This is a Love Story (20 page)

The low light cast dark shadows on swathes of jewel-green fabric. I couldn’t figure out what kind of material it was at the time. All I knew was that it was the kind of texture I’d only dreamed about when I was a little girl, yearning to be transformed into a princess, just like in the films.

It had a sleek halter-neck, which plunged down the middle in a steep V and then met a delicate corset waist section. This then flowed into a rippling skirt, which I imagined would trail behind the wearer like a wedding dress. But it clearly wasn’t a wedding dress. It was a dress of utter temptation. It was sexy, actually. The proportions were perfect, the colour was perfect, the cut was perfect.

And this was a very sneaky sales technique . . . I wasn’t having any of this, I decided, turning towards the door again. I couldn’t wait to tell the girls about my crazy encounter with this woman.

‘What do you think?’ She smiled, beckoning me back.

‘Well, it’s absolutely stunning, but I’m actually only here to get some gym kit, so if I could just have a browse over there that would be great.’ I was trying very hard to be polite.

She shook her head with frustration and rushed the garment towards me suddenly. Swinging it through the air, she laid it to rest in my arms, which I had involuntarily stretched out to ensure it got to me safely.

Her eyes were so illuminated, so alive, it looked as if they might burst into flames.

Layers of green silk rippled in my hands. It took my breath away. It was old but on-trend. Vintage but cutting-edge. Rachel Zoe would have probably chased me down the street and gouged my eyes out with a toothpick for this one. It was bloody gorgeous, and probably hideously expensive to boot.

‘Yes, like I said, it’s lovely. I really have to crack on now, though,’ I said, looking down at it. But love had already taken hold. I had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

‘It’s yours. I want you to have it,’ she said, her coldness suddenly melting into a warm, broad smile. ‘It used to be mine, Sienna. I fell in love the night I wore it and married him soon afterwards. I’ve been waiting for the right girl to take it on, and you, I just have a feeling about you. I think you need this.’

I couldn’t quite believe I was hearing these words. Didn’t the dear old lady have a daughter or a niece or something? I wondered.

‘Don’t you have family you could give this to?’ I looked at her searchingly as I started to push the garment back towards her. What if she was mentally ill? Maybe I should call the police.

‘No. And don’t ask questions. It’s your size, I can just tell. I want you to take it home, hang it up safely and wait for the right moment to wear it. And I promise you, it will change your life, Sienna. But until the day you get to wear it, whenever you feel down, or inferior, or downtrodden by the world, I want you to imagine you are wearing it. I know things are hard for you, I can tell by looking in your eyes. Whenever things are difficult I want you to imagine you are wearing
this
dress . . .’ Her eyes narrowed with the sheer passion of what she was saying. I was suddenly aware of a Russian tinge to her accent that I hadn’t been able to place before.

Whether she was driven by lunacy or not, I couldn’t be rude to this woman. I was simply not brought up that way. I also couldn’t bring myself to walk out of the shop with her dress.

‘Listen,’ I said, putting my hands over hers and pulling her down to sit on one of two fold-up chairs, starting to feel genuine concern about this situation. A middle-aged woman walked through the jangling door but instantly fled when she saw we were having some kind of intimate moment.

‘Look, this is so kind of you, and I’m really touched by the gesture. I think your story is lovely and inspirational, and you obviously feel strongly about the importance of being confident. But I just can’t take this. I will, however, take a look at your great selection of gymwear.’ I started to walk slowly to the other side of the shop, running an enterprising hand over the dusty rails and grinning cheesily.

‘Hmm. Fine, do what you want, Sienna,’ she said with an indignant expression. She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs moodily, revealing an ankle as skinny as a goat’s knee.

Oh, great. I was going to end up pity-buying the whole shop now. Actually, these things weren’t half bad, I thought, as I started to paw through the hangers gently. She must cherry-pick her stock quite carefully. The hangers were old but the clothes were new; there was even some of the Stella McCartney gym range in here, which was hard to get hold of. I hadn’t been too inspired by the offerings in other shops. Too much nasty material, too tight, too baggy . . . This all looked quite nice and made the thought of the gym more appealing.

Right. I could get out of this situation quite easily. I would do my gym shop here. I would take the bags and leave, alive, my new friend would keep her lovely dress, and all would be well.

‘You take your time and have a browse, my dear girl. You know where to find me.’ She disappeared into a dark alcove behind the till, her voice getting considerably quieter as she was enveloped by the blackness.

Trying these things on wouldn’t be a great idea. I just picked out some of the best size 10 offerings and started to pile them up on the counter as I browsed. I could hear my new friend carefully wrapping the items in tissue paper. The rustling sound echoed across the shop and into my ears.

My eyes caught a framed picture of a stunning ballerina. She looked a little bit familiar. ‘Is this you?’ I asked, stepping back in shock.

‘Yes it is, my darling. That was me in my salad days. I was nineteen when that was taken. Never thought I would end up selling dance outfits and gymwear, but still. They had me performing all over the world, you know . . .’ Her voice had grown louder and suddenly she was standing right behind me, both hands resting on my shoulders. A chill ran up and down my spine again, just like it had when my father was passed out on my bed. Again, I was reminded of the inevitable progress of age, and how it transformed a beauty like this one, smudging the edges until it resembled something quite different. Not necessarily bad, just different. It scared me. It made me want to cling on to the moments of my youth and make sure I lived them until there was nothing more to squeeze out of them.

‘He isn’t too far off, you know, Sienna,’ she said, very quietly now.

‘Sorry – I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ I said, thrown into a state of bewilderment again.

‘Your man. He will come round to you. It will work itself out.’ Her eyes met mine and I felt an ice-cold sensation down my back again.

God, this was weird. But she was definitely nuts and, like a horoscope, frustratingly vague. You will breathe today. At some point in the next forty-eight hours, you will fall asleep. You will change the bed sheets within the next fortnight . . . Well, duh. Ridiculous.

He
could be the milkman who owes Dad and me a fiver.
He
could be my uncle who promised he would call last year and just stopped trying.
But still,
he
could be, well, you know . . . Nick.

Right. I need to get out of here, I thought. I peeled five £20 notes from my purse and walked out of the shop with my bags. What a strange woman. I considered the madness of the situation as I joined the hustle and bustle of the centre of town.

Couples embraced against walls and street signs; giggling children ran between bollards and bins; lone wanderers looked at stunning cakes and carefully crafted clothing through panes of sparkling glass and smiled at the beauty of it all.

There was something really special about today and it only reinforced my love affair with London. I had been so infatuated with Nick recently that my thoughts had been totally taken up by him. We had spent so much time together that I now had some to myself. And with it, I was going to explore my surroundings more, be independent. This was the only city where you could meet such a choice selection of eccentrics as I was doing this afternoon.

When I got home, I started pulling my new wares out of their gold bags and carefully unwrapping the tissue paper. You didn’t get this kind of treatment in JD Sports.

When I pulled the last parcel out of its bag it seemed heavier than the others. Odd . . . I tore away at the tissue paper and saw a flash of green. A load of silk came pouring like water out of the hole I had made.

Oh my God, it was the dress.

I held it in the air and felt the skirt come tumbling down, swishing against the floor.

‘Wow, Sienna. That’s absolutely incredible,’ came my father’s voice as he stood in the doorway behind me, holding on to the wooden frame with a white-knuckle grip. ‘What’s it for? Are you going to a party or something?’ he questioned, a look of wonder on his face.

‘No, Dad. I didn’t even buy it. I don’t really know what to do. A woman I don’t know gave it to me today, she really wanted me to have it.’ I sighed as I sat back on my bed, guilt and joy rushing over me all at once.

‘You’ll look incredible in it, Si.’ He stood for a minute, looking really proud of me. I didn’t know why. I hadn’t done anything good.

Unsure of what to do with the dress, I slipped a soft hanger through the straps and balanced it on the door handle of my wardrobe. Dad and I stood and surveyed it like it was a painting in the Louvre.

Was I the kind of girl who could do a dress of that calibre any justice? I really didn’t feel like I could, but now I felt a huge responsibility to do so. It was wasted on me, really. It was as if the crisp memory of one woman’s youth was now hanging in my room, aching to be relived through some impossible love story. What made it worse was that I wasn’t sure if I really believed in love any more . . .

The dress had been playing on my mind all day long. I’d managed to shake it off in the last hour or so, but now, as I looked down at my kitbag, I thought again about this beautiful unexpected gift, given to me by an ex-ballerina I didn’t even know. A dancer who took people’s breath away as she whirled across stages all over the world. I was in two minds about running it back to the shop.

I met a girl today who
could
wear a dress like that, and that made it all even worse. Her name is Chloe. Now
she
is beautiful.

She’s on work experience at the office and will only be with us for a week. She has a mop of crazy blonde hair and a really pretty face. She also has a kind of naughty, bad girl look about her, while seeming angelic at the same time.

She’s the kind of girl that makes even the most confident woman look in the mirror and notice new flaws, so it was no surprise I was suddenly feeling so inadequate.

Thank goodness she’s only here for a week, I thought.

Being that beautiful, people must make assumptions about you before they know you. I didn’t know how she’d wangled a placement from Ant, seeing as he’s about as flexible as a wooden ruler, but I think her looks probably helped. She might be a really nice girl with incredible talent and drive, but I guess I’ll never know. Girls like that get the things they want in life, I thought.

I looked in the mirror at my long brown hair, which tumbled wildly over my shoulders because it hadn’t been cut for a while. I looked at my pale skin, which I had never had the energy or time to stain with fake tan. My nails were self-painted and the varnish had started to chip. My eyebrows needed plucking.

I wasn’t fierce. I wasn’t even that sexy. I wasn’t like Chloe.

Six

‘If I could just turn back time, I would give her everything.’

Nick

The word temp is short for temporary. I even looked it up in the dictionary:

When I met Chloe Rogers three weeks ago, I thought she would be with us for a week. It would be temporary. Very much so, and even if Ant did decide to create an extra editorial assistant role, it would not necessarily be her filling it.

There’s a lot of competition out there. I assumed there would be a whole interview process where a load of miserable-looking, dejected journalists would turn up, for once having shaved/worn a suit/wiped off the habitual sulky expression, and go for the job.

But here she is, in all her sexy glory. With her own desk, being sexy, day in day out. It’s extremely distracting. The first email this morning went a bit like this:

Now that is flirting. I may be a little bit slow off the mark when it comes to women, but even I can pick up on the hints in that message. She even did the double bluffing thing with the ‘strictly colleague to colleague basis’ remark.

Still. I love it, and she’s pretty funny too. Funny women are even more attractive than the just attractive ones.

I flexed my fingers and clicked reply, the familiar butterflies of an exciting new romantic liaison filling my tummy.