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