If the Dress Fits (7 page)

Okay, yes, wedding planners had to be in love with everything ‘planet bridal’ to work in the industry, but Tish had taken her obsession to a new level. She was usually to be found floating around the office on the wings of Eros, constantly chattering about diamanté tiaras, personalised confetti (with pictures of the bride and groom printed on it, for God’s sake!), and sugared almonds, which she had the perfect excuse to indulge in. Annoyingly, Tish also seemed to have been blessed with a metabolism that ignored the onslaught of sugar. She, on the other hand, despite following a semi-vegetarian diet, still struggled with losing the extra stone that had crept up on her unnoticed – and it had nothing to do with the cupcakes from the Parisian patisserie that had popped up on the corner in the last three months.

Tish had certainly thrown herself into her chosen career, happy to hunt down the most bizarre of requests as she waited patiently to play the lead role in her own fairy-tale Happy Ever After. Of course the girl had her own wedding day planned right down to the toilet paper she wanted in the ladies’ cloakroom of the Savoy. Only one tiny detail was missing – there was no groom loitering in the wings, or backstage, or even on the auditions list. So, whilst her own personal hearts-and-flowers scenario was on the back burner, she was content to pour all her energies into conjuring up everyone else’s dream wedding.

‘But where should I start?’

Nikki rolled her eyes. ‘Look, make a list of all the designers who were asked to submit. Then go through the dresses that did arrive with the correct paperwork and tick them off. See what’s left. There may be a couple who decided not to submit, but at least we’ll have narrowed it down. I’m late for a meeting with Lilac’s agent, but I’ll be back in an hour and we’ll go through the list together.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll ring them.’

‘No! You can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, how do you plan on finding out if it’s their dress?’

‘Email them a photo – oh, no, right, I see.’

‘We’ve got to be careful not to disclose the final design of the most anticipated wedding dress this year to anyone. Absolute secrecy – we promised Lilac – nothing until it is unveiled to the world on the steps of York Minster. We can’t go around emailing everyone a photo. Especially the designers whose gowns failed to make the cut. Think about it!’

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘I’ll think of something. Just get that list sorted and I’ll see you in an hour.’

Nikki gathered up the Birkin handbag Lilac had given her for Christmas and a bundle of box files and left Tish to her task. This latest development was the last thing she needed, but her ordered mind was already clicking through the possibilities as she affixed her new badge of ‘Nuptial Detective’ to her already crowded breast.

Solving problems was her forte, along with a mild addiction to list-making and fighting off the media, sometimes physically. Everything she did was organised with almost surgical precision. There was no conundrum that outfoxed her. She knew Lilac’s entourage gossiped about her for catering to the actress’s every whim, no matter how bizarre or outlandish, and her strategies for negotiating the best price would have embarrassed the head buyer of Poundland. They would locate the creative idiot who submitted the gown without the paperwork, but she’d have something to say to the designer about her business practices.

As she stepped into the glass elevator for her ride down to the foyer, Nikki allowed herself a faint grimace. They would probably end up having to tour the whole country in their search for the elusive designer, which meant Tish had actually got her wish, after all. This wedding was turning into a real Cinderella story, just not the hearts-and-flowers bit – the Poirotesque bit.

Chapter Nine

‘Is everything okay, Scarlet? I’ll be back at the boutique by the end of the week.’

‘Look, why don’t you take this opportunity to have some time out, Callie? A sort of short sabbatical?’

‘No! After I’ve sorted out the shop I need to come back and bury myself in the studio. I have to keep designing for my sanity, especially after receiving this blow to my confidence. I need to return to my own life in London. There’s nothing left for me up here. I’ve got lots of new ideas for the Spring/Summer Collection next year. I…’ She failed at her attempts to control her emotions and huge racking sobs burst from her chest.

‘Callie, you’ve just lost your aunt, your only remaining parental figure. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact there’s no safety net to catch you if you fall. You have to take some time to grieve; let it out, don’t bottle it up. Of course we’ll miss you, but we can manage for a couple of months.’

‘A couple of months?’

‘Mourn, recharge your creative batteries, organise your family’s affairs. Spend some time with those handsome cousins of yours. Market the shop, sell up, or whatever you decide, but don’t rush this decision.’

‘You can’t seriously be suggesting that I run a little haberdashery shop in rural Yorkshire alongside a couture bridal boutique in Pimlico?’

‘I’m just saying, take your time. We’ll keep in touch, let you know if there are any panics or problems we can’t handle. It’s only a three-hour train ride away if you need to come down.’

An invisible force pressed down on Callie’s shoulders, inducing a dark, heavy lethargy. She had no idea how long she remained at that scarred pine table in her aunt’s cosy kitchen, so familiar as the backdrop to many a teenage trauma that had been talked through with the aid of a strong cup of Yorkshire tea from the big brown pot. She, along with Nessa, had lurched from one adolescent crisis to the next; all of which seemed trivial, with the benefit of hindsight, compared to the current turmoil in her life. Sadness lanced her heart and failure sapped her self-esteem, but mingled in with the mix were spirals of indecision about what to do with her aunt’s beloved Gingerberry Yarns.

Outside, twilight tickled at the branches of the trees that lined the high street as the traders began to close their shops for the day. If she
did
decide to carry on her aunt’s legacy – to honour her memory, to preserve Gingerberry Yarns for the community – at what cost would that be to her own dreams and ambitions?

She consciously shook herself out of her self-pitying reverie and chastised herself for her despondency. She dragged herself from her seat to dump her mug in the kitchen sink, her mind a scattergun of confused thoughts as she tried to assimilate the consequences of her failure to win the most coveted prize of her life. All those months of unrelenting hard work and unerring focus on one solitary goal that had been disallowed. A goal, she had to admit, she had thought would clinch the match.

Was she arrogant, overly confident in her own creative ability? Obviously she had been. She had neglected everything and everyone – her aunt, Seb and Dominic, her friends, her love life – in her quest for recognition, notoriety even; for the chance to showcase her design talent to the world, to become a part, however small, of the celebrity circus that was Lilac and Finn’s wedding.

If it had been her wedding, this farcical competition would be the very epitome of what she did
not
want. Such an intimate, joyful union demanded only the involvement of those who truly loved and cared for the couple and, as her fragile self-worth plummeted, Callie thought she could count on one hand those stalwart friends who would be in attendance at her own marriage ceremony.

Anyway, what was she doing dreaming about her non-existent wedding? And there was no point in speculating on the identity of any potential groom. There was only one person up there in prime position.

Theo.

But she had no spare emotion to waste on dissecting her relationship with Theo. She shoved that cushion full of pins to the back of her mind for future examination. She had enough emotional pain in her life to be getting on with – neglectful niece to Hannah, uninterested cousin to Seb and Dominic, absent friend to Nessa and Scarlet, and now mediocre fashion designer at Callie-Louise Bridal Couture. Adding failure as a girlfriend to the list would tip her over the edge and she’d be looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror.

Anyway, she had a shop to get ready for sale.

Chapter Ten

‘My design didn’t win the Lilac Verbois wedding gown competition, Delia.’ Callie broke off to inhale a steadying breath and tried to concentrate her attention on the window of the shop, beyond which the day promised warmth. The pavements of the high street were swathed in golden sun as the locals went about their daily business.

She’d found it difficult to elucidate her failure aloud, but was surprised to experience a welcome surge of relief now it was out there. She hoped Delia would grasp the baton of its knowledge and pass it on to the curious, as she knew her aunt had shared her shortlisting in the competition far and wide.

‘And also, Scarlet has agreed to look after the boutique for a couple of months to, erm, allow me to sort things out and recover from the duo of shocks.’

A fresh flash of guilt stabbed at her veins that her courage had failed her once again. She couldn’t mention the sale of the business to Delia. She experienced a heavy tug of dawning realisation of what kind of person she was – shallow and deceitful.

‘Oh, Callie, you don’t know how delighted I am to hear that,’ exclaimed Delia, releasing Callie from a J’Adore-infused hug. ‘I know you have a busy and absorbing life down there in the capital, and colleagues desperate for your return, but you also have a great many friends up here in Allthorpe, you know. I’m so pleased you’re staying on for a while. Your aunt would definitely approve.’ Delia raised her eyes up to the cracked ceiling. ‘Hannah would never have wanted the shop to close down. She was so angry and upset when she heard what had happened to the butcher’s shop. She even went as far as objecting to the planning application for change of use to residential – made no difference, of course. But what will happen to this village if
all
the shops close down and are converted into holiday homes and weekend retreats for escapees from the corporate rat race? Allthorpe would become a faded image of its current vibrancy.

‘Gingerberry Yarns isn’t just a shop selling wool and trimmings; it’s a hub of social activity and provides a much-needed service to this community. Don’t you remember when you were still at home? All your aunt’s friends calling in for a chat, a word of support, of sympathy, of guidance? We’re part of the fabric of people’s lives. Look how supportive everyone’s been these past weeks, rallying round to offer not only a baked pie or a chicken casserole, but a listening ear, a word of comfort, and I have to admit I’ve succumbed to that offer more than once.’

Tears sprang into Delia’s tired eyes as she anxiously tried to get her message across to Callie, who sat, head bent low to the table, studying the dregs of her cold tea. She reached across and took Callie’s slender fingers in her own.

‘We can’t sell the place to a property developer out to make a fast buck. If it has to be sold, then let’s try to pass on the legacy to someone who will continue to run it with the same ethos. I’ll manage on my own so you can market the business as a going concern, a viable proposition for a potential buyer. It’d probably be worth more that way, or it would be more likely to sell to someone who wanted to keep it on.’

Was Delia right? Was she letting her aunt down by not at least trying to keep Gingerberry Yarns open? Could she handle the guilt of cutting all her ties with her childhood home? She had adored this shop, this village. The people who came were like an extended family to her. Many of her aunt’s friends had stopped her on the street to offer their condolences and had been touchingly devastated at her passing.

She recalled bumping into Iris, one of Delia’s best friends, and her daughter, Marcia. But what had really surprised her was that they’d been genuinely frightened about what decisions she was going to make about Gingerberry’s future. Marcia had even said it was the only thing she lived for, being able to bring Iris out in her wheelchair to the shop every day, leaving her chatting to Hannah and Delia whilst she ran her errands.

‘When was the last time you and Nessa got together for a good old chinwag? Okay’ – she held up her palm, her stout fingers glittering with a cluster of rings – ‘I know you saw her at the funeral, but I mean really connected? You two were inseparable at school, as close as primer and paint. Pair of devils, you were! You know she’ll be at the Fox and Hounds on Friday night. Why don’t you go and join her for a drink?’

‘Oh, Delia, I’m not…’

‘I want you to rekindle some of the love and community spirit Hannah and I were fortunate enough to enjoy, even if it’s just for a short time. The community’s support has been such an integral part of our lives, especially for your aunt after John passed away. She missed him terribly, as I’m sure you all did. Hannah drew on the comfort and friendship offered by her many friends. It helped to heal her sorrow, if not her heart. And it could do the same for you, Callie dear. Steer you through this miasma of grief and confusion.

‘Fate has a carefully drafted plan for us all, but sadly it must remain confidential.’ Delia’s eyes peered over the top of her glasses, their silver restraint glinting in the shafts of sunlight forging their way through the dirt-ridden windows.

‘I don’t believe in fate, Delia. I believe that we should mould our own destiny, not wait until it lands fully formed in our path.’

But she knew Delia had a point. She had to at least try to give the misfortune that had befallen her in the last two weeks a positive spin. Life did go on, and if her aunt could survive after the loss of her beloved husband, then she could stop acting like a puppet clipped of its strings. She needed to quit wallowing in self-pity and put some elbow grease into those filthy windows.

Callie collected a cloth from behind the counter and tentatively rubbed at a small patch of the front window to reveal a sparklingly clear outlook over the road to Marietta’s and the scaffolding-bedecked ex-butcher’s shop. The blackened stone façades of the depleted row of shops, their painted doors and bay-fronted windows open to trade, spoke volumes. Sadly, the six shops which had thrived for the last thirty years had been slashed to four with the closure of Wainwright’s butchers and Greenwood’s grocers. The loss of the butcher’s in particular had been a grave blow to the community of Allthorpe’s Sunday breakfast.