And this is the problem with Lando. The second I start to think of him as one of the gang, he crashes in with something like that.
It’s funny how things you look forward to take forever to arrive, yet the ones you dread race towards you at a hundred miles an hour. This wedding was booked a whole month ago, but everyone has been flat out since with preparations, so it’s felt more like days. Luckily, I had no lasting effects from my tumble at B&Q, so Tia, Lando and I have forged ahead with the pictures around the town’s businesses, but each time we think we’ve reached the end Lando or Jess sign up more. On the plus side, because of that I haven’t had any time to panic about today.
Apparently the bride, Daniella, has been tied up full-time with content creation for her socials, which is why the fast-track preparations in Cornwall have been overseen entirely by her personal assistants. She’s settled on a tiny ceremony here with a handful of her closest friends and family, then a blow-out party afterwards. Up at the farm it’s like a mini Glastonbury, and back here the small core group of ten guests are swelled by a cluster of assistants and photographers and a trio of ukulele players in satin dresses, so I’m immensely grateful we have breezy sunny intervals rather than rain.
For the last-minute preparations, Huntley and Handsome wine merchants brought in a tray of glasses and champagne in ice-filled buckets, and Lily has done tall flower buckets each side of the door and swags along the verandah rail, with huge urns of flowers spilling along the side benches inside and a posy offlowers on each chair for the guests to take away.
Lando leans towards us. ‘It can be windy when choppers land.’ He hesitates, then turns to look across the sand. ‘I’ll warn the rest of the party to hold on to their hats.’
The guests, all in bright colours and Royal Ascot-style headwear, are grouped at the bottom of the steps, and today’s registrars, Pen and Brian, are at the hut door watching the sky as well.
I murmur to Poppy, ‘Daniella’s wearing the corset dress for the ceremony, then the double-decker dress with the cape for the party.’ Once she’d chosen from Ariella’s photos a personal courier came to collect the pieces, then Arlo oversaw the fittings at her home.
Poppy watches the sky as she replies, ‘If Arlo’s multi-dress styling takes off, Jess and Sera will be in clover.’
I shake my head. ‘To think we thought Basque waistlines and scarves were the wildest it was going to get this season.’ I put my hands over my ears and shout, ‘The engine is so loud! How the hell am I going to cope with the meet and greet?’
Poppy yells back. ‘The beach is like a sandstorm. It’s coming down very close! Oh, someone’s lost their hat!’
Lando rushes off along the beach, catches it, and returns it to its owner. As he hurries back to us, it hits me that I should be making suggestions here.
‘I’m not ducking out, but if you’re used to helicopters, Lando, can you meet the bride and groom?’
His expression lightens. ‘No problem. The rotor blades can be quite alarming.’
For the first time ever, I’m truly grateful to him.
I shout to Poppy, ‘We’ll take the guests in out of the gale.’ The second I call, ‘We might be best to shelter inside,’ the small group make a dash for the steps.
So much for all my sweeping and cordless vacuuming. By the time we reach the hut the bunting strings are thrashing, the deck is sandier than a dune and the flowers look like they’ve been hit by a hurricane. As Pen and Brian step aside to let the guests through I murmur a silent thank you that the tall lanterns are still alight. Inside feels like a wind tunnel, so I can only hope Poppy’s piles of iced fancies under glass domes aren’t getting too gritty.
I shout to the guests, ‘You’ll get the best view from the side window,’ then I dash out to the deck again and wail at Poppy, ‘The bride hasn’t thought this through. There’s a howling gale inside! She’s going to hate it.’
Poppy’s clutching a handful of blooms that she’s picked up from the verandah. She puts her fists over her ears and shouts over the roar of the descending chopper, ‘Brides who make mistakes with their choices usually forget them immediately afterwards.’ She yells louder, ‘Once the chopper has taken off again it should calm down.’
And then they’re here. Figures coming down the metal steps, bending low, Lando behind with his arms outstretched hurrying them towards us.
I run back down onto the beach, let out a gasp as I take in what the bride’s left behind in London and shout in Poppy’s ear, ‘They’ve stripped every bit of lining out of that dress and she’s gone braless with a G-string.’
Poppy shouts back, ‘If I looked like that, I’d show it off too.’
And then the helicopter starts to rise again. It tilts and turns, then as it speeds into the distance the bride comes striding across the sand, pulling the groom behind her.
Her eyes are bright and she’s laughing. ‘What an arrival! I’m freezing my tits off, and my hair extensions are somewhere out across the bay! Who thought it would be a good idea to come by helicopter?’
The groom gives a cough. ‘That was definitely you.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘The sky dive you wanted would have been way worse.’ She pushes her long, dark tresses back over her shoulder and holds her hand out to us. ‘Daniella McCrystal, and this is Kai. Very pleased to meet you all at last.’
I grasp her hand. ‘I’m Maeve, and this is Poppy… and that’s the beach hut where you’re about to be the very first couple ever to get married!’ I stop, then remember the other important bit. ‘Welcome to a very sandy Windflowers!’
I’m desperately hoping it’s big enough for them, and small enough for them, and pretty enough and romantic enough. But most of all I’m hoping they stay rather than hold their hands up in horror and walk away.
Poppy smiles. ‘Would you like a few moments to get your breath back before we begin?’
Daniella nods to the approaching assistants. ‘The photographers have started already so my team need to put me back together before they get too many views of haystack hair.’ She turns to the groom. ‘Do you have my veil, Kai?’
‘I do.’ The groom laughs and dips into the pocket of his white tux jacket, and the never-ending train of lace he pulls out billows in the breeze. ‘And Kingie has the rings.’ He beams at us. ‘That’s the best man. We’re wearing matching tuxes.’
