by Ashley Croft
‘Wow,’ said Sarah.
‘Anyway, we’ve brought everything forward and I need the headdresses for a trial run at the salon at the end of January. You can do it, can’t you?’ Cassandra’s voice took on a vaguely menacing tone.
‘Well, there’s a lot of work, especially if I have to adapt them to being worn upside down, at high speed with all that G force.’
‘Well, I’d have thought you’d have been gagging for the work, and maybe offering me a discount if I’m going to advertise your work on Brekkie … but if you don’t need the business, I could try someone else.’
‘Yes, I do. Of course, I want the business and of course, I’ll do it.’ Sarah forced a smile to her face. She needed the business more than ever now that Niall had moved out. ‘Don’t worry, everything will be ready for your big day,’ she said soothingly.
‘Good, because I want it all to be totally one hundred and ten per cent perfect.’
‘Of course, it’s once in a lifetime.’
Cassandra examined her nail. ‘Well, yeah, I suppose so. If it lasts. But that’s marriage, innit – a lottery?’ she added cheerfully.
Cassandra didn’t sound the slightest bit bothered by the prospect of her relationship not lasting and Sarah couldn’t say she was shocked or even surprised. Cassandra wasn’t the first bride she’d had who looked on the wedding mainly as an excuse to have a party and be a princess for the day. And after all, wasn’t that what she was selling? Be a princess. Wear a tiara. Pretend you’re Kate or Meghan or Princess Aurora? Sarah was in the fairy-tale business after all, but she’d liked to think she had a slightly less cynical approach than some of the suppliers – a more personal touch, a genuine sincerity that most customers recognised even if they didn’t all appreciate it.
‘The headdresses will all be ready,’ she said, hardening her heart and opening her appointments book. ‘Shall we say you come round for a fitting four weeks from today?’
‘Fab.’ Cassandra studied the Kabin, sighing wistfully. ‘What a cute little hut this is. It reminds me of a fairy grotto. I wish I could give up my job and play around with crystals and beads.’
Sarah restrained herself only by a great effort of will. ‘So do I.’
Digging her Swarovski-encrusted pearlescent pink iPhone out of her Mulberry bag, Cassandra left the Kabin with a tiny finger wave.
After she’d left, Sarah made herself a ginger tea and sat down. She couldn’t really criticise Cassandra. Who was the deluded one? Cassandra who was determined to make a statement on this one day – and stuff the lifetime afterwards, which was optional anyway? Or Molly who was, despite her protests, patently in love with her ambitious, frigid boss.
Or Sarah herself? Deluding herself that she and Niall were different. Special.
Until now Sarah had been happy that she’d given up a decent job with a bank to pursue the creative hobby she loved. She’d spent enough time helping other people get their businesses up and running in the decade or so that she’d worked at the bank. Although she didn’t begrudge a nanosecond of the time she’d devoted to making sure Molly had a good start in life, she’d been so excited at finally being able to do something for herself that was a bit risky, a bit crazy and a lot wonderful.
So what if some people at the bank had thought and told her she was selling brides a cheesy, sparkly pipe dream? She was doing what she loved best, while trying to make a future for herself and her baby.
Closing her appointments book, she took a few deep breaths and told herself to snap out of her gloom and get on with her work. Cassandra was her only appointment for the day, although she had several workshops to prepare for later in the week.
In fact, she ought to get started on Cassandra’s commission right now, but she simply couldn’t face it. It was far more tempting to curl up in bed and bawl her eyes out again – although even that would mean sleeping in the bed where Niall had been shagging Vanessa.
She locked the garden gate as Cassandra roared off in her BMW and a lump formed in her throat. The early morning drizzle had cleared and the sky was now an unblemished blue. Birds cawed from the cottage chimney, the sun gave the creamy stone a mellow hue and the whole place looked impossibly cute and picturesque. She and Niall had worked their butts off to afford it. She swallowed down her tears as she heard the “beep beep” of the bin lorry reversing up the lane. It wouldn’t do to blub in front of the bin men and anyway, she would never have Niall back again, even if he begged her on his knees in front of the bin men.
She hurried back to the workshop. Anger had replaced the initial shock of finding Niall in bed with Vanessa, combined with worries about what their split meant for her future and that of the baby. She needed to make her business work more than ever if she was going to be a single mum.
Another wave of nausea washed over her but she took a few deep breaths. She had to think of the baby now though it was hard to imagine a life beyond the cottage and the Tiara Kabin. She remembered the days they’d toiled on it in rain, hail and shine the previous autumn. It had a space where she could run her small workshops and entertain clients, with a tiny kitchenette for preparing drinks and snacks. Niall had got a mate to plumb in the sink and Sarah’s electrician cousin had wired it up to the mains. It was hardly the Grand Arcade but she loved it and the investment had finally been starting to pay off.
Closing the door behind her, she took some long, slow breaths. If she had to move out of the cottage, she’d have to find somewhere with room for the Kabin. But where and how could she possibly afford another place near Cambridge with outdoor space on her own?
On the desk, a light flashed on the phone. A message had come in while she’d shown Cassandra to the gate.
It could be Niall again … saying he’d made a massive mistake and begging her to let him back. She wouldn’t, of course … absolutely no way.
Sarah listened then rolled her eyes as she heard heavy breathing then a clatter and a groan and someone muttering, ‘Oh bugger.’ Her finger hovered over the delete key. The last thing she needed was a pervert asking the colour of her knickers.
‘Erm. Really sorry about that. I dropped the phone.’
Sarah listened. It was a man’s voice. Neutral accent, older than her, maybe, but not much? There was more heavy breathing. Sarah’s finger touched the button then he spoke.
‘I was wondering if you er … had any places left on your tiara-making workshop?’
Sarah removed her finger from the button. OK. Probably not a pervert and it wasn’t unheard of for guys to attend a workshop but … She’d had a couple, once, who wanted to make matching Swarovski crystal cravat pins for their civil partnership but, without stereotyping people – actually she was stereotyping people – she was ninety-nine per cent sure this guy must be gay. Or he could be a cross dresser, of course, which was fine, or at a push, the director of a local am dram group.
‘The tiara’s not for me, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Sarah muttered to herself.
‘It’s for my daughter who’s getting married …’
Sarah arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘I know it must sound strange …’
‘Just a little.’
‘But it’s something I want to do.’
Sarah sighed. She really didn’t need to know all this in an answerphone message but this poor guy clearly needed to get it off his chest.
‘So if you can phone me back, I’d appreciate it.’ Brisker now, faster and more confident. He’d obviously got through the worst part and felt on safer ground. ‘And if you could call me back as soon as possible, I’d be grateful. I’m in a bit of a rush, you see.’
‘A rush? Hey, you should meet Cassandra.’
‘Thanks.’
The phone went dead.
Sarah sighed and tidied up the bundle of bridal magazines that Cassandra had flicked through while Sarah had made her a coffee. Behind her the phone started buzzing again. Sarah’s heart beat a little faster. This tim
e it really might be Niall but she was frozen to the spot, not knowing what to say to him if he called.
The answerphone pinged again and the same voice echoed around the workshop.
‘Erm. Sorry for this but it’s Liam Cipriani again. I don’t think I left my number in the last message. Or my name for that matter. But as I said, it’s Liam. Cipriani. Here it is. 0787 …’
‘No shit, Sherlock?’ Sarah’s shoulders slumped as with another apology and a further request to “phone him back as soon as she possibly could”, Liam rang off.
She hovered by the phone a few moments longer, just in case he felt the need to tell her his life story or provide his inside leg measurement, before stacking the magazines in the middle of the table. As she rubbed the lipstick off Cassandra’s mug in the sink, she wondered why Liam had booked when he sounded as if he’d rather have his chest hairs plucked out one by one than attend a tiara-making workshop. Why was he coming at all, rather than his daughter?
And she really should phone him back right now.
‘Hello!’
Startled, Sarah saw a face at the window. A bald red-faced guy in a hi-vis vest grinned back at her. She opened the door and the cold hit her.
‘Erm, excuse me, love, this dropped out of the bin and I’m not sure you want to throw it out or if you dropped it on your way to your shed?’
The bin man held up the tiara, slightly deformed but still recognisable. It had a string of spaghetti dangling from it.
‘Oh, I see. I …’ Sarah couldn’t think of a way to say why she’d thrown the tiara in the bin, but worse than that, she couldn’t let the tiara go. Not even after its last wearer had been Niall, and Vanessa had possibly worn it too, for all she knew.
‘You want it then or shall I chuck it on the wagon?’ he asked.
‘No. I’ll have it.’
She took the tiara from him, shivering. ‘Thanks.’
He grinned. ‘Pleasure. Happy New Year.’
Sarah looked at the tiara. It was slightly bent but it had always been a reject. It was one from the early days when she was still learning her craft. Not good enough to sell but one of the first she’d actually been pleased with. The first one worth keeping.
The bin man jogged back up the path, steam rising from his head in the chilly air. Sarah stood by the door, the tiara between her frozen fingertips. The string of spaghetti slithered to the paving stones. Why hadn’t she let him take the bloody thing to the tip, which was what it deserved – just like Niall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A couple of days later, Sarah sat nervously opposite the GP in her surgery. The doctor was new and probably even younger than Sarah. She beamed in delight. ‘So, Mrs Havers, you’re almost eight weeks pregnant. Congratulations.’
Sarah didn’t know what to say. Of course, she already knew she was pregnant, but hearing it confirmed officially was surreal.
The GP smiled encouragingly. ‘Pregnancy and motherhood is a huge change for any woman and it can come as a bit of a shock. Are you OK?’
‘Yes … yes, like you say, it’s a bit of a shock.’
‘Does your partner know?’
‘Not yet.’ Sarah thought of the six missed calls on her phone. Niall had been trying to reach her over the past few days but she hadn’t trusted herself to answer him. Her focus had been on the baby and today’s doctor’s appointment. ‘It’s Ms Havers by the way.’
Sarah didn’t think the GP had heard her reply because she just carried on. ‘Going by the date of your LMP, your due date should be the thirtieth of August. I’ll send you for a scan as soon as possible and the midwifery team will take over from there. You’ll also need …’ The GP went on, listing all the places Sarah needed to be and people she had to see and things she couldn’t eat, drink or touch. That was one thing then: she now had a great excuse for never going near goat’s cheese.
‘Now, I need to ask a few questions about your family health history. Is there any history of …?’ The GP reeled off a list of diseases and genetic conditions.
Sarah knew the answer to a few of the questions but most were answered with: ‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’m sorry to be so vague but my parents died when I was a teenager so I can’t ask them. I’ll have to phone my auntie and uncle and see if they know.’
‘And I’m sorry to hear about your parents,’ said the GP, looking genuinely sympathetic. ‘And all these questions and information must seem like an awful lot to take in when you’re still coming to terms with being pregnant. Maybe you can ask your partner about his own family history when you give him the news?’
Oh hell, she had to tell Niall at some point, if only in case there was some terrible genetic problem in his family that she didn’t know about. It wasn’t likely as he’d never mentioned any problems but then, they’d never discussed having children. She felt rather than heard the buzzing of her phone in her bag at her feet.
‘Yes. Yes, I will,’ she said and hurried out of the surgery.
There were two more calls from Niall. Knowing she couldn’t ignore him forever, Sarah found a parking space on a side street near one of the university departments and walked through the Backs into the centre of the city where she was due to meet Molly. She listened to one of Niall’s messages.
‘Sarah. Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to call you. You must let me explain about the other night … me and Ness. It’s not what you think. It was … a huge mistake.’
‘Gah!’
Sarah’s snort of disgust sent a flock of ducks scattering onto the river, quacking loudly. Even though it was winter, there were still plenty of tourists taking selfies, loitering in the middle of the road and almost getting run over by bikes. Students whizzed around the narrow streets by the market square, ringing their bells when a hapless pedestrian dared to cross. Sarah wandered in and out of JoJo Maman Bébé and John Lewis, looking at the cribs and baby baths, the tiny pairs of jeans and miniature Ugg boots.
Her eyes watered at the price tags but her baby would need all of these things from somewhere. She definitely wanted it to have them, except it would be summer when she or he made an appearance and she – or he – would need pretty dresses or cute shorts and mini jelly sandals. She would have to provide it all, with Niall’s help, of course. The responsibility was overwhelming … and apart from Molly, there was no family to share the news with, no mum or dad … Her parents would have loved a grandchild, if they’d been here. God, she’d give anything to share her news with them, even if she and Ni had split up.
She’d give anything to turn back the clock. She stopped on the edge of the pavement, her legs suddenly weak and her head light. It was only the shock of the past few weeks and the baby making her feel faint. It was understandable, normal … Her legs almost gave way and she stumbled into the road.
‘Whoa!’
She stepped back onto the pavement just as a cyclist whizzed by, so close she felt the rush of air against her face. Sarah hadn’t even noticed him approach. Had she got baby brain already? She glanced around, expecting people to stare or roll their eyes at her doziness but everyone hurried past, oblivious to her presence. That’s what it would be like from now on, she thought. She was on her own.
Feeling hot despite the bitter air, she hurried along the narrow lane that snaked between the market and the street where the café was situated. A cool drink and a sit-down would help but the stone walls of the colleges seemed to press in on her and she had to dodge round tourists taking photos outside porters’ lodges.
Although it had started to sleet, she pulled her scarf out of her coat to let the sharp air cool her chest, but she still felt hot and light-headed. If she could make the café and sit down, gulp down a glass of iced water, she’d be OK … She spotted the railings outside the café, with student notices and playbills fluttering in the wind, and put her hand over her mouth.
Oh no, she was going to be sick! But far better to throw up in the café toilets than vom over a tourist.
&nbs
p; She hurried down the pavement and stepped onto the wet cobbles.
‘Look out!’
A bell jangled loudly and she felt a sharp tug on the back of her coat.
‘Hey!’ The curse from the cyclist was already just a streak of noise.
‘Are you OK?’ A tall man in a black padded jacket held her by the elbow.
Sarah caught her breath ‘Yes. I … yes, of course.’
‘You do know you almost stepped right in front of that idiot?’
‘I know. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I think I might be the idiot.’
‘He was on his mobile, the twat, but you did seem to be in a world of your own.’
If Sarah hadn’t felt so crap, she might have been offended but she didn’t have the energy. ‘I’m not feeling that great, but thanks.’
‘No problem.’
‘You can let go of my elbow now,’ she said. ‘You’re Ewan, aren’t you?’
Ewan’s bushy eyebrows met in a frown that weirdly did nothing to spoil his ruggedly handsome looks. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m Moll’s sister.’ Sarah hoped she wouldn’t throw up on his Timberland boots.
‘Mol?’
‘Dr Molly Havers. Your colleague from the lab? I was at the – um … New Year party with her.’ Sarah could have kicked herself for mentioning the scene of Molly’s humiliation but it was too late now.
‘Oh yes. That Molly, of course. Sorry.’ He glanced down at Sarah. ‘You do look pale. Are you ill?’
Wow, he is blunt, thought Sarah. No wonder Molly’s having a hard time with him and judging by the way he hadn’t instantly recognised her sister’s name, it didn’t bode well.
‘I just felt a bit light-headed and nauseated for a second.’
‘Do you want to sit down? I can get you a glass of water from the café?’ His dark brown eyes held genuine concern and boy, was he gorgeous. Poor Molly, thought Sarah, he might be a bit of a prat but close up he was a real heartbreaker.
‘I think I was just too hot but I’m feeling a bit better now and I don’t want to put you to any trouble. You must be busy. In the lab …’ she added, remembering Molly’s comments about her boss being a workaholic.