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 the basket at me, she’s humming again. ‘Fabulous suit by the way. Grey is such a versatile colour.’
Of all my friends, Jess is the only one who will know at a glance how many arms and legs my short jacket and tailored pants cost me. They’re my first ever dry-clean only items, bought as a present to myself, to celebrate a pay rise a few months back. Given I’m hopeless with clothes, but still trying to work my massive splurge to the max, I’ve added a silk shirt and some scarily high heels to party it up for tonight.
‘Work still okay?’ Jess’s question comes with an extra searching stare.
‘Brilliant.’ I say. Possibly too quickly. My breaking news is that the hotel chain where I was in charge of flowers has been taken over, and my job has dematerialised. But I’ve promised myself I’ll get to grips with that horror once I go back to Bath. Luckily as Jess and I move on through to the White Room the quiet perfection of the white painted floorboards and grey striped chaise longue whisk me straight back to my happy place. My fingers hover over the rail of hanging dresses as I pass, lingering over the most delicate diamanté detail on a lace bodice. It’s like a ritual. Every time I come back here I have to go round soaking up all the prettiness, almost touching, and checking out what’s come in since my last visit.
‘Ready for a pick you up?’ Jess grins.
Her familiar war cry goes back to the time when my dad died, and I used to call in here Friday evenings on my way to see my mum in Rose Hill village a few miles away. For months, it was only Jess’s straight talking and chocolate that got me through those awful weekends. Although I must admit this is the first time I’ve heard the not-so-dulcet tones of local radio on in the background in the White Room.
‘Lily, you’re just in time for the pre-wedding party drinks. Fancy some prosecco?’ Poppy, the shop cake maker, smiles as she emerges from the kitchen and drops a glass into my hand and a kiss on my cheek. ‘Don’t worry about driving, it’s taxis all the way from here.’ She’s the one who made the delectable truffles. Talking of which, I snaffle my next one as Jess comes past me.
‘Thanks Poppy,’ I laugh, ‘I half expected that to be a cupcake, not fizz.’ Poppy has a tiny kitchen on the top floor here, and she rushes around the shop with plates of goodies, looking for volunteers to sample her baking. Although she’s spent a lot more time this last year working at the local wedding venue at Daisy Hill Farm in Rose Hill, especially since she’s been going out with the boss there.
‘How’s Rafe?’ I ask. He’s the farmer in question, and every bit as lovely as Poppy deserves.
She grins. ‘Hungry as ever, and very busy.’
Given the flurry of romances at Brides by the Sea lately, you’d think someone had been scattering the cupid dust around. First there was Sam who does the dress fittings and alterations, whose wedding party we’re heading for this evening. The guy she’s marrying is called Sam too, so they’re known as Sam squared. Then Poppy and Rafe finally got together just before Christmas. And Sera, the dress designer, who has her studio above the shop, and a room dedicated to her creations, bumped into the love of her life at her sister’s Christmas wedding, and got her happy ever after moment too.
As I sink onto my favourite Mother of the Bride Louis Quatorze arm chair, Jess drops the chocolate basket on my knee. Which might be something she regrets later when I’ve eaten them all. Then, as she bends down to fiddle with the radio, I suddenly get it.
‘Brides by the Sea … You’re singing along to your very own jingle Jess!’ How could I have forgotten? ‘It’s the Pirate Radio Valentine’s promotion!’
Reading between the lines, Jess was sweet-talked by a cocoa-voiced guy in ad sales. She may have gone all ironic with her shop displays, but when it comes