If the Dress Fits (11 page)

Callie experienced a burst of protectiveness for this caring young girl and realised belatedly that Marcia had been aware of her assumed-covert scrutiny. She watched guiltily as she self-consciously swiped away her glasses and stored them in the appliqued pocket of her jumper, cut in the shape of a daisy.

‘Oh, these are Mum’s old reading glasses. I borrow them occasionally.’ Marcia swung her sweep of hair forward across her face, anxious to escape from the uncomfortable inspection. ‘Is there tea in the pot upstairs, Delia?’ She scuttled away, the block heels of her candy-pink shoes clacking on the stairs.

Callie glanced down at her own familiar attire, which could have done with a spin in the washing machine. She chastised herself for failing to pay attention to her sartorial elegance, especially as she was now the figurehead of a high-street shop. She only had to look in a mirror to be reminded that she would win no trophies in a beauty pageant. She, too, wore no cosmetics and she’d lived in her D&G jeans and black polo-necked sweater since she’d arrived in Allthorpe. It was either that or rummage through her aunt’s wardrobe, which she hadn’t had the courage to do yet.

A few moments later, Marcia reappeared. She set down the cupcakes on a patterned china plate she’d found in a cupboard for them to feast their eyes and then their taste buds on. They were, without a doubt, the most attractive things in the shop. In fact, Callie had to admit the skill and artistry that had gone into their production was nothing short of amazing. The exquisite fairy cakes were definitely not what she’d expected to see produced by the old-fashioned baker’s shop on the corner of their row, two doors down from the florist’s shop, Buds & Bows.

‘These are mini works of art, aren’t they? Too good to eat, really.’ Iris held her choice aloft for closer inspection, her soft features enclosed by a halo of curls the colour of ash, clearly reluctant to take the first bite and destroy its beauty.

‘They are beautiful. Not what I had expected from…’ Callie let her voice drift off for fear of causing offence by revealing her true feelings and the extent to which she had outgrown this rural backwater.

Iris smiled. It was clear she knew exactly what Callie had been about to say. ‘Me neither, Callie. I thought the same thing when Tom became the third generation of Wallingtons to take over at the bakery. But Delia must have told you that he completed his training at Betty’s in Harrogate, after a three-year apprenticeship in one of those glamorous hotels in Paris, whose name, like so many other things nowadays, escapes my memory. These cupcakes are fit to grace any celebrity’s wedding reception, don’t you think, never mind the tables of the residents of Allthorpe?’ Small apples of red appeared on Iris’s cheeks. ‘If there had been a competition to make Lilac’s wedding cake, Tom Wallington would have blown the competition out of the mixer.’

All three faces swung towards Callie and she performed a wriggle of embarrassment under the scrutiny of the gathered ladies. She felt her face become suffused with heat and swore she would never again be caught scrutinising a fellow human being’s appearance.

‘Well, as you haven’t hung out the flags, I assume your own design didn’t get selected, dear?’ Iris asked.

Callie nodded. She suspected that the time spent confined to her wheelchair had allowed Iris to become sharply attuned to other people’s disguised emotions. She saw her sweep a slow, analytical glance around the shop as though, despite having visited it daily for the last ten years, she was seeing it for the first time.

‘It’s not the same without your aunt, Callie. The shop has lost some of its warmth, a piece of its soul. What will you do with the business?’

Callie squirmed. Iris had clearly been endowed with the same down-to-earth character traits as Delia and many other Yorkshire women. She tensed her jaw muscles at the direct question, but she knew it was not only her own and Delia’s futures that depended on her plans, but many of her mother’s old friends’ futures too. She just wished she had an answer to hand.

‘Well,’ said Callie, ruffled by the inquisition about a personal decision. ‘First of all, Delia and I thought we’d spruce this room up a bit – maybe a splash of rose-tinted paint on the walls, peppermint green for the shelves, dip those wicker baskets in white paint. We could invest in a couple of leather sofas, a few mohair throws…’ She paused.

This was as good an opportunity as any to get the message around the village that her tenure at Gingerberry Yarns over the next few months would be a temporary reprieve only. One thing at least was still thriving in Allthorpe – the village grapevine.

‘But I think I will have to start marketing the shop when probate is sorted, hopefully as a going concern.’

‘Not likely, though, is it?’

Callie stared at Iris. Her mobility may have ebbed away, but not her enquiring mind; that was still as sharp as a needle.

‘I mean, look what’s happened to Mr Greenwood’s grocery shop; look at old Mr Wainwright’s butcher’s shop – well on its way to becoming a weekend retreat fulfilling another rich banker’s Yorkshire Dales fantasy. These people have no interest in what’s going on outside their freshly painted front doors beyond its providing a charming backdrop for their nostalgic village scene – it’s like a film set for them. What they don’t realise is, they are the ones who are destroying our community, one by one. The lifestyle they find so charming? They are contributing to its decimation. Mark my words, Callie, if you sell Gingerberry Yarns – it will go the same way.’

Callie was surprised to find that, instead of irritation at being the subject of an economics lecture, she not only agreed with Iris’s astute assessment, but experienced a strong urge to protect the little wool shop from the encroachment of disinterested weekenders, and her aunt’s legacy from such exploitation. After all, hadn’t her aunt felt strongly enough about the subject to petition the local council’s planning department when permission was requested for change of use of the butcher’s shop?

They sipped the dregs of their tea, licked the sweet crumbs from their fingers and turned the conversation to the more palatable subject of the next WI meeting on Wednesday night. It was to be addressed by Dorri Mathews, a yoga enthusiast, who would speak on the benefits of veganism and a raw foods diet in the fight against every disease known to man. Much giggling ensued when Delia and Marcia described how unhealthy, drawn and washed-out Dorri had looked when they last saw her, concluding that a good dose of home cooking, a balanced diet and chocolate was the source of not only physical, but emotional health – just look at Nigella Lawson, the epitome of a goddess of the kitchen. This observation in turn led the conversation to the subject of the baking craze sweeping the nation on a tsunami of powdered sugar, inspired by the BBC show
The Great British Bake Off
.

‘Marcia loves to bake, don’t you, darling?’ Iris looked proudly at her beloved daughter who sat hunched forward, shoulders rounded to her chest, the ends of her hair sweeping the table. She had replaced her ‘reading glasses’ on the end of her nose.

‘Yes I do, but no way am I up to the standard of these.’ Marcia wiped away a stray speck of buttercream from her upper lip with her fingertip and licked the end, her eyes crinkling into a smile which transformed her whole face.

‘Maybe not, Marcia, but then Tom can’t compete with you in the literary stakes, can he? She won’t blow her own trumpet, Delia, but Marcia’s just had another two of her shorts accepted by
LuxeLife
magazine for their summer holiday issue. That’s four stories sold this month. Must be doing something right – but then everyone loves a good romance, don’t they?’

Callie watched as Marcia’s cheeks reddened, embarrassed at her mother’s pride.

‘Nevertheless, she won’t meet the man of her dreams whilst she’s stuck looking after me in Allthorpe, will she?’

‘Mum!’ Marcia moaned and, as the bell jingled, announcing what Callie hoped would be a paying customer, she took the opportunity to replace her bobble hat and prepare her mother’s chair to leave.

‘Just saying.’ Iris smirked as Marcia fussed with her knee blanket. There was no defeat in those soft blue eyes, only a burning desire to squeeze every last ounce of delight from what remained of her life.

‘Don’t forget that package we brought for Delia, Marcia, my love,’ Iris said, pointing to the Oxfam hessian bag hooked over the handles of her wheelchair, ‘and your next two stories for her to proofread before you get them sent off to the editor.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Marcia withdrew a large white envelope and placed it on the shop counter before extracting a smaller square package encased in a brown paper bag, passing it surreptitiously to Delia as Callie strode off to serve the new arrival. But not before Callie had caught a glimpse of the meaningful, coy looks being exchanged as Delia stowed the clandestine parcel beneath the counter, her cheeks glowing a deep shade of scarlet.

Chapter Fourteen

‘Hi, Scarlet. How are things at the couture coalface?’

‘Everything’s fine. No crises to get worked up about. Lizzie is working her socks off on next year’s Spring/Summer Collection. Oh, and did I tell you, Jules Gallieri has popped round a couple of times? He said it was to offer us a selection of this season’s fascinators, hats and wedding tiaras to display in our window but I know it was just for a gossip. He’s a creative genius with bridal headpieces! Would you believe he’s talking about being crowned the new Philip Treacy, bless him? I’d die to wear one of his hats at the wedding of the year! And don’t you think he’s handsome? All that Italian heritage oozing from his pores?’

‘Calm down, Scarlet,’ giggled Callie. ‘How’s Flora?’

‘Flora is Flora. When she realised we hadn’t won the competition she spent the whole day arranging and then rearranging the threads into rainbow order, liberally interspersed with bouts of weeping. She went on and on about her psychic telling her that the Callie-Louise design was going to win and that Madam Clio has never been wrong before. She still forgets you’re not here and buys you a vanilla spice latte most mornings – it’s costing us a fortune. But we all miss you, of course.’

‘Any insider gossip on who won the competition?’

‘Well, I heard from Carla Luciano that it might be Brigitte Gasnier, but I don’t think that’s true. Don’t get me wrong; Brigitte’s designs are amazing, but they are a little OTT even for my taste. And she’s been known to occasionally use animal fur in her trims. Lilac Verbois is not going to want to be associated with any controversy on her wedding day, is she?’

‘What about Jacques?’

‘He’s away in Antibes at the moment, but yes, there’s speculation he’s gone over there to avoid the possibility of the media digging up any clues. You know he can’t keep a secret. But if he has won, he needs to keep his lips firmly sealed. His career depends on it. My money is on him.’

‘Yes, I can see Lilac wearing one of his creations on the red carpet. They are very elegant, but I somehow didn’t see Lilac walking down the aisle in York Minster in a clingy, sexy sheath dress.’

‘No one really knew what she was going to choose.’

‘Oh, Scarlet, I’m so sorry it wasn’t us. You all worked so hard and it’s come to nothing. Perhaps I’m not cut out to be a celebrity fashion designer, after all. I wish I had a thimbleful of Jules’s confidence right now.’

‘You are an exceptionally talented designer, Callie.’

Scarlet quickly changed the subject before Callie had chance to sail any further down the river of despondency. ‘What’s happening with Gingerberry?’

‘Oh, Scarlet, you’d love it! We’re thinking of organising a sort of ‘stitch and bitch’ evening, which should be fun. I’ve ordered in lots of new stock, too – cashmere, mohair, Aran, angora – all natural fibres. I’ve also sourced a bolt of that gorgeous cream silk we stumbled on when we were shopping for the wedding dress fabric. Do you think you can email me those designs I did at college for the bridal lingerie range? You know, the baby dolls, the bustiers and thongs, the teddies?’

‘No problem, but why?’

‘It’s an idea Nessa had actually. She suggested we branch out into luxury bridal accessories, lingerie mainly, and I thought we’d make up a few samples at our stitch and bitch sessions. Not everyone likes knitting; some might prefer sewing and embroidery.’

‘It sounds like a fabulous idea, Callie. We could display the pieces in the shop and any money we make can be sent back up to the ladies. You know, I was actually thinking of talking to you about doing something along those lines after this whole wedding debacle was out of the way. I love that little bolero jacket you designed at Christmas – the one with the high collar and full-length sleeves ending in a point over the hand – a bit like a virginal Morticia – and maybe we could make up some with gathered, padded shoulders and tiny pearl buttons from cuff to elbow? I was thinking shot silk, but now you’ve got me wondering. What about ice-white knitted angora interspersed with tiny crystals? Oh, I’m so excited. I’ll get Lizzie and Flora together in the Tumble Room and we can work on a new set of designs. What do you think?’

‘Sounds great. And Scarlet, that jumper you’re always wearing with your jeans? The red and white Scandinavian one? Where did you get it and can you remember exactly how much you paid for it?’

‘It was a bit of a splurge, I have to admit. I bought it in Harvey Nicks. It was four hundred and fifty. I know it’s purse-busting, but I do wear it every day in the winter instead of a coat and everyone who sees it comments on it and asks where I got it from. I wish I could knit. I’d have one in every colour. I think one in emerald green and cream would go with my colouring, don’t you think?’

Callie laughed. It was good to talk to Scarlet. ‘Well, if you can master the craft of teleportation sufficiently to travel from London to Yorkshire and back again in one night, there’s a place reserved at the stitch and bitch sessions for you.’

‘Count me in, Scotty!’

***

‘Oh, don’t I look fabulous?’ Tish performed a twist and turn in front of Lilac’s huge, gilt-framed mirror in the dressing room of her Georgian home in Kensington, smoothing the Stella McCartney fluted crepe mini dress over her hips and experimenting with her best pout.