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

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      ‘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.

      But this is no time to drift off into the past. And we certainly won’t be talking about it today. I drag myself back to the figure by the window. Force myself to refocus, and begin again. Believe me, ‘tight bum’ is not the second thought you want to have about any of your mum’s mates, least of all her fiancé. But there’s no other way to describe what’s facing me. This particular backside could give Bruce Springsteen’s a run for its money. At least this explains why my mum lost her life-long aversion to denim.

      As he turns, I stick out my hand. ‘Nice Levis, I’m Lily.’ I’m willing the front view to be older than the back. Because, holy crap, I’ve heard about these young guys who hook up with needy widows on Match dot whatever, and bleed them dry. I’d just never in my wildest nightmares considered it could be happening to my mum.

      ‘And this is David.’ My mum’s eyes are popping as if she’s holding her breath, though I can’t see why she’d be doing that.

      There’s a vague recollection as a blond guy in a sharp Superdry polo-shirt, walks towards me. ‘Nice to meet you properly. We met briefly before?’ And while he is older than his back view, he still has to be years younger than my mother.

      Trying not to gawp at his slippers that match my mum’s, I’m going the extra mile here to show I remember, even though it’s hazy. ‘You’re David. The electrician?’

      His expression is bemused. ‘Not quite, I’m a personal trainer.’ Which might explain the neat back view.

      I throw him a lifeline. ‘I was thinking of the lightbulb changing?’ One lifeline wasn’t enough, so I hurl out another. ‘When we met on the stairs at Christmas?’

      ‘Oh that.’ From the way his face brightens, he’s hugely relieved he’s finally caught up. ‘Of course. Love at first light. Wasn’t it, Barbs?’ He winks at my mother, and laughs.

      Bad puns, laughing at his own really awful jokes, and calling my mum Barbs? All in the space of two seconds? There’s only so much assault a person’s guts can take. If my mum’s waste paper bin hadn’t been hand-painted with dragonflies, with a three-figure price tag, I’d have vomited in it. If this David was on three strikes and you’re out, he’d already be down the road. And that’s before we get onto the winking.

      ‘Anyway, now that’s gone so swimmingly, shall we move on with tea, dahling?’ My mum’s voice is strangely strangled.

      The nod she gives David must have conveyed something exceedingly significant I missed. I’m about to offer to help, but he’s already in the kitchen. I make a mental note to remember, I’m not the only dahling round here anymore.

      My mum skips after him. ‘So young, yet so well trained.’ There might even be a whisper of the word ‘toy boy’, followed by a muffled shriek. But from the way they both erupt into giggles, I assume that was meant for him not me.

      Right now, I’m wishing I’d taken Poppy up on her offer to come too. At least then, when we talked about this afterwards, she could tell me I hadn’t imagined it.

      My dad always sat in the chair on the right of the fireplace. The wood burner and the chair have both had an upgrade, but plumping myself down in that position, at least I feel like I’m holding on. Although I’m not quite certain what it is I’m hanging on to. And I’m pretty sure it’s futile. Even the thought of the coming cake doesn’t cheer me up.

      When they finally come back, a whole load of laughing later, my mum’s carrying the teapot, and he’s pushing her hostess trolley.

      ‘So I’ve got you your favourite French Fancies, but David’s low carb gluten free, because it’s Wednesday,’ my mum says, as if that explains anything. ‘So sandwiches are chicken and pesto, tuna and rocket. Both on special wholemeal, with pine kernels.’ Whatever happened to mum’s plain old egg and cress?

      When it comes to pouring, their moves are so coordinated, they could almost be on Strictly. If they’re like this serving tea, their first dance is going to rate an off-the-scale 12 across the board. I offer up a silent plea that there won’t be any twerking.

      I can’t stay silent forever, so I accept a pink iced lozenge from the cake plate my mum’s holding, and launch. ‘So, big congrats, how did you guys get together?’ Somehow the word ‘engagement’ won’t come out.

      My mum beams at me over her tea. At least she’s stayed true to her Gordon Ramsay china. ‘We met at the gym. But it was the cruise that really cemented things.’

      My cup slams down so hard, most of the tea slurps into the saucer. ‘The cruise you went on to New York after Christmas … with Jenny?’ It’s high voice time again.

      She nods, apparently impervious to any suggestion of deception on her part. Although she makes a lightning change of subject. ‘You really should try the gym, Lily. You look as if you could do with the exercise, and who knows, you might meet someone there too. All those miles alone in your car can’t be good for your dress size or your single status. As Jenny says, it’s back to front. You should be the one getting married really, not me.’

      I take a second to reel at the insults. On balance, it’s best not to count them. At least she missed out her favourite topic, how I could make more of myself if I dressed like her.

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