Sequins and Snowflakes Page 11

  So Poppy was right about the weather and Alice was wrong. By the time I get to the Manor next morning, it’s drizzling, and every bit of snow has gone. And there’s no sign of Quinn this morning, up at the farm, or here. Given that Alice hasn’t appeared yet, with half a mind on what Poppy said yesterday about me calling the shots, I flip through my wedding manual to check on the outstanding jobs. I’ve been dying to see the tree in the hallway with all its decorations, so seeing as I’m on my own today I’m going to please myself and start that.

  I’m rooting around the stables looking for step ladders when the door pushes open.

  ‘Fi, is that you?’

  If my gran’s red mini parked outside was my big giveaway, calling me Fi was Johnny’s. Along with the low burr of his accent.

  ‘I’m collecting decorations for the big tree.’ I stifle my sigh of disappointment at being disturbed. ‘Weren’t you going for new glasses?’

  ‘No, I’m working on the carriage.’

  I frown. ‘Isn’t that done?’ I’m certain he said it was.

  It’s Johnny’s turn to sigh. ‘When I saw you heading off with Quinn yesterday, knowing what he’s like, I thought I’d better come. Spur-of-the-moment decision.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

  ‘A good call, given how it ended.’

  I’m not sure I need a protector. Especially one I didn’t ask for. What’s more, Quinn might have been calmer if Johnny hadn’t forced his way into the cab and wrecked our day.

  ‘And what exactly is Quinn like?’ If I’m pushing Johnny here, it’s because he’s sounding so derogatory.

  He snorts. ‘You don’t need me to spell it out. Surely you saw for yourself?’

  Johnny being judgemental is not a good look. We all know Quinn’s a bit bonkers behind the wheel, but in every other way he’s a breeze.

  ‘Quinn had an accident and he’s making it right.’ Even if he has totalled Alice’s crystal-ware, I have to defend him. ‘At least he knows how to have fun.’ Which counts for a lot, given Johnny’s apparent sense of humour by-pass. I’m sure he never used to be this serious.

  ‘You really don’t see it do you?’ Johnny sighs again. ‘Hang around long enough, you’ll find out how much fun Quinn really is.’

  ‘Actually, I’d better get on.’ Not that I’ve got the first clue where to find the boxes I’m looking for, but there’s no point listening to Johnny bad-mouthing Quinn. ‘So unless you can point me to the step ladders and decorations…’ It’s meant as the end of the conversation, not a question, but he comes straight back with a reply.

  ‘They’re all next door, next to the broken glasses. I’ll help you into the house with them.’

  Given the tree is the size you see in shopping centres, we have to make several trips, working in silence. As Johnny puts down the final box, he turns.

  ‘There’s a lot to do here. Shall I help?’

  ‘Absolutely no. Definitely not.’ It comes out in a rush before I can stop it. Like a knee-jerk reaction. Because I really don’t want to spend any more time than I have to with Johnny. Yesterday was more than enough. Although seeing the height of the ladders I’ve got to climb up, I must be mad. Then I see the hurt on his face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be ungrateful, but…’ I grind to a halt.

  His voice is low. ‘When I found out about this, I knew I’d be the last person you wanted to see, Fi.’

  Something about his sudden frankness makes my breathing go shallow and I shrink back against the stair post. ‘When did you find I was going to be here, then?’

  ‘When Alice said Sera, at first I thought it was her Hampstead take on Sarah. But then I saw the name Seraphina East on the windows at that wedding shop. And as I said when I saw you in there, I guessed there couldn’t be too many of those around.’ His lips curve into a smile that’s gone before it arrives. ‘Let’s face it, your name’s indelibly printed on my brain after seeing it on the post in the hall most mornings for two years at uni.’

  ‘Right.’

  He goes on. ‘But let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. From now on I’ll keep out of your way as much as I can. You’re right, it’ll be easier for both of us like that.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. Another good call.’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady, because it’s wavering all over the place. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  He couldn’t be more obvious. He’s telling me to back off, to save both of us the embarrassment of me throwing myself at him again. Save him the trouble of turning me down a third time. Thanks for the heads-up.

  ‘Good to clear that up.’ He’s almost through the door when he stops. ‘Just be careful with…’

  I already know the next word is going to be Quinn, and my neck is prickling, because it’s really none of his business what I do. Or who with. ‘I can do without the free advice, thanks.’

  Johnny isn’t quite done. ‘If you’re happy to be the latest beach bunny Quinn spits out, go ahead. Be my guest.’

  And there’s something so hypocritical about Johnny saying that, I don’t even bother to reply.

  17

  Tuesday, 20th December

  In the hallway at Rose Hill Manor: Mood boards and white-outs

  Anyone else think decorating a Christmas tree is one of the most magical parts of Christmas? As soon as I begin to open the boxes of decorations, my excitement takes over and the stress of the last few days melts away. Alice’s theme for the hall tree – surprise surprise – is white and silver. As the baubles, hearts, angels and stars tumble out of the boxes in their hundreds, I try not to get over-awed by the task ahead.

  ‘Keep calm and decorate,’ I’m whispering to myself, as I circle the lower branches. But where do I start? After dithering for at least five minutes, I grab a white-painted wooden heart and loop its shimmery white ribbon over a branch. There. One down, five thousand to go. I’m all good here. Beginning at the bottom, I grab a handful of ribbons and ornaments and begin to work my way upwards and around the tree.

  Even though it’s a completely different scale, I’m whisked back to Christmas when we were kids. Back to the times in Gran’s cottage when the dusty boxes would come down from the attic and Alice and I would stand on the table and take it in turns to hang the decorations on the table-top tree. Of course, she was the oldest so she always thought she should get first go. And she always demanded first choice of the miniature trumpet that blew, because that was our favourite. Gran was the one person who used to be firm with Alice. She’d make Alice let me have first go, then send me a wink and give Alice a chocolate instead. It was the only time it ever happened.

  Back then there were moulded-glass ornaments in the bright colours Gran loved so much. Tiny foil-covered parcels, pine cones we’d painted and whelk shells we’d collected from the beach. It took all afternoon to decorate the tree and apart from the day itself, for me it was the best part of Christmas.

  After working solidly for two hours in the hall, I’m at the top of the step ladder. I’ve got a crick in my neck from concentrating so hard and despite the festive soundtrack on my phone being on repeat, the Christmas magic is wearing thin. As I stand back to get an overview of progress, I’m thinking how whelk shells would look really pretty on this tree too, but I know better than to mess with Alice’s design scheme. Even though the effect is already awesome, there are still a scary number of decorations left in the boxes waiting to be hung.

  I’ve loved the peace and quiet of today after yesterday’s best men arguing in stereo either side of me, but I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t doing this on my own. This is the exact thought in my head when I hear the scrunch of tyres on the gravel outside. By leaning over, I can get a view of the drive, and Alice climbing out of her hire car. About bloody time too. I stamp on that thought. I’m just so relieved to have some help here, I’m really not going to ask about what took her so damned long.

  As the front door opens, I wave down at her from my perch at the top of the steps
. Despite being knackered and having a chronic case of decoration overkill, I make my voice light and merry. ‘Hey, you’re back.’

  Her trench coat is open and there isn’t a crease in her cream polo neck. As she runs her fingers through her hair, every gleaming dark-brown lock falls back into a slightly better place than before. I guess what she learned from our French au pairs was how to dress like their mothers. Although somewhere along the line she also picked up how to look totally disapproving without even trying, which is what she’s doing now. What’s more she barely seems to have noticed the tree.

  ‘Ta-da!’ I fling out my arms in an expansive gesture she can’t possibly miss, given I’m also halfway up a ladder. ‘So what do you think, Alice?’

  It’s a moment before she replies. ‘It’s December, Sera. Why are you wearing shorts?’ Her tone is so incredulous; my shorts have eclipsed everything else in her head.

  In the face of a twenty-foot Christmas tree, I fail to see why we’re talking about this particular item of clothing, even if the decoration is only two-thirds finished.

  ‘I always wear shorts.’ How it’s taken Alice thirty years to notice I have no idea.

  ‘But that’s ridiculous.’

  In her world maybe, less so in mine. ‘No, shorts are what I’m comfy in. They also make me think of summer and the beach. Is there a problem?’

  She closes her eyes. ‘No, but I hope you’ve got something more suitable to wear for the wedding.’

  Now who’s being ridiculous? ‘My bridesmaid’s dress, obviously.’

  She’s firing straight back at me. ‘What about the other days? It’s my special day, not a hippy festival.’

  I’m completely mentally unprepared for this attack from a style dictator. ‘You’re getting married, not launching a lifestyle brand.’ And who’s going to notice me anyway?

  ‘But surely you got the dress code mood board in with the invitation? The “smart country-house party” one? A4 envelope, with embossed initials? Recorded delivery. You definitely signed for it.’

  ‘Mood board?’ I wrack my brains. I’m not sure I even remember an invitation. Let’s face it, it probably came light years ago. When I was really stressed designing the wedding dress for Josie Redman I didn’t open my post for weeks.

  She sticks out her chin and glares at me. ‘If you’re going to turn up looking like a beach bunny who lost the wave, I’m going to have to un-invite you.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Alice.’ What’s the obsession with beach bunnies? That’s the second time in as many hours.

  ‘Back at you, Sera. Really, I’m not going to argue. I’ve got enough to do without planning your outfits too. Just get yourself something decent to turn up in that’s not what you’re wearing now.’

  Back at you? When did Alice say that? She sounds like she’s been spending too much time with Quinn.

  ‘Okay…’ I say weakly, even though it obviously isn’t. When am I going to have time to go outfit shopping? Or find the cash? Despite my wedding dresses selling, I plough the profits back in. I already owe Jess loads. I’m basically a single-person family, with every penny spoken for.

  ‘So what were you saying about the tree?’ She rubs her hand across her forehead and it’s as if she’s focusing on the tree for the first time. ‘No, something’s definitely not right with it.’

  No surprise there, then. But frankly it’s a relief to get the spotlight off me.

  She narrows her eyes and looks doubtful. Then she gives a sharp nod. ‘Got it. No wonder it looks so bad. It should be white.’

  I ignore that she’s even uttered the word ‘bad’ and stare at the dazzling decorations, in every shade of white there is. ‘That’s right, every single decoration is white.’

  ‘No, the branches should be white too, silly. Someone’s screwed up here, big time.’ She gives an exasperated snort and marches over to where my wedding manual is lying next to my bag.

  My tummy is squelching, because it’s blindingly obvious that ‘someone’ isn’t just any old ‘someone’. The ‘someone’ she’s gunning for is me.

  A second later her pale-oyster frosted nail has located the exact point on the relevant page. ‘It’s perfectly clear. It’s here in black and whatever. That tree should have been painted white before it was decorated.

  Sometimes there are no words. ‘Oh fuck…’

  ‘How the hell did you miss the paint?’ She’s firing the words like she’s wielding a machine gun. ‘It should have been with the boxes of decorations.’

  A minute later, I’m down the ladder, being frog-marched round the side of the house towards to the Coach House, to track down the crucial missing element.

  ‘Quinn’s back.’ It comes out as a half whisper as I glimpse the van we bashed around yesterday outside the stables. Its scuffed back door is propped open.

  ‘Sera…’ Quinn’s face appears around the door, lights up for an instant, then fades. ‘Shit… and Alice too.’ He reassembles his grin. ‘Alice, at last. Long time no see.’ In one seamless move, he swoops over, drops a kiss on Alice’s cheek and swoops out again to a safe distance.

  Although I’m not sure anywhere in the county would qualify as safe, given Alice’s mood. Somehow we’ve been so busy discussing inappropriate dressing and inappropriate tree painting, we haven’t got to the bit about how things went with George.

  ‘Where’s the paint for the entrance-hall tree? One of you should know, surely?’

  As Alice barks at us, Quinn and I roll our eyes at each other and shuffle our feet.

  ‘Paint?’ If Johnny knew what he was walking into, he wouldn’t be looking this unbothered as he wanders into the yard. ‘I think I saw some in here.’

  So much for promising I’d keep my distance. We all troop after him into the stable.

  ‘Here it is.’

  How we missed the two huge drums he’s pointing at, I don’t know. Although, to be fair, paint wasn’t what I was looking for. ‘Sometimes things are so big, you don’t see them.’ Ridiculous, I know, but it’s the only excuse I can come up with under pressure.

  I’m staring at Alice, expecting her to shout me down, but she’s left the paint behind and her eyes are gleaming as she heads straight for the pile of boxes marked “Fragile”.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d got the glasses?’ She lets out a squeal of excitement and her face illuminates in a delighted smile.

  Behind her, the three of us let out a collective gasp. Horror doesn’t begin to cover what I’m feeling as she heads, with outstretched arms, towards the stack of ruined glassware we brought in here to hide. There’s enough adrenalin coursing through my veins to make my heart beat at a hundred miles an hour, yet my feet won’t move. The soles of my Converse might as well be bonded to the ground with Superglue. It’s like one of those moments when a bomb is falling and you’re watching it. Just waiting for the impact and the explosion. On the plus side, it looks like I might be off the hook for forgetting the paint.

  It’s as if our intake of breath has sucked away all the air and left a vacuum of silence. And then Alice’s hands make contact with the cardboard. As she lifts the first box there’s the teensiest tinkle and she freezes.

  One more tiny shake, then she sets the box gently on the floor. When she turns around, her face is putty colour. ‘Do any of you have a knife?’

  Johnny dips in the pocket of his overalls, and a moment later he’s slicing through the red-and-white parcel tape, and pulling out the polystyrene packing. ‘Careful, don’t cut yourself.’ He is one brave guy for doing this. We already know about the shattered shards he’ll be looking down at here, because we did exactly the same yesterday afternoon.

  Alice is crouching over the box. Her voice is a croak as she pulls out the base of a cocktail glass. ‘Broken?’ But she doesn’t wait to see more, she’s already on her feet at the next box. As she shakes it and the next one, and the one after that, they jingle like a percussion section. ‘ALL of them?’ She lets out a howl of rage.


  Johnny’s voice is low and controlled. ‘You weren’t actually meant to see this. There was an accident on the ice, we’ve been for replacements.’ And good on Johnny for not actually dobbing in Quinn.

  ‘Err…’ Quinn is staring at me, eyes popping, shaking his head.

  ‘What do you mean replacements?’ If Alice is shrieking like a banshee, we all forgive her. ‘I ordered these two years ago, you can’t just go and buy more.’

  Quinn’s finally found his voice. ‘My point exactly. But I have actually pulled off the impossible and got a few more boxes of the same glasses. Then I improvised for the rest.’ He inclines his head. ‘We’ll take them into the house and see what you think.’

  Five minutes later the new boxes are lined up along the stainless steel worktops in the kitchen. Quinn may have been careless yesterday, but not many people could have deferred Alice’s explosion so deftly just now.

  The glasses he’s bringing out look spot on. ‘Champagne flutes. I took all they had.’ He sends Alice a tentative smile.

  ‘And…’ Even if the boy’s done well, she hasn’t been won over yet.

  ‘I had to go elsewhere for the rest, to get the quantity.’ He dips into the next box. ‘These are very now. I already know you’ll love them.’ As he slams the glass down, his beam suggests he’s particularly pleased with himself.

  Alice’s impassive expression crumples as she looks at the glass and when her voice arrives, it’s a ferocious growl. ‘You are joking? I’m not drinking out of fucking jam jars.’

  ‘Bang on trend.’ He’s grinning at her and there’s a teasing shine in his eyes. ‘Toughened. Very Cornwall. And much less likely to break.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Before I can stop her, Alice picks up the jam jar by the handle and hurls it down onto the polished granite tiles.

  I’m waiting for it to shatter, but there’s a thud and it spins and bounces across the floor, and comes to a halt against the kick board of the quadruple cooking range. Which is a bit of an anti-climax and probably much less satisfying for Alice than if it had splintered into a thousand pieces. But on balance I’d say, overall it’s a good thing.