression is determined, as she catches my eye in the sun visor mirror. ‘Time’s short. At my age, I have to make the most of the youth I’ve got left.’ As she snaps away her lippy, she glances at a band on her wrist. ‘If I skip round the Manor, I should get to ten thousand.’

She’s lost me. ‘Ten thousand what ?’

‘Steps, silly – on my Fitbit.’ She shakes her head at my frown. ‘Never mind, we’d better hurry.’

As we arrive at the entrance, David’s standing next to a balding potted pine, hitching up skinny jeans that could be borrowed from an eighteen-year-old. Believe me, if I’d picked up on the spray-on denim earlier, I’d never have left Heavenly Heights. But as we go into the lofty hallway, I take Poppy’s advice, to pick out the positives.

‘Fabulous staircase, and it’s lovely and cosy.’

There’s a flash of dayglow lycra as my mum unzips her jacket. ‘What a crowd. And it’s positively tropical. Lucky I’m wearing my technical top.’ She picks up my blank look. ‘Special exercise fabric – it wicks away the sweat, darling.’

On a need-to-know basis, that’s way too much. Whatever happened to her love affair with Phase Eight and a sedentary lifestyle? But she’s not joking about the crush. Despite Fred’s delaying tactics, the place is rammed. As we thread our way through the wide-open plan reception rooms that flow from one into the next there are couples hugging the walls.

‘Any idea which way we go?’ I ask, as I squeeze my way into a room with polished boards, and linen covered sofas. Even though it could have dropped straight from a Country Living magazine, there’s no hint of weddings at all. And there’s a thrumming sound track, that sounds like it came from a Driving Rock CD. As Meatloaf gives way to Led Zeppelin, at least the chaos is eclipsing David’s embarrassing trouser situation. It’s not like you can see anyone’s legs.

A girl rolls her eyes at me over her glass of fizz. ‘Bubbly’s in the study. We served ourselves, but we haven’t got a clue where to go next.’

When it comes to listening in, my mum’s a pro. ‘Don’t worry, we know our way around, we’ve been before. Follow us.’ As she begins her running commentary, more people start to tag along. ‘The winter garden’s where the ceremonies take place, then the ballroom’s the party space.’

David’s right behind her. ‘You can have marquees by the terrace, or even a lakeside tipi.’

Not that I’ve landed a styling commission yet, but at least soaking up the spaces and the atmosphere makes me feel less like a spare part. Although it would make me a traitor to Poppy, a job here would be a dream if I had the courage to do it.

‘And upstairs there are masses of luxury bedrooms, and a bridal suite.’ My mum can’t hold in her enthusiasm. ‘We’d better head up there now, if we’re going to get to spinning.’

‘Spinning?’ As I puff up the stairs, trying to keep up with her, I get my first clear view of her state-of-the-art Nike trainers. Given how pink they are, I can’t think how I missed them earlier. What’s more, it’s the first time I’ve ever known her leave the house without four inch heels.

She laughs over her shoulder. ‘It’s all go. The hazards of having a fiancé who’s a personal trainer. As soon as you see the four poster you’ll understand why I want to marry him here.’

The thought of my mum on her wedding night makes me shudder. ‘Maybe I’ll check out the other rooms. Give you two some “couple” time in the bridal suite.’

Linking arms with David, she heads for an elegant panelled door. ‘We’re in here then, you’ll need to be on the next floor. The single rooms are up under the eaves.’

There’s no point taking the truth as a jibe, but it still stings. ‘With your insider knowledge, they should be employing you as a guide.’ As I back down the landing, I’m visualising cupcakes. ‘I’ll wait for you by the refreshments.’

It’s a fight to reach the study, but I know I’m there when I spot a hand-written sign blu-tacked on the door. Drinks and Bookings. Kip Penryn is obviously an optimist then. The bad news is there’s not a crumb of cake in sight. It’s an indication of the entire event. I’d give ten out of ten for venue, zero for effort. But on the plus side, the study’s delightfully empty, with an array of bottles and ice buckets on a long oak desk. I’m helping myself to apple juice, when I hear a voice in the corridor outside.

‘If the fizz is as good as the rest of the place, they’ll be splashing round the Bolly. Fingers crossed for smoked salmon blinis.’

Someone blagging smoked salmon blinis ? How’s that familiar? My stomach wilts, although it’s all my own fault. I’m the one who was shouting about the open day.

It’s a good thing I’ve put down my juice, because the next moment the door pushes open, and an apparition in white fur is storming towards me, arms out-stretched.

‘L-i-l-eeeeeeeee …’ Someone elongates my name as they drag me into a strangle-hold. ‘I was soooo hoping you’d be here.’

‘Nicole …?’ I haven’t totally seen her face, but the haze of Black Opium, and the faceful of fur are the giveaways.

‘And this is Miles … Miles, this is amazing Lily from Brides by the Sea, who found me my dress, and who’s going to be our wedding stylist.’

As Nicole relaxes her grip, I make a mental note to keep my toes well away from her bag.

‘Hello Miles, lovely to meet you.’ However big my smile, it’s going to be hard to live up to the build up.

‘You too, Lily.’ As he raises an ironic eyebrow and grasps my hand, he’s every bit as 007 as Nicole promised. A little bit older in real life than on his photo, but an impeccably cut suit lifts his ‘phwoar’ factor to a solid eight point five. Speaking impartially here, obviously.

‘Bolly for both of you?’ I’m joking, but when I pick up the bottle to fill their glasses, I’m spot on. Which is a teensy bit crazy, when Prosecco would have done the job. And in no way makes up for the cupcake deficit. As I hand them their flutes, I can’t help thinking it’s like Nicole and my mum got their men mixed up. But that’s entirely up to them.