Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover Illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Jane Linfoot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008260668

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008260651

Version: 2017-09-18

PRAISE FOR JANE LINFOOT

‘Jane Linfoot has got out the mixing bowl and whipped up a truly gorgeous story…A deliciously scrumptious treat’

Rebecca Pugh, bestselling author of Return to Bluebell Hill

‘Just like the perfect wedding cake, Cupcakes and Confetti is beautifully crafted and wrapped in romance’

Heidi Swain, bestselling author of The Cherry Tree Cafe

‘A pure delight…fabulous, fun and unforgettable’

Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of Summer at the Comfort Food Café

‘Simply stunning’

A Spoonful of Happy Endings

‘Gorgeous book with characters full of heart, and an impassioned story to make you smile’

Reviewed the Book

‘This author packs a punch’

My Little Book Blog

‘Loved this book. The main characters are vividly drawn…the writing is fast and feisty’

Contemporary Romance Reviews

‘With every book I read I fall more in love’

Booky Ramblings

Dedication

For Anna and Jamie, Indi, Richard and Eric, Max and Caroline, M, and Phil. With love. xx

Author Note

Each of the stories abbot Poppy, Sera, Lily, Holly, Jess and their friends at Brides by the Sea can be read on its own. If you’d like to read consecutively, this is the order:

The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

Summer at the Little Wedding Shop

Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop

I hope you have as much fun reading the books as I have writing them, love Jane xx

Taking pictures is like tiptoeing into the kitchen late at night and stealing Oreo cookies

Diane Arbus

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Linfoot

Dedication

Author Note

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Keep Reading …

Some Delicious Recipes from Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop …

Favourite Cocktails from Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop

Acknowledgements

Also by Jane Linfoot

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Saturday, 2nd December

At St Aidan station: Sparkle all the way

‘Could you possibly take me to Brides by the Sea?’

The whiskers I’m staring up at are curly, white and, at a guess, a hundred per cent acrylic. And let’s be clear about this – hitching a ride on Santa’s horse and carriage definitely isn’t my first choice to get across town to the wedding shop, where I’m going to be staying for the next month.

When I got on the train this morning at St Pancras there was a seventy-five-foot tree in the departure hall, enough spangley lights to illuminate the northern hemisphere and choirs clustered around pianos singing carols. Christmas in London was rolled out in November. I can’t tell you how blissful it was to leave it all behind and arrive in St Aidan to the sound of seagulls, and one wonky tree by the station exit that hadn’t got its decorations on yet. And I know my mum and dad have let our family house in nearby Rose Hill village and gone off to Spain on a wild winter sun-seeking adventure in a motor caravan. But when I smell the salty air and catch a glimpse of the jumble of white painted cottages and grey stone houses winding up the hill into the town here, even though my parents are away it still feels as if I’m coming home.

The bad news is, by the time I’ve jostled my way through the mass of travellers in their North Face jackets, and dragged my rucksack and a suitcase the size of a garden shed onto the pavement outside the station, the last of the line of waiting taxis is a disappearing dot on the horizon. So when a pony and trap driven by Santa Claus himself jingles to a halt in front of me, even though I’ve come to here to avoid Christmas, the offer of a lift into town is too tempting to turn down.

‘Brides by the Sea, Jess’s wedding shop?’ Santa hitches his belt over a stomach so squishy it has to be hollowfill and raises one eyebrow archly. Then he nudges the huge elf in green beside him. ‘Four floors of bridal gorgeousness, Cornwall’s most fabulous wedding emporium. As advertised on Pirate Radio, and featured in Hello! and OK! magazines.’

‘That’s the one,’ I say, mildly surprised that he’s so word perfect. Although even that gushing description falls short of describing the delicious haven of white lace and prettiness that overlooks St Aidan bay. He’s obviously heard about Seraphina East, known to us as Sera, the shop’s dress designer, hitting the nationals last year, when she made a bespoke dress for a celebrity.

Santa beams as he rubs his belt. ‘Brides by the Sea will always have a special place in our hearts. It’s where we bought the suits for our very own wedding.’ He and the elf exchange dreamy glances, a couple more nudges and some nose wrinkles. ‘You know they’re extending into the shop next door too?’ Santa’s sudden change of tone suggests he’s impressed, yet possibly jealous.

‘Do you know Jess well, then?’ I’ve heard the news about the shop expanding, because I’ve been chatting to my bestie Poppy, who works there. But it always comes as a shock when I remember St Aidan’s, the kind of town where everyone knows everybody, and everything about them too. Pretty much down to their bra size.

The elf jumps down and gives me a wink as he lands on the pavement next to me. ‘We’re Chamber of Commerce chums. Divorce was the making of Jess, you know. She’s been turbo charged ever since. Any friend of Jess’s is a friend of ours, so we’re happy to go the extra mile for you, even if we’re only out on a pre-season practice run. We’re just getting our pony, Nutella – that’s Nuttie for short – used to the bells again.’ He gives the pony’s chocolate brown rump a pat as he dips towards my luggage, groaning as he heaves my suitcase onto the back of the cart. ‘Christmas crackers, how many wet suits have you got in there? You’re down for the winter surf, I presume?’

The other thing I forget about when I’ve been away is the incessant questions.

I laugh. If anyone wants proof that you can grow up by the sea in Cornwall and end up with zero aptitude for water sports, just look my way. As for my heavy bags, I’m not admitting I’ve brought my boxed sets of Friends, every Harry Potter paperback I own, along with the Princess Diaries, and my entire Sweet Valley High collection. In case you’re wondering, as far as my extended visit to Cornwall goes, I’m planning a big month in.

‘Sorry, I should have warned you, my cameras weigh a ton. I’m here to take pictures for my friends’ beach wedding.’

Choosing to get married at the seaside in December might sound bonkers, but when they asked me to do their photos I jumped at the chance to get away from London. In my real job I’m a food photographer, working for a product development company. I know taking pictures of burgers is a thousand miles away from capturing bridal parties. But this particular surfie wedding is so small and laid back I’m looking forward to the challenge of a change. I’m hoping it’ll be more like fun than work. More importantly, the happy couple are my favourite friends of the ex I’ve spent the last year pining over. Not that I’m getting my hopes up in that area. But at least I might get to catch up on what he’s doing and take some lovely wedding shots for my friends Becky and Nate along the way.

As I pull myself back to reality, Santa’s hauling on my hand hard enough to pull my arm out of its socket. A second later my bottom crashes down next to his on the high seat of the carriage, and my own fake fur sleeve is crushed against his raspberry fleece. Then, as his yank turns into a vigorous handshake, my mouth goes onto autopilot.

‘Hi, I’m Holly, lovely to meet you, Santa … and your elf husband too …’ I usually have a rule never to tell people my name between November and January, so I brace myself for the wisecracks. Believe me, if it’s December, they always come.

Santa nods and gives a little sniff. ‘A Christmas wedding photographer called Holly. Very fitting.’

‘Not too many pricks, I hope.’ The elf widens his eyes at Santa, as he lands on my other side.

‘Only my ex,’ I say, pulling a face.

The elf takes in my groan and changes tack. ‘Great, so how about a quick selfie with Santa before we set off?’

‘I’ll pass on that one, thanks.’ If I sound appalled by the idea, I can’t help it. Apart from the beach wedding, I’m here because I’m hell bent on escaping from Christmas. So running smack into my own dedicated Santa straight outside the station is a big backwards step. Ending up jammed between him and his chief elf is even more damned careless of me. A selfie would be the end of washday. In a launderette-burning-down kind of way.

The elf screws up his face and his whine is loud and startlingly theatrical. ‘But everyone who rides in the Charity Christmas Special carriage takes a selfie with Santa, even if it’s only a dress rehearsal.’

‘Actually, I’m all good.’ That’s my polite way of saying I’d rather eat my own head than have my picture taken with Santa, when all I want to do is get to the shop, climb the stairs to Poppy’s little attic kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.

The elf’s nostrils flare. ‘Be very careful. Santa can get a bit tetchy. In elf-speak what I’m saying is a refusal may offend.’ His eyes take on a triumphant glint. ‘Let’s face it, you don’t want cinders in your pillow case on Christmas morning do you?’

Ever heard of dressing up and getting right into character? And taking it way too far. Even if I’d be more than happy for Santa to miss out my stocking this year, there are times when I know I’m beaten. ‘Fine.’ I grab my phone, jam my face up against Santa’s, frown because he’s wearing so much more eyeliner than I am and try for a smile. As I pull off a grimace, I’m resigning myself to a bad case of beard rash later.

‘Brilliant.’ Mr Elf – or should that be the second Mr Claus? – has reconnected with his happy self again. ‘Hash tag St-Aidan-Santa-Special-Selfie underscore Kids-at-Christmas for every tweet please. Whenever you find some signal, that is. There isn’t any here, obviously.’

Another of the joys of Cornwall I accidentally overlooked when Poppy suggested I use the little flat above the Brides by the Sea shop as a bolthole, and I agreed in a nanosecond. Poppy and I both grew up in Rose Hill village, a few miles inland from here. She was in the year above me at school and we both escaped to London and did the same food tech course at uni. And even though she’s been back here a while, we’ve always kept in touch.

‘Photograph your mad winter wedding then stay on for a fabulous low key Christmas above the wedding shop,’ Poppy said one day when she was cheering me up on Facebook messenger. Reminding me straight afterwards that I still had my entire annual holiday allocation left. And offering to throw in as many cupcakes as I could eat, because Poppy is Brides by the Sea’s cake baker. She also happens to be unexpectedly pregnant, with a whole load of Christmas wedding bookings to deal with as well as her bump. So all I had to promise in return for using the flat for the whole month was to lend a hand in the shop while Jess was away on a winter holiday and help Poppy with the weddings, at her partner, Rafe’s, amazing wedding venue, Daisy Hill Farm.

I know, from when Poppy lived in the tiny top floor flat, that the views across St Aidan Bay from the little porthole windows are amazing. But that wasn’t what swung it for me. The truth is, I’m not actually planning to make Christmas low key this year – I’m planning to erase it entirely. The idea of doing whatever work I had to, then locking the shop door and hiding away in the attic for the whole of Christmas is the perfect celebration-free scenario for me. This way I can watch back-to-back episodes of Friends all on my own, and come out again when it’s all over. As an evasive plan of action, it’s completely foolproof. And for someone like me, who’s in Christmas denial, it couldn’t be better. Once the wedding pictures are in the bag, it’ll be plain sailing all the way to the New Year.

‘Ready to go?’ As Santa shakes the reins and Nuttie trots out into the road, the jingling from the harness bells is shockingly loud. And hideously festive. And it’s not just who’s driving the carriage. Thanks to the back being plastered with fake snow, dangling baubles, ivy garlands and a shitload of presents, not to mention huge banners proclaiming SANTA IS COMING YOUR WAY, everyone is staring at us. Pointing, even. The only way we’d be turning more heads is if we were being pulled along by an actual real-live reindeer. What’s more, now we’re speeding down the street, the wind is biting. On a good day in winter, much to my constant dismay, my nose is red enough to lend to Rudolf. And that’s without the help of a hot, steaming coffee or a vodka cocktail. Both of which I try to avoid consuming in public, even if I don’t always succeed. After a few minutes out in this arctic blast, my hooter is going to be positively luminous.

I let go of the seat and try to pull my collar of my trusty leopard-print jacket up over my ears so I can bury my nose in the fake fur. It’s one of those coats that feels like a shield when you put it on. If you snuggle down into it, you’re guaranteed to be warm and safe wherever you go. And pretty much invincible. Which is why I couldn’t think of a month away without it, even if the rest of Cornwall are wearing on-trend down jackets, or gorgeous wool coats with humungous fur collars. Although faced with a Cornish westerly as stiff as today’s, with me trying to make it double as an invisibility cloak, I’m asking a lot of my own small jacket.

‘So, are we looking forward to Christmas?’ It’s a wonder Santa has time to chat as well as deal with the early afternoon traffic. His carriage driving technique consists of pointing his pony, then going for it. I reckon his costume must have gone to his head, because at every junction he assumes he’s got priority. If he were driving a taxi this recklessly, they’d fine him and confiscate his license.

I blink as yet another car screeches to a halt, its driver open mouthed as we whoosh past, a snowflake’s width away from his bumper. On balance, I decide it’s easiest to bluff the reply to a tricky question.

‘Christmas? I couldn’t be any more excited, Santa.’ Even without jolting along behind a pony’s swishing tail, the truth is way too complicated to go into, even for Santa. Basically, the problem is, he’s twelve months too late asking me the question.

For my whole life, Christmas has been my favourite time of year. When we were kids, my big sister Freya and I used to get so excited we’d hyperventilate from the moment we opened the first door on the Advent calendar until the last present had been opened. Freya embraced Christmas the same way she tackled everything – forging her way ahead with her amazing exuberance, dragging our younger brothers and me along on her wave of enthusiasm. Making hundreds of yards of paper chains, then hanging them in festoons all over the house, even in the bathroom. Spraying the windows along the entire street with fake snow late at night. Buying a bale of red fleece from the market and making the whole family Santa suits for her school textiles project. Then when I was twelve, the unthinkable happened and she died. It was the worst time ever. Fast growing brain tumours happened to other people, not girls like Freya, who was only fourteen and ripping through life like a tornado. Twenty years on, I’ve learned the best way to cope is to concentrate on the good bits. I’ve taught myself to love remembering all the happy times. And as my everlasting tribute to Freya, I go completely over the top with the festive thing. Because anything less would be wrong.

Which is why this time last December, I’d already decorated my boyfriend Luc’s flat to within an inch of its life and I was holding my breath for a fabulous Christmas trip to his parents’ place in the Highlands. I’d splurged to the max on presents. And bought at least a hundred rolls of paper to wrap them in, obviously. And yes, I was aching for Christmas to come. Then it did, and my entire life unwound.

I’ll save the more desperate details for a time when I’m not careering round a corner at top speed on one wheel, like we are now. At least if we go super fast, we’ll get there quicker, with less chance of anyone I know recognising me along the way. It’s enough to say that entirely thanks to me, Luc’s surprise Christmas proposal went all kinds of wrong. Okay, I admit that a woman running away at the speed of light isn’t an ideal reaction when a guy waves a diamond ring under her nose. When you’re as un-sporty as I am it’s more than ridiculous. And I still don’t completely understand why my legs reacted as they did. Or why, once I’d calmed down and come back, we couldn’t work things out. But the upshot was that by January I was boyfriend-less. And eleven months on I’m still single, confused and way too sorry for myself. What’s worse, my dream London life has completely lost its sparkle. And with my fifteen boxes of Christmas decorations still in storage and no proper home to put a tree up in anyway, I’m hardly going to be whooping it up on the twenty fifth this year. But thanks to Jess and Poppy’s help, I’ve got that sorted. I just hope me telling Santa porkies isn’t going to backfire on me, just when a tiny part of me is optimistic that things are about to get better.

‘We’ll take the scenic route along the sea front.’ Santa’s yell is a foot from my ear, as we suddenly veer away to the right. But the side winds off the bay are so vicious, I can barely catch what he’s saying. ‘It’s a long way round, but easier for Nuttie and we get to see the lights.’

‘Great.’ I shrink further inside my coat, take in the dark grey swell, and a high tide pounding against the sea wall, sending foam splashing over the railings. When I look up at the unlit light strings thrashing horizontally, the flying sand stings my eyes. At this rate, by the time we reach the shop I’m going to look like a witch who’s been on a broomstick ride in a hailstorm. I’m so busy trying to untangle my hair, I only look up to notice the huge rogue wave arching through the air across the road at the last moment. As we speed towards it I’m howling. ‘Watch out ahead, Santa!’

‘Whoa, Nuttie!’

Even a guy with Santa’s powers can’t easily stop a cart pulled by a ton of pony doing a twenty mile an hour extended trot. As the arc of water showers downwards, we clatter to a halt yards too late. The breaking wave smacks us full in our faces, then sluices down over our shoulders and legs.

‘Holy mackerel! The hazards of sleigh riding!’ Santa’s letting out a choking squawk as he collects the reins again. ‘We’re lucky Nuttie didn’t bolt there.’

‘Jeez, bolting would be nothing.’ The elf is gazing down in horror at his soaking green knees. ‘My panty hose have gone entirely transparent. How about you, Holly?’

I’m scraping the icy drips out of my eyes, muttering as I squeeze streams of water out of my jacket. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d been dipped in the ocean.’ If this is payback for lying to Santa, it’s come raining down on me scarily fast.

As the elf turns to Santa he’s close to pleading. ‘Let’s call in the Surf Shack to dry off?’

Now he’s talking. You have to admire an elf who knows his local cafés. So long as you don’t mind walls made out of random planks, it’s the best one on the beach. I’m already warming up, mentally shovelling a ton of marshmallows into the top of my bucket-sized award-winning hot chocolate. But we’ve both overlooked the fact that Santa’s on a mission.

‘This isn’t a jolly.’ Santa’s scolding is scornful and incensed. ‘We’re here to make deliveries. We need to get Holly to her wedding shop.’ There’s a jolt, and we’re off again, this time even faster.

I spend approximately two minutes consoling myself for not getting the chance to visit the ladies’ room so I could work on not looking so much like I’d crawled out of a shipwreck. Then the cliff side gives way to buildings again. As we whizz up the hill past significant and familiar landmarks, I’m getting involuntary flurries of excitement in my chest. Jaggers Bar, the Yellow Daisy Café, Hot Jack’s, and Iron Maiden’s Cleaners pass so fast they’re a blur. We’re yards away from Brides by the Sea, accelerating wildly as we make a turn into the mews, but by the time we get there, a four by four is already in the space we’re heading for.

‘Donna and Blitzen! What the hell happened to priority for the elderly? Can’t he see the beard?’ Santa’s cursing bounces off shop windows shining warm light into the grim afternoon.

The whole point about Santa driving the carriage like a loon is that it only works when other road users give way. If you meet an ‘eff-off’ driver head on in these narrow streets, you’re likely to end up in big trouble. Even dealing with any driver who doesn’t jump on the brakes a hundred yards away, you might end up with the carriage and the car wedged between the buildings. Which is exactly how we are now. Don’t ask me whose fault it is, because even though it happened right under my nose, I really can’t tell.

Enough to say, the vehicle we’re jammed up against is plastered from one oversized bumper to the other in an expensive paint job. I can see some local artist has had a great time painting beer bottles bobbing on exceptionally realistic air-brushed breakers. And the signage on the door is conveniently at knee level. Huntley and Handsome’s Roaring Waves Brewery – St Aidan in a Bottle. That pretty much says it all. Aren’t the current rash of microbreweries all run by overgrown boys with too much disposable income, staving off their midlife crises? I shiver as the car window slides down, and realise mournfully that we could be stuck here for ages arguing when I’m freezing my butt off.

But as I stare past the elf to the car driver, heat sears through me. It’s the kind of hot flash under the collar I haven’t felt since I used to blush on the school bus every morning as a teenager. My face bursting into flames at the slightest provocation was why sixth-form bad boy, Rory Sanderson, singled thirteen-year-old me out for my own personal conversation as he made his way down the gangway to his seat at the back. Every single morning. By the time he left for uni, one tweak of his eyebrow from a hundred yards was enough to turn me scarlet. I just wasn’t prepared to meet him today. Especially with me jammed between Santa and an elf, doing an impression of the old woman who crawled out of the sea.

I shudder inwardly as I stare into the car. The rock-star long hair might have been trimmed back, but the broad grin I’m staring straight into is unmistakable. And it hasn’t lost an ounce of the kind of insanely inflated self-belief that I suspect came from having his own personal tractor from the age of ten. There are crinkles around the kind of come-to-bed eyes that were only one of the reasons for his legendary status. Rumour had it he also burned down the school music room due to a fault on his guitar amp. What’s more, he was the only pupil with the cheek to call Mrs Wilson, the deputy head, ‘darling’, and the charm to live to brag about it. Although thinking back, I reckon it was him driving a car off an actual cliff top that fast forwarded him to the top of every mother’s banned boyfriend list.

‘Holly-berry-red-cheeks? What the hell are you doing here, dripping all over Santa’s sleigh? Did you take up swimming? I thought you always hated water?’

If it’s divine payback for me lying earlier that’s hurled him into my path here, let’s be clear. I’d rather have a hundred rogue waves crashing down on my head than come face to face with the awful Mr Sanderson again. Since I last heard of him light years ago, storming the world of corporate law in Bristol, I’ve stupidly let him drop off my ‘worry about and avoid at all costs’ radar. And this is him all over. Straight in there, claiming to remember a person’s intimate details. Familiar as if I only saw him yesterday.

For a second I’m wishing he’d caught me at some do I’d made a big effort for. That I’d had a shit-hot professional blow dry, got my long lasting lippy on, squeezed into some killer dress I probably don’t even own. At least then I’d be coming from a position of strength. The thing is, right now my hair is in rats’ tails, I have half the beach in my fake fur, but I’m so bright red from the wind and the cold, no blush on earth is going to make it any worse. That particular scenario might never happen ever again. This is my one chance to lay the ghosts and wipe the floor with him. It’s one of those iconic now-or-never moments. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, drag my coat closer around me and launch.

‘Actually, you know what I hate more than water?’ I’ve barely been here half an hour and I’m already talking in questions. ‘It is Rory, isn’t it?’

‘It was last time I looked.’ He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and nods. ‘And? I’m all ears here. And I’m sure Santa and his elf can’t wait to hear either.’

That back chat is only what I know to expect. If there’s a confused frown overlaying that laid- back smile of his, it’s probably because I’m coming on so kick-ass here. Believe me, I’m actually shocking myself too. You wouldn’t believe how liberating it is, when for one time only you don’t have to worry about blushing.

‘Well …’ I pause to drag in a breath and my chest ends up expanding so much I feel like a cat with its fur standing on end. ‘I hate inconsiderate drivers who force their way into spaces that don’t even exist.’

He pulls a face and his voice rises in protest. ‘Excuse me, but I’m the injured party here. Your friend Santa’s the one who cut me up.’

So likely. ‘You always were a knob head. For one time only you’re going to have to grow some balls, give in and back up. It’s obviously escaped you, but ponies don’t have reverse gear.’ Even though I’m on a roll here, I actually just meant to tell him to grow up. But whatever. I ramp up my scowl. ‘You wouldn’t want ashes instead of presents in your Christmas stocking, would you? Seeing as you’re still behaving like a kid.’ I know it’s the elf’s line, but it’s too good not to borrow.