If the Dress Fits (9 page)

‘I really am sorry, Ness. I’ve been a truly awful friend. Will you ever be able to forgive me?’

‘Real friends need no apologies, Cal. You were just investing in your dreams. I’ve followed mine. I’m happy. Only one thing would put the proverbial cherry on top of my cupcake.’

‘What?’

It was Nessa’s turn to colour up.

‘Or should I say, who?’

They had reached the lynch gate of the parish church. Nessa lifted the rusty iron handle and they sauntered along the churchyard’s pathway, meandering through the moss-strewn graves which protruded from the ground like a set of crooked ogre’s teeth.

Then Callie saw it. Her parents’ grave. And there, in front of the grey marble headstone, was the white rose bush that Theo had planted for her all those years ago. It had been carefully pruned and well cared for.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Callie, allowing the tears to trickle unchecked down her cheeks.

‘Theo comes here every time he’s home from a tour to tend the rose bush that you planted together for your parents.’

Callie turned in astonishment to her best friend in the world.

‘He…’

‘It’s like a ritual with him.’

Callie was suddenly so overwhelmed by a surge of grief that she dropped down onto her knees and sobbed as though the tears would never stop.

Chapter Twelve

Spring cast its blanket of hopefulness and renewal across the undulating fields but it failed to restore Callie’s desolate spirits. Fingers of pale ivory light spread across the horizon promising a sharp new dawn and hinting at a warm sunny Sunday morning. All village activity was confined to the churchyard perched at the end of the village, so Allthorpe High Street was deserted.

Grimacing with annoyance at missing the best part of the day, Callie sat cross-legged on the threadbare Persian rug in front of a scarred red suitcase, its lid yawning wide, stuffed with a plethora of documents, yellowing newspaper clippings, official-looking letters and random receipts, all of which masqueraded as her aunt’s business accounts.

She’d been putting it off, but it was time to delve into the murk that was Gingerberry Yarns’ finances, such as they were. The task was turning into a feat of financial archaeology that even
Time Team
would have baulked at!

Her mug of Earl Grey tea had grown cold and her neck and shoulders were screaming their objection when her toil was interrupted by a loud hammering on the shop door downstairs.

It’s Sunday morning, for heaven’s sake
, Callie thought grumpily, unfolding her stiffened, jean-clad legs and raising her numb buttocks from the mat. She rolled her neck muscles by twisting her shoulders, before trotting down the stairs to answer someone’s urgent call for that last ball of yarn required to complete a project that could not have waited a moment longer.

But it wasn’t a desperate customer.

‘Nessa!’

‘Hi, Callie.’

‘Come on in. I’m busy trying to scale a mountain of my aunt’s paperwork.’

Callie led Nessa upstairs into the room that served as both kitchen and sitting room. Documents were spread over every available surface, some tumbling like an alpine avalanche from the chintzy sofa down to the rug and the nest-like space in which Callie had been sitting as she thrashed her way through the maze of bureaucracy.

‘I had an inkling you’ve not been eating properly since you arrived home. That is why, my friend, I have arrived on this mercy mission to rescue you from your hunger pangs with these little beauties.’ She held aloft a familiar pale peppermint box tied with ivory ribbon. ‘Picked them up yesterday from Wallington’s bakery. Everyone’s talking about it, so I thought I’d make a special detour. Did you know the guy did his training in Paris and then honed his spectacular talent at Betty’s, or was it the other way round? You do remember that Betty’s Emporium of Confectionary is my most favourite shop in the world, right? These cupcakes are to die for. Erm, I have to confess we started off with three each, but, well, I felt honour-bound to ensure they were up to scratch for my best friend’s delectation!’

Nessa had already flicked on the kettle and set about arranging the little sugary gems onto a china plate she’d pulled from the cupboard. ‘EarlGrey?’ She held the old-fashioned brown teapot aloft, her eyebrows raised as Callie took a seat.

The four chairs around the scrubbed pine table had always invited a good gossip. The unloading of worries into willing ears had been Hannah’s cure for the side effects of hanging onto trauma until it gnawed at the gut and allowed bitterness to take its place.

‘So, come on then, Callie, reboot your modem and spill the details and I mean every minuscule embellishment, every fold, drape, crease and stitch of this spectacular bridal creation Lilac Verbois did not possess the good taste to select. Do you have a photo?’

Callie smiled at last, her cheeks cracking under the unfamiliar strain and the fact that her skin hadn’t enjoyed a smudge of moisturiser in weeks. ‘Sure I do. And I suppose there’s no reason not to share the design with you now. The veil of secrecy is redundant!’ She fished out her iPhone and scrolled through the images she had stored.

‘Oh, my God, Callie, it’s stunning. A little on the elaborate side for my taste, but then I’m not a BAFTA-winning actress. This wedding fever has really gripped the nation, hasn’t it?’ Nessa lifted her mane of copper hair and let it fall in waves down her back, clearly enjoying the lightness and freedom wearing it loose gave her.

‘You should eavesdrop on the conversations of some of the girls at school – it’s all they talk about. Well, what’s not to obsess over? A wedding almost on the doorstep, a whole host of celebrities descending on the county, fashions to scrutinise and criticise. Oh, I’ve not had chance to tell you. One of our girls, Alicia Walker, has been selected to sing the solo in the York Minister wedding ceremony, no less! With the level of excitement and the raging hormones, needless to say not much academic work is getting done at the moment. Fortunately, Alicia is in Year Ten and doesn’t have exams to worry about this summer.’

‘It’s great for the school, Nessa, but I have to admit I am curious about what made Lilac and Finn choose York Minster for their ceremony. Wouldn’t you have thought they’d have chosen a venue in London? Much more central, more convenient for everyone?’

‘What do you mean? It’s obvious why Lilac chose the Minster. She grew up in Yorkshire – or so her publicity blurb says. She’s maybe on some nostalgic jaunt into her childhood, which I assume was ‘tormented by abusive parents or boyfriends, thus enabling me to bring my real-life experiences into my roles’ – you know, the kind of garbage they spout out in these résumés. Anyway, all chaos broke loose when it was announced that Alicia had been selected. Mrs Coombes even had to sedate one of the girls.

‘But, I have to admit,’ confided Nessa as she tucked tendrils of hair behind her ears, her soft cheeks glowing with pleasure, ‘I’ve also succumbed to following the twists and turns avidly, especially as it turns out I know four of the people involved personally! You, Theo, Archie and Alicia. I wish I could sing, but as you know my multiple talents lie in the sports arena. If only there were a netball, or a hockey, or a golf competition, I’d be right up there with the rest of them.

‘However,’ she giggled, ‘unsurprisingly there’s no call for those skills in the circus that is Lilac Verbois and Finn Marchant’s wedding. Callie, I’m so sorry your design didn’t win but we’ve still got to go to York to watch the ceremony.’

‘I’m not sure about that, Ness.’

Callie had often wondered over the years why Nessa had stuck to training recalcitrant teenage girls on the school sports field. Only last year she had been offered a position as a ladies’ golf instructor at one of the newly built courses in Dubai – mega-money compared to her teacher’s salary, along with a spectacular apartment overlooking the Burg Al Arab which came with a maid thrown in for free.

But Nessa had not hesitated in turning it down. She excelled in every sport Callie had known her put her mind to, threw herself head first into dating every eligible guy who crossed her path, and generally lived life to the max with an irritatingly cheerful smile, a flick of her hair and a cute wrinkle of her freckled nose. Nessa had always professed to loathe her freckles and Callie recalled with fondness one Saturday night, when they were around twelve, that they’d spent scrubbing her nose and cheeks with her mother’s expensive body exfoliator. Nessa’s face had smarted with a red hue for a full week but even that had not diluted her zest for life.

Together they had run marathons, swapped secrets and dressed up in the forerunners of Callie’s designs made from old cotton sheets and velour curtains donated by Nessa’s mum, Audrey. She still squirmed at the memories of the chaffing! Over the years they had each added more items to their wedding scrap boxes – oversized shoe boxes they had covered in sheets of wedding wrap and filled with snippets of fabric and lace, glossy photographs and articles cut from magazines, and sketches of what their individual dresses would look like. On the lid they’d taped a picture of their current crush – first Seb, then Robbie Williams, then a whole string of eligible pop stars and actors for Nessa’s, and Theo, always Theo for hers. She still had her box under her bed at home in Pimlico and continued to add to it even now. The latest addition was a photograph of a gorgeous pair of stilettos from the Jimmy Choo bridal collection that had her name embroidered all over their smooth satin toes. She wondered if Nessa still did the same.

A hammering on the door of the shop interrupted their girly conversation.

‘Gosh, another visitor. I’ve never been so popular.’

Callie skipped down the stairs and let Seb in. She pecked him on his bristly cheek and smiled at his pale, pinched face, the smudges of tiredness under his dark brown eyes more prominent when he removed his tortoiseshell glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. He slumped his six-foot-two frame into the chair opposite Nessa and stretched out his legs.

‘Hi, Nessa. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

‘Not at all.’

Callie poured him a mug of tea and pushed one of Tom Wallington’s delectable cupcakes towards him. Hers remained on the china plate untouched; its aesthetic perfection felt like an insult to her emotional chaos. She couldn’t bear to sully its beauty with her unworthy lips.

‘Callie, I’m so pleased you decided to stay up here for few weeks to sort out the shop. What’s your plan? I reckon a lick of paint wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘I agree, I…’

‘Then I have the perfect solution. Me, Dom and Archie will pitch in and help.’

‘Count me in, too,’ added Nessa, her eyes sparkling with possibilities. ‘You’ve got to keep Gingerberry Yarns open whilst it’s on the market.’

Nessa reached over to replenish her mug from the pot. She wrapped her palms around its warmth and left her seat at the table to stroll over to the window. She stared at the row of shops across the street, her back to Callie and Seb, deep in thought. After a while she continued verbalising her thoughts.

‘After all, Hannah’s haberdashery has become the social hub of Allthorpe High Street. Her faithful customers have lost not only a beloved friend, but a stalwart of the local community. Someone who swore she would protect the fabric of this village. I know I don’t have to remind you that some people’s lives revolve around their visits to this welcoming oasis of calm and acceptance – better than a spa treatment any day.

‘There’s nowhere else to go. They can’t hang out at the bank over there, or the bookmaker’s next door, and since the library closed down last year there’s nowhere to grab a cappuccino or a latte or a good old pot of tea. The nearest café is in Heppleton and that’s ten miles away. Hey! Yes, that’s it!’ Nessa swung round to stare at Callie, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘What?’

‘This is your chance to create your dream!’

‘What dream?’ Callie rolled her eyes at Nessa who, as always, was speeding along on a different tangent.

‘The “Gingerberry Emporium” dream – vendor of bespoke yarn creations and aromatic coffee concepts!’

‘What are you dribbling on about?’ Callie collected their empty mugs and ditched them in the sink before resuming her curled-up position on the ancient rug surrounded by paperwork.

‘I’m talking about Gingerberry Yarns, international supplier of custom-made knitted garments to the connoisseur of sculptured yarn and modern creative art, and purveyor of the best cappuccino, latte and espresso for a ten-mile radius!’

‘International? Now you’re being plain ridiculous, Ness…’

‘Set up a website – that’ll cover the international bit. Get busy researching a selection of designs worn by the trendy jet set and TV celebrities – like those Danish Fair Isle sweaters from that detective series. You can get the WI knitting circle involved – they love a good challenge. Hey, we could even run knitting sessions here in the shop, start teaching those who are interested to knit and crochet? Maybe market it as an opportunity to contribute to a charity project in the form of a blanket or throw for the Heppleton hospice?’

‘Wow, I think Nessa might be onto something here, Cal.’ Seb had swivelled round in his seat to join in the discussions. ‘The shop downstairs is crammed with miles and miles of ribbon and lace. You could even coach the ladies to sew garments for your bridal boutique in London, such as garters and knickers. Maybe Gingerberry can become the first branch of Callie-Louise Bridal Couture outside London.’

‘Fabulous idea, Seb!’ exclaimed Nessa. ‘We could offer hand-embroidered silk lingerie for a bride’s wedding night and honeymoon as part of her trousseau. We could…’

‘Hang on, Nessa, hang on, who’s going to do all this? Teach people to knit and sew and…’

‘You are, of course, you idiot! Have you forgotten you grew up with knitting needles protruding from the ends of your arms? You are your mother’s daughter, Callie. And what better way to mark Seb’s mum’s passing than to design a blanket that everyone can contribute to in honour of Hannah and everything she did for this village, then to present it to the hospice at their annual summer fayre!’