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

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       Chapter 1

      Tuesday, 14th February

      At Brides by the Sea: Roving reporters and the older mindset

      ‘In love with love,

      on February 14th … ’

      It’s past six as I pause on the step of Brides by the Sea. As the warm light shines out into the darkness, the Valentine’s Day motto on the glass of the door catches my eye. Well yes, I know, that’s what it’s meant to do. It’s only a few white painted letters and three heart-shaped dots, but there’s still a horrible twist in my chest as I see it.

      I know it’s stupid. I’m fine with wedding shops because I come here so often. And wedding dresses still give me a thrill. It’s St blinking Valentine I hate. Every other day of the year I’ve learned to be happily single. But February 14th is so damned coupley. For people like me who once had it all and blew it, it’s hell.

      What went wrong? If the wind wasn’t howling so hard I’d tell you more. As it is, a breeze off the bay like today’s can turn the silkiest hair into a haystack in two seconds flat. I didn’t put in an entire hour of straightening earlier to end up with frizz.

      Usually I’d spend the day hiding out at home. But today I’ve come to – excuse the groans – a Valentine’s day wedding party. The worst of all worlds then. But before I have the chance to tell myself off for faltering so early, the shop door flies open so fast I almost topple off my new Kurt Geiger platforms.

      ‘Lily, perfect timing. What’s the news from Bath? How was your journey? Come on in, Poppy and I are in the White Room, everyone else has gone home to get ready …’

      It’s Jess, talking at a hundred miles an hour, and scattering so many air kisses I have time to clamp my wind-blown hair back down, swoon at the snowy suede Jimmy Choo heels on the shoe display and get my inner wimp back into line. As I recover my balance, and we finally move off along the hallway, I notice she’s humming to herself.

      ‘What a lot of hearts,’ I say as I stretch out my hand to touch one of the strings in the window, and set them twirling. It’s an understatement. Even if they’re sending me to my secret unhappy place, I have to admit the clouds of printed paper shapes suspended in the displays are perfect against the exquisite white drifts of the lace dresses.

      ‘I’ll have you know those hearts are up-cycled from abandoned romance novels,’ Jess grins. ‘On trend, yet subliminally ironic.’ She fixes me with her fiercest gaze. ‘Flying the flag for all of us not in relationships.’

      Meaning sad old me and her. The tragic ones. And moving on swiftly, because we’re really not that bad, now we’re safely inside I’ll bring you up to speed. Brides by the Sea is the biggest, most wonderful wedding emporium in Cornwall. Jess, the owner, built the business up using her post-divorce adrenalin burst, hence the heart-shaped irony. In ten years, the shop has grown from a one room shop where I first truly fell in love with flowers, to four storeys of bridal fabulousness, perched above St Aidan Bay. I used to work here as a florist, back when my engagement solitaire sparkled with promise, and my life stretched ahead of me with solid gold certainty. Our wedding, a move to be with Thom in Bath, two years saving up for a house, then we’d head to the country so I could grow the flowers I loved arranging. Just like I used to do with my dad as a child. Needless to say, we didn’t get far with those carefully laid plans.

      As Jess waves a basket towards me, the scent of cocoa drifts up my nose. ‘Truffle?’

      ‘Maybe just one.’ We both know I’m joking here. The upside of Valentine’s Day at Brides by the Sea is the chocolate-fest. Ignoring my life-long diet, I close my eyes, and take a lucky dip. A second later my mouth explodes with a bitter-sweet mixture of white chocolate, coffee and alcohol. ‘Delish … is that Tia Maria?’ I do my best to keep my pleasure moans to a minimum. ‘Truly, I’ve been fantasising about Poppy’s truffles since I hit the M5.’

      Drooling on the steering wheel is not a good look, but at least it stopped the lairy white-van men in their tracks. They usually have a field day passing my design-your-own Fiat 500, Gucci, which came off the production line so pink my poor boss spent the next two years apologising for it.

      ‘Have a Baileys one, they’ll blow your mind.’ Jess nods appreciatively as she looks me up and down. As she thrusts СКАЧАТЬ