‘The smoke has triggered the sprinklers, Mills.’ So that explains the water torrents and why he’s looking like that famous photo of a soaking wet Matt Bomer coming out of the sea. And it’s really not the time to be thinking how hot he looks.
With thousands of pounds worth of displays about to be ruined I can’t help my shriek. ‘Well don’t just stand there, we need to find someone to turn the damn things off!’
He grabs my wrist. ‘I’ll do that, you get the stuff out!’
As I hurl myself towards the dresses I’m howling inside and thinking what Phoebe would do if this were her crisis. She always loves a microphone, so I cup my hands around my mouth and yell. ‘Okay, any items that may spoil, please,everyonehelp us carry them out into the courtyard.’
I pick up a mannequin, and shove it into a guy’s arms, do the same with another, then grab hold of the rail of dresses. By the time I’ve wheeled it to the open door, people are already picking up entire tables and walking them outside.
Five minutes later, as the sprinklers drip their last drips, all that’s left in the Corking Room are a few sopping palms. The courtyard, on the other hand, looks like a rummage sale, and I’m dashing from pile to pile handing out industrial-strength kitchen roll and bin bags from the winery’s cleaning store along with huge apologies and promises of compensation to anyone who needs it. It’s a couple of hours later by the time all the customers have drifted away and the last business people are carrying their boxes back to their vans. I’m sharing the last of my leftover cupcake with Merwyn, when I realise that not only is Nic is still here, he’s standing watching me.
His shoulder is propped against the wall, and he’s got a bottle of Roaring Waves alcohol-free beer in his hand. ‘Good thing I came when I did, Milla Vanilla, I knew my onboard fire-fighting techniques would come in handy eventually, I just never imagined it would be at a wedding fair.’
‘Great job back there, Nic, and thanks for staying around to help.’ I have to add, ‘You really didn’t have to.’
He’s narrowing his eyes, running his fingers through his hair which is extra tousled now it’s dried. ‘You surely didn’t think I’d run out on you?’
I’m counting my lucky stars that for now he’s so caught up with the adrenalin he obviously hasn’t had time to add this to the Milla Disaster List yet. And it hasn’t escaped me that, yet again, in a crisis, he didn’t mess about and he couldn’t have been any more helpful. I know on a personal level I’d much rather he hadn’t been here at all because I’d so much rather he saw things going right for me rather than wrong. But at the same time, if he hadn’t been here, I’d have really missed his cool head, fast action, and capacity for quietly sorting things out while reassuring me it wasn’t my fault and that I had this under control.
Looking at the bigger picture, if this was going to happen anywhere, it was better that it happened at this small pop up fair rather than at one of the much bigger flagship events that are coming up next. And I’m just hoping this is the last time an event I’m at ends up in ruins. Since the first night I set foot in St Aidan, every single thing I’ve been involved in has ended with me falling flat on my face either literally or metaphorically.
He takes a swig of beer. ‘On the upside, at least we ruled out bows on the chairs for Pixie.’
And it might have been a bit extreme, but at least it saved me from explaining about my ring. Not that I’m going to remind him of that now.
His face breaks into a grin. ‘So how are we fixed for tomorrow? I thought breakfast pancakes onSnow Gooseat ten, and we can talk about seating plans.’
‘Seating plans?’ That has to be the most random choice of topic.
He gives a shrug. ‘It’s in the file. We might as well do it sooner rather than later.’
We usually do that right at the end when the guest list is finalised, but after the way he’s pitched in today, if he’s showing willing, I’m hardly in a position to argue. But I may have to draw the line at breakfast.
I just hope he’s not picking up that he’s getting his own way, because if he senses he’s taking control, who knows where this will end.
Chapter 24
Monday, the next day.
OnSnow Goosein St Aidan harbour.
Sea legs and butter fingers.
‘So that’s the batter done, and now it’s got to rest for five minutes.’
This is Nic at ten the next morning, and we’re in what he calls his galley and I’d call his floating kitchen diner. And I know I didn’t intend to have breakfast, but once he’d helped me cross the gap above the brown harbour water onto the bobbing deck ofSnow Goose, I was already breathless. By the time he’d led me down some steep teak steps and I squeezed into a bench seat, I was so giddy all I could do was watch the puff of flour as he cracked eggs into a bowl and hang on to the table top so tightly my fingertips turned white.
Then, as he gently stirred the mixture, I made myself concentrate on the pale grey checks of the cushions, the dove grey paint on the walls, and the miniature size of the kitchen appliances. I manage to swallow down my sour saliva and croak. ‘Resting? What’s that about?’
He unfolds a clean black tea towel and spreads it over the bowl. ‘It’s the secret to light and fluffy pancakes – it helps the batter hydrate, smooths out the lumps, and lets the gluten relax.’
I’m rolling my eyes because only a guy would be that pedantic. Or Phoebe. When I think back to my mum in our tiny cottage kitchen in the years before she got ill, the butter sizzling in her age-blackened frying pan, slopping in the mixture and turning out pancakes by the dozen, there was no time to mess about with resting. What I remember is the air thick with the burning oil, my mum’s shouts of, ‘Pancakes up’. Me and my brothers diving across the red and black chequered quarry tile floor, falling over the dog, fighting to make sure ours was the empty plate under the pancake flopping off the slice. Then the grittiness of the sprinkled sugar. The tang of the puddling lemon juice. The golden syrup, sticky and melting on our chins, mopped away with squares of kitchen roll. The satisfaction of being so full you couldn’t eat another thing.
As Nic slides into the seat at right angles to me his brows knit. ‘Are you okay?’
‘To be honest …’ For once I’m going to say it how it is. ‘… I’ve felt less dizzy after ten straight gins.’ And even though he claimed the boat was big enough for entertaining a crowd, with my knees rammed up against his under the table it feels way too small for two of us.
He sends me a grin. ‘Don’t worry, the queasiness will pass. Let’s talk about something to take your mind off it – like how grateful the winery is that we accidentally highlighted the problem of their over-enthusiastic sprinkler system.’
