Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (26 page)

“
Yep, I got a text from her saying she needed to see me urgently. Turns out she hadn’t been delivering her parcels because when she was meant to be working was the only time she and I could grab together. She’d been stashing them all at her flat so her boss wouldn’t find out, but of course he did and she lost her job. It was then we decided we needed some time together away from everything, so we went to my parents’ beach house.”

“
Wow. That’s quite a story, Morgs,” I say, sitting back in my chair.

“
Look, Jess, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about any of this. I kind of felt like I was living a double life, you know? And I didn’t have room for anything else in my head. I know it sound totally crap, but it’s the best way I can think of to explain it.”

“
Well, you
were
living a double life, Morgs. But no stress, we’re mates. I understand.”

I lean over and give her an awkw
ard but nevertheless heartfelt hug across the table. “And now it’s all on? You and Pabla?”

She breaks into a huge smile.
“Yes. I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s so fantastic, Jess. I know you’re gonna love her.”

“
I bet.”

Feeling spurred on by her confession, I decide it’s now or never to come clean about the dramas with
Estil. “There’s a fair bit I need to tell you about, Morgs. Things that happened while you were, umm, away,” I say casually as I twist my coffee cup around in my saucer.

“
OK, start at the top.”

I relay everything that’
s happened with Estil since her disappearing act - the good, the bad and the darn right hideous. To my surprise and unutterable relief she doesn’t go ballistic at me at all.

“
I’m not saying it’s exactly ideal, but you did a good job, Jess. I mean, you’d been a stylist for like a
day
when I had to leave, so under the circumstances you’ve done the best you could.”

Rallied by her
positivity I decide to go one step further and ask her something I’d been toying with while in Nelson - part of the new, improved Jess. “I would like to be a full partner. Not just your assistant, but a fully fledged stylist.”

I hold my breath, waiting for her to shoot me down in metaphorical flames, but after what feels like three weeks
, she smiles at me.

“
Of course, Jess. You deserve it.”

I feel so elated I jump up from my seat and hug her.

“And I visited the website when you were in the South Island and we have oodles and oodles of requests for styling sessions! We’re on a roll, gorgeous, and we’re going to be two very busy stylists in the run up to Christmas.”

A worrying thought strikes me.
“Does it definitely say a
glass
of champagne, not a bottle?”

Morgan laughs.
“Yes, it does. Don’t worry, you fixed that one. Hey, and Jess? Thanks. You rock.”

Although I’ve been
bowled over by her story I can’t help but feel like I’m perched up high on Cloud Nine right now. Things are starting to come together - Morgan is back and very happy, we’re now equal partners in Estil, and most importantly, everything between us is now out in the open.

It really feels like the first step in getting my life back on track
in Wellywood.

Morgan was right - we have styling appointments coming out of our metaphorical ears. No sooner have I caught up with Mum and unpacked my things back at home in Karori, when Morgan sends me appointment after appointment. I update my diary with them all, feeling really positive about our new partnership.

The first appointment isn’t until tomorrow morning, so I have a bit of free time to do the next task on my list
- go and see Laura.

I ring the doorbell to her
Kilbirnie house, balancing two coffees, a large bunch of peonies and a slab of our old favourite chocolate fix from back when we would huddle up in our freezing Thorndon flat, watching soaps and doing our level best to bring on Type II Diabetes. Laura answers the door almost immediately, index finger over her lips in the international sign for, “shhh”.

“
The boys have just gone down. It’s absolutely vital we make no noise whatsoever.” She’s speaking in such a serious stage whisper, I feel the urge to giggle, but I resist on account of the clearly critical importance we don’t wake the sleeping babes.

“
OK,” I reply as she stands back to let me in, closing the door quietly behind me and signalling me to head towards the kitchen, like she’s directing a secret guerrilla operation in Desert Storm.

I slip my
ballet pumps off and pad quietly through to the kitchen as instructed. I doubt too many guerrillas wear ballet pumps when out on ops, of course, but I do as instructed.

“
Here. For you, by way of an apology.” I hand her the flowers and chocolate bar in a flourish once she’s closed the door quietly behind her and we’re now safely ensconced in the kitchen.

“
Thanks! They’re divine, and yum, my absolutely favourite chocolate. But I thought we’d already made up?” She looks at me in mild confusion.

“
Well, I hadn’t really apologised. Or explained, more to the point. Here. Cappuccino, right?” I hand her one of the coffees and we sit at the kitchen table in the bright sunlight streaming through the sash window.

“
What’s to explain?” Laura asks, shrugging her shoulders.

“
It’s kind of about Scott, but mainly about me.”

She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at me intently. It’s now or never, Jess.

Taking a deep breath I continue. “You know how you said to me I’d acted over the Scott thing the same way I’d dealt with Lindsay? Well, I’ve been thinking and although Scott definitely did the dirty on both Brooke
and
me, you’re kind of right. I thought it was weird we never went to his place, that we would meet at out of the way bars and things, but I guess I didn’t want to know why. I kidded myself into thinking it was all so exciting and different, but really, it was just a big sham and I wasn’t being honest with myself.”

Laura looks at me with concern in her eyes.
“Look, Jess, I was angry. I saw how upset Brooke was and kind of went off the deep end at you, which I shouldn’t have done.”

“
No, Laura, you were right. Although he’s a total arse and isn’t good enough to even lick the ground I walk on, I’ve got to take some responsibility for this whole mess. Which I helped to create, even if it was subconsciously.”

“
Wow, who’d have thought? My high school friend Jess is the new Oprah.”

“
Oh ha ha.” I shrug. “I’ve been in Nelson,” I say by way of explanation.

“
Ahah! I thought I felt Daddy Banks’s hand in this.” She laughs good-naturedly, but I can only manage an anxious smirk.

“
Anyway,” I continue, heart pounding in my chest, “the thing you said about Lindsay? About how I just upped and left after she committed suicide? I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and you’re also right about that. It was just too hard to stay here, and having a new life in an exciting place was my escape, I guess.”

“
Hey, but as far as escapes go a four year one in London can’t have been too shabby, right?”

“
Yeah.” I manage a small laugh at her comment, feeling a little lighter.

“
Jess, it was a hard thing we went through. Especially for you. I mean, you had no idea she was just offloading all her feelings on you before she did what she did. That must have been so unbelievably tough for you.” She shakes her head in sympathy.

“
Yeah, it was. Man, I felt so guilty when she died.”

“
I know. I get it. But you couldn’t have done anything. You know that, right? She’d made up her mind what she was going to do. There was nothing you or me or anyone could’ve done to stop her,” she says.

I nod at her, biting my lip as I
try not to relive the sadness and guilt that had so defined the time, holding back the tears Laura’s kindness has provoked.

“
Jess, I’m sorry about our coffee in Pravda. I was wrong to have a go at you like that. You did what you needed to do when Linds died. I just kind of felt like I was left here alone with you swanning off to London to start a fabulous new life. Which of course I wasn’t.” She sips her coffee and breaks off a piece of chocolate.

“
You know, all of that stuff happening when we were so young had to have had an effect on us. It was a really, really hard thing for us to go through,” she says softly.

“
Yeah, it sucked.”

“
Oh, yeah. It completely sucked.” She shakes her head and smiles at me empathetically.

“
Jess, we all loved her,” she continues.

I look
up at Laura and see tears welling in her eyes. I reach for her hand on the table, nodding at her in agreement, unable to speak.

W
e sit in companionable silence for a long time, just looking at one another as we unsuccessfully attempt to blink back our tears, remembering Lindsay and everything we’d been through. I’d pushed my feelings about her so far down, not letting them see the stark light of day for so, so long.

Coming home had done exactly what I’d been afraid of
- it’d brought those feelings back up. Because they’d been shut away for so long, they were just as awful, just as hard as they’d been the first time around.

But
as I sit in Laura’s kitchen, absorbed in my thoughts, I realise something’s changed. I don’t feel so guilty, so helpless, so angry.

I just feel sad.
Sad for the loss of a dear, sweet friend.

I’
d put off talking about Linds for so long with anyone, but now I’ve finally done it, it feels right. I feel calmer, like I can finally let her be. It was hard to be forced to think about her again, to relive the horror of her death, but it’s been thoroughly cathartic.

And now,
finally, it’s time to move on.

Eventually breaking the
silence, Laura sniffs and asks, “Want to stay for a bite to eat? I can throw together a salad or toast some sandwiches?”

I
run my fingers through my hair and smile at her. “No, thanks. There’s something I’ve got to do. Something I’ve needed to do for a long time.”

***

I arrive in Roseneath just ten minutes later - I’m beginning to love the lack of traffic in this city, I’ve got to say - and park outside a large, turn of the century weatherboard house overlooking the beautiful blue harbour and city.

I
grab another bunch of peonies from the front seat of Mum’s car and turn around to survey the house for a few moments before I walk through the front gate, remembering all the times I’d hung out here over the last fifteen or so years. It looks pretty much the same, despite a fresh lick of paint.

I
approach the glossy black front door and ring the doorbell with my heart racing, almost willing its occupants to be out. The house remains silent. I ring the bell again, and this time I can hear heeled footsteps on echoing wooden floorboards approaching.

A moment later and the door
swings open.

“
Hello Mrs. Whitman,” I smile breathlessly at the very slim, impeccably dressed woman in front of me.

She’s wearing a be
ige cashmere cardigan with a black trim over beautifully tailored slim-fitting woollen black trousers, a row of cultured pearls at her neck. I don’t know exactly what I’d expected, but she looked the same as she always had.

“
Jessica! My goodness. Oh how lovely to see you.” She takes hold of my shoulders and leans in to hug me and we have one of those awkward moments when I go one way and she goes the other and she ends up mainly hugging my already slightly saggy flowers.

Looking
a little worse for wear I pass the peonies to her. “For you,” I say with a smile, still feeling nervous.

“
Thank you, Jessica. They’re just gorgeous. I love peonies. I always think it’s such a shame the season is so short, don’t you?” She seems genuinely happy to see me, which is a major relief.

I
let out a breath and begin to feel more relaxed as she continues, “Come in, come in.”

I walk through the door
, which Mrs. Whitman closes behind me.

“
Shall we sit on the terrace? It’s such a lovely day, it’d be a shame not to.”

“
That would be great, Mrs. Whitman, thanks,” I reply, following her down the corridor.

“
Oh, please call me Cindy. You’re a grown woman, Jessica! And besides, Mrs. Whitman is my mother-in-law.”

Don’t you hate it when people do that?
You’ve known them as Mr. This or Mrs. That your whole life and then they turn around one day and invite you to treat them as equals by calling them something else. Don’t they know they will always be Mr. or Mrs. and it’s just going to feel weird every time you call them by another name?

We walk
through the living room towards the balcony overlooking the harbour and I’m struck by how different the room looks from when I was last here.

Of course
I appreciate people redecorate and the place is likely to have changed a bit in the last few years, but it looks so stark, almost like the soul of the room has been sucked out of it.

The walls, once
littered in photos of the Whitman children - from christening shots to graduations and beyond - are now almost bare but for two oversized, abstract art works. Consequently the room has gone from homely and comfortable to looking more like an art gallery that’s already sold most of its artwork off the walls.

“
Wow, you’ve redecorated,” I say, pointing out the bleeding obvious. “It looks amazing, Mrs.… Cindy.”

“
Thank you, Jessica. We redid the whole place a couple of years ago. Well, almost the whole place.”

She looks lost in thought for a moment and then seems to snap herself out of it, saying,
“Please, come and have a seat.”

We walk through the open bi-folding
doors onto the balcony with its incredible view of the harbour and city. The fountain in the harbour is dramatically spurting water metres into the air and I can see people and dogs promenading along Oriental Bay below us, happy and relaxed in the warm spring sunshine.

We sit on the comfortable outdoor sofas, smelling the scent of the jasmine
climbing over the balcony fence.

“
How are you, Jessica? When did you get home? Are you here for good or just visiting?” she asks.

“
Oh, I’ve moved back. Permanently.”

For the first time since I arrived in Wellington I don’t have a sinking feeling when I think about how I live here now. Instead I feel a small smile b
egin to spread across my face. For once it actually feels good to be here.

Cindy looks genuinely pleased.
“Well, welcome home, Jessica.”

She pauses, looking at me solemnly and I feel my anxiety begin to rise again.
“Lindsay would have so loved to have you back here. It’d be like old times, don’t you think? You two were such good friends.”

She smiles at me
in an attempt to look as though her words don’t make her want to crumple up into a small ball, but the dampness in her eyes gives her away.

“
I think she would have,” I agree softly.

Despite
Cindy removing evidence of her offspring I can still feel Lindsay’s presence.

“
Are you living with your mum? In Karori still, is she?” Cindy continues, thankfully breaking my train of thought before I have too much time to get totally freaked out.

“
Yep, living with Mum, just until I get myself together and get a flat somewhere,” I reply.

“
Well, that’s wonderful.”

I hear footsteps on the wooden floors
behind me and turn to see Mr. Whitman, Lindsay’s dad, walking towards us, smiling pleasantly. Just like Cindy, he looks really polished in a privileged older man kind of way, dressed in a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt and tailored navy trousers.