I have to say she’s wasting her sympathy. ‘There’s nothing poor about Nic. He’s first in line for the biggest pain-in-the-arse client of the year award.’ For a million reasons, not least being how hot he’s looking as I catch a glimpse of his slate grey eyes and dark stubble shadows over the bottle necks. And that’s despite me staying strictly alcohol-free tonight.
I’m aware how great it would be for me if the venue search ended here and now, which is why I’m ready to move heaven and earth to make it happen. I’ve also been thinking very hard about unrequited desire and fancying people you shouldn’t. I reckon what I’m suffering from with Nic is a raging hormonal crush linked to me being celibate for over a year now.
Obviously, with my heart truly pulverised and my life in ruins, I’ll be avoiding relationships like the plague for at least the next ten years, if not forever. But due to the human race being programmed to survive rather than die out every time someone gets cheated on, my libido still needs to flex now and again to keep in shape.
So whatever fake rushes I’m getting here, they’re simply my primal urges limbering up while my shattered emotions stay fully protected. My personal survival mechanism has kicked in by making sure I’m getting the flutters for the most unattainable individual in St Aidan, if not England. They don’t come any more out-of-reach than a groom fully besotted with his amazing bride-to-be. So it might be uncomfortable, and at times it might be agonising. But at least now I understand it I can dismiss it, knowing it will go away soon.
And to be fair, now I’ve found my explanation, I’m less disturbed and alarmed by the intensity of my physical reactions. Obviously, I’d give anything to make them stop, but at least I’m reassured that this isn’t about me being a bad person. I’m completely confident it will dematerialise when Nic gets married and the job ends. And if that thought momentarily makes my insides freeze, it’s just too bad.
I take a minute to admire the fabulous glass tables like the ones in the house, drop some viola flowers into my tumbler of special cordial, then peer into Poppy’s scarlet flute. ‘What are you going for?’
She reaches for a splash of fresh blackcurrant juice then tosses in a handful of red currants. ‘A bramble base with a raspberry gin echo and a pink stripy umbrella.’
As I’m here more as a spectator than to join in, I didn’t bother to look at the cordial label any further than it having a really pretty picture of dill and fennel. But whatever I’m drinking is so delicious it slips down really fast and I go straight back for the same again, but this time add raspberries and a mint leaf. As I only had a cheese muffin for dinner, I’m guessing my body craving the calories is why I’m feeling so thirsty. At the rate I’m knocking back the berries, I’ll have had my five a day in no time.
As for Nic, I’m keeping watch while staying far enough away to avoid any unnecessary shivers, and for now he’s safe with Rory and Bart. And Casper breezed past me earlier saying he’s just back from Indonesia and let’s connect later, which possibly explains his yellow shirt and why I never heard back from him about lunch.
It’s ages later when I finally get back to Poppy again. And despite eating my body weight in fruit garnish, I’m seriously starting to get hunger wobbles. I’m standing with Poppy by the massive floor-to-ceiling window at the beach end of the building, staring out at the trail of lights along the bay, when Ivy arrives too.
Her eyes are shining. ‘We’ve got lots of couples who are planning to use our gin in their wedding day cocktails, and loads more people have signed up to our mailing list.’ Her sleek bob is almost black in the gentle light as she flicks it behind her ear. ‘And one quick tip, Milla. If you’re hoping to change Bill’s mind at all, he’s at his happiest in the distillery.’
‘So now might be a good time?’ I spin around to the table, take another shot from the tap on my favourite juice urn and grab the last lime twist. ‘Okay, I’m on it.’
Poppy’s eyes are bright. ‘And I’ll come as backup.’
Three strides later we skid to a halt on the edge of the group of guys. I drag in a breath, screw up my courage, then reach up and tap Bill on the shoulder. ‘If you’ve got a moment, Bill, I’m Milla, I organise the wedding fairs where you’ll be showcasing your gin.’
Bill turns and smiles. ‘Right, great to meet you, Milla. I can talk you through the manufacturing process if you’d like?’
‘Lovely.’ I have two seconds to launch before he does. ‘I’m also Milla who wants to book the castle for a wedding – on behalf of my client, obviously. Actually, we’re really desperate – it’s so beautiful here.’ I’m splurging more than I’d planned.
He’s rubbing his jaw while his eyes narrow. ‘Let me level with you, Milla – my Christmas let was a nightmare.’ He gives the same kind of grimace he’d make if he sucked on one of Ivy’s lemon slices. ‘That’s the last time I’ll ever be blinded by pound signs.’ So at least that confirms why Nic can’t just wave his cheque book around and get what he wants.
I need to keep him talking. ‘It’s a shame to let one challenging client group put you off.’
Poppy’s giving me a discrete double thumbs up for that behind her cocktail.
Bill’s lips are tight. ‘Weddings are a big deal, there’s huge potential to let people down. And anyone who pays top dollar won’t hesitate to take you to the cleaners if things go wrong.’ He still sounds very raw. If only we’d come along six months earlier before he’d got his Christmas candles burned, we’d likely have swung it.
The remaining groups have both fanned out into half circles now, the talking has stopped and everyone’s openly listening in. From along the line of women, Immie waves her pint glass at him. ‘So what you’re saying, Bill, is that you can’t be arsed with this wedding of Milla’s!’
Bill shrugs. ‘I’d rather stick to making gin and serving stags.’
Nic’s brow wrinkles into a frown and as he steps towards Immie he lets out a squawk. ‘Hey, I know you! You’re the roller skate woman! What the hell are you doing here?’
Immie’s reaching up and prodding Nic in the chest. ‘Stop being a toad bollock, I could be about to save your arse here.’ She turns to Bill. ‘As for you – stop wimping out and open your mind for half a second …’
The trick with Immie is to keep her energy positive so I jump in quickly. ‘No offense, Bill, but what Immie is trying to say is that if she were here your bedrooms would run like clockwork.’
Now it’s Bill’s turn to frown at Immie. ‘Why the hell would she be in my bedrooms?’
I risk a little eyebrow wiggle. ‘She looks after the holiday lets at Daisy Hill Farm, they have loads of weddings a year there. I’m sure they’d be happy to help you out too.’
Bill’s staring at Immie. ‘Seriously?’
I’m smiling at Bill but, to be fair, I’m as surprised about how this is going as he is. It’s like I’ve reconnected with the same bit of me that grabbed the mic at Cally’s wedding. ‘Poppy, Rafe, and their team have won Cornwall’s Best Wedding Venue award … er … quite a few times now.’
Poppy’s beaming at me. ‘Absolutely true.’
