by Katey Lovell
“Hello,” said a glamorous yet hard-faced brunette, rearranging a display of glistening tiaras. The gems that adorned the headwear had more sparkle than either her eyes or her voice. “How can I help?”
“I’m Tawna, I phoned earlier about the mauve bridesmaids dresses?” Tawna presented the piece of paper, on which she’d written down the details, to the assistant.
“Ah, yes. We have it in stock, if you’re sure that’s what you want.” Her lips twitched first to the left and then to the right as she looked me and Eve up and down disparagingly, before saying, “Some people find detail on the bust draws attention to the chest area. Of course, if that doesn’t bother you then it’s not a problem.” I couldn’t tell who she was directing that comment towards – me with my ample bosom, or Eve with her bee-stings. It was hardly complimentary, however you looked at it. “Feel free to browse the stock, see if there’s anything more… suitable.”
That was all the encouragement Tawna needed to start pulling at the dresses on the racks, immediately dismissing anything too garish.
“I like this,” she said, pulling out a silky floor-length sheath in a pale pink shade.
“That’s gorgeous.” I stroked the delicate fabric with the tips of my fingers. “So elegant. And it’s pink, my favourite.”
“And look at the tie around the waist.” Eve pointed to the sage green ribbon, tied into a feature bow to one side of the dress. “It’s the same colour as that other dress you liked, Tawna.”
“We don’t have every size in that style available at the moment,” the assistant said through pinched lips, “although you’re welcome to try on as many dresses as you like.”
Soon we were posing in all styles. The one we’d originally come to look at was gorgeous, but I had to begrudgingly admit that the assistant knew her stuff – I’d looked like a pair of tits on legs. A silver shift dress looked stunning on Eve with her Twiggy-like figure but left me looking like a chicken drumstick wrapped in tin foil. A classy sky-blue dress was flattering for us both, but Tawna’s mutterings about halter-necks not complimenting her own dress had vetoed it.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to try the yellow?” Tawna cajoled, to resounding “no”s from me and Eve.
“We all know the pink one’s the winner,” Eve said, looking back towards the dress that had caught Tawna’s eye on the rail. “It’s grown up, simple, flattering, and won’t date in the photographs. It’s a timeless classic.”
When Eve had tried the smaller of the shop samples earlier, Tawna and I had gasped at the vision of Eve, whose dark hair contrasted with the subtle tones of the dress. She really had looked breathtaking.
Despite my best efforts I’d not been able to fit into the largest dress they had in stock. The zip went so far and then refused to budge no matter how hard I’d tried to make my frame smaller. My chest was the problem, being two sizes bigger than my waist. In the end I’d resorted to putting the dress back on the hanger and looping it over my head, to at least see if the colour suited my skin tone (which was paler than ever, since stopping using even the cheap fake tan).
“You’re going to look amazing in that,” Tawna confirmed. “You’ll need a good bra though, Miss Boobalicious.”
“Maybe I’ll make a move on the best man,” I joked, reaching out to touch the smooth cool material of the dress. It slid through my fingers, fluid. “Isn’t that the tradition? The bridesmaid and the best man get it on?”
Eve laughed. “Why do you get first dibs? It might be someone I take a shine to.”
“Ah.” Tawna’s lips formed a pained smile, her eyes flitting nervously between the two of us. She clucked her tongue, then inhaled her breath sharply through her teeth. “I wanted to talk to you about that. Johnny’s asked Darius to be his best man.”
Eve’s eyes widened at the revelation and I struggled to find the right words, making sounds that could pass for gibberish, before finally managing, “I thought Johnny was going to ask Paul.” Paul was Johnny’s brother, near identical to him in looks, but not in business nous or work ethic, which was why Paul’s barber’s shop was struggling to survive (which is what happens when you turn up three hours later than the advertised opening hours, because you were out on the lash the night before), whereas Johnny’s company was expanding every year.
“He did, but Paul turned him down. He doesn’t think he’s reliable enough to handle all that responsibility, and you’ve got to agree he’s right. Can you imagine trusting him with the rings?” She laughed as though it was ridiculous. “That’s why Darius is stepping up to the role. It’s not exactly out of the blue, he is Johnny’s best friend. He’s still been asking after you, Sophie, and I don’t want the two of you at loggerheads on my wedding day. Why don’t you meet up with him? Talk things through and clear the air?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Eve interjected, rearing like a startled horse. “Don’t push Sophie into spending time with that jerk.”
Tawna frowned, her usually beautiful face hard. “I don’t believe she’s over him and I don’t want her to have any regrets. And from the things he’s been saying to Johnny, Darius is still in love with her.”
Why was it that every time Tawna made a declaration of love on Darius’s behalf I found myself catching my breath?
“But she’s not in love with him,” Eve replied, exasperated.
“Because she’s in love with this Max, is that what you’re saying?” Tawna laughed sceptically, and I wished they’d stop making out they knew what was best for me. I felt invisible. “After one date, if you can even call it that?”
“I never mentioned love, but I like him. What’s wrong with that?” The sales assistant glanced up cautiously, my loud voice leading her to believe a full-blown cat fight was about to kick off. That wouldn’t be good in a bridal boutique. Too many delicate materials.
“Darius never got over you. He says splitting up with you was the worst mistake of his life.”
“Maybe we’d still be together if he’d spent less time chatting up other women.”
Talking about it brought the painful memories of rejection to the fore. It had got to the point where I hadn’t wanted to go into town with him. I’d only end up crushed by the lack of attention he’d pay me, but despite knowing his eyes would wander towards other women, I’d get dolled up and go with him regardless. After a day at work I was more than happy to have a long soak in a bubble bath, change into my PJs and read or sew in front of the telly, but Darius called me a boring old fart if I suggested a night in.
Even the trips we’d shared to the club capitals of Europe – Ayia Napa, Faliraki, Magaluf – had required not just stamina to last the all-nighters but a thick skin to turn a blind eye to his antics. I’d paid for the last holiday we’d had together, because of a cash-flow problem at the company, even though the trip had been his idea. He’d made me promise not to let on to Tawna, because “it would only worry her if she knew things weren’t as good for Johnny’s business in reality as they were on paper”, and of course I couldn’t tell Eve because she’d have blabbed. Darius assured me he’d pay me back when he could, because a fortnight at an all-inclusive top hotel right in the heart of the action had been costly. He’d finished with me a week after we got back without offering to reimburse me, and I was too ashamed to ask for the money. I hadn’t mentioned that to anyone. Bringing it up would only sound petty, like sour grapes for being scorned.
“Look, I didn’t want to say this, but…” Tawna sighed. “It’s Nadia. She’s being a total bitch to Darius. She’s got this new boyfriend who’s in the marines.”
“Very interesting,” Eve said, in a dry tone that suggested she thought it was anything but. “But that has nothing to do with Sophie.”
“Exactly.” I glared. “Nadia and I never saw eye to eye, but good for her if she’s got a fit new boyfriend. Fair play.”
“You don’t understand,” Tawna replied. “It’s not about that. This guy Nadia’s been seeing… he’s getting his feet under the t
able. Summer’s started calling him Daddy. He’s taking them to Florida in the school holidays too, because Summer’s desperate to meet Mickey Mouse.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Summer would love that. She watched the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on a loop, knowing which Mousekatool was most useful in any given situation because she’d seen every episode twenty times before.
Tawna scowled, mistaking my fond memories for cruel amusement. “You might think it’s funny, but Darius is really hurting. This guy’s trying to muscle his way in and take his place as Summer’s dad.”
“Muscle.” Eve giggled. “That’s funny.” When Tawna looked at her blankly she said, “Because he’s a marine, get it? He must have massive muscles. I bet he’s ripped.”
“I’m sure he’s upset,” I said, ignoring Eve who was still chuckling to herself in the background, “but I don’t know what he expects me to do about it.”
“Summer needs her dad in her life. Her real dad, not some flavour-of-the-month replacement.”
My chest spasmed at the thought of Summer and her crooked gap-toothed smile. When Darius and I had first got together she’d been a toddler, and I’d watched her grow into a chatty, confident little girl. And I’d loved her so, so much. There had been a time where I’d genuinely thought I’d be her stepmum one day.
“He needs people he can trust around him right now, people who can support him. It’s not only about him, it’s Summer too. Think about it, yeah?”
“I’ll think about it,” I found myself saying. “Although I don’t see how anything I could do would make a difference.”
“Soph…” Eve warned.
“You heard Tawna, it’s not just about Darius,” I said, as much to convince myself as her. “Summer’s more important than anything that’s happened in the past.”
“But it’s not your battle,” Eve started. “Darius is big enough and ugly enough to deal with this himself.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking – that Nadia was such a bitch that it wouldn’t surprise me if she was playing yet more games, with Summer as a helpless pawn. She was the sort of person who stored up failures and used them as ammunition in future arguments, and Darius, too afraid to rock the boat and have her cut off all access, would be bullied into going along with whatever Queen Nadia suggested.
I knew, deep down, that as soon as I’d said goodbye to the girls, I’d be on the phone to Darius finding out what I could do to help. I might have deleted his number from my phone, but that didn’t make a jot of difference. How could it, when I knew that number off by heart?
I watched a tear-jerker of a romance on Netflix with a spoon and a tub of chocolate ice cream for company (not Häagen-Dazs, unfortunately – Aldi special, at a fraction of the price) as I steeled myself to make the call.
By the time I reached the bottom of the tub my stomach hurt and I feared I might be sick. The sweet creaminess coating my throat was no longer pleasant, and although I wasn’t quite at the Bridget-Jones-listening-to-All-By-Myself level of wallowing, I wasn’t far off. The film had been a bad choice. Calm down, Sophie, I thought, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Clear your head. I’d learnt the technique from sexy yoga guru Leo in the YouTube video I watched when I was feeling healthy and virtuous. Sometimes, rarely, I even joined in with the exercises.
I focused on my rhythmic breathing until I felt calmer and stronger. Stretching across the settee, knocking over the empty ice cream tub so the gloop-covered spoon landed on the rug, I retrieved my mobile and dialled the eleven-digit number that was etched in my brain.
Five minutes later it was over; Darius and I had made arrangements to meet the following week. I rang Mum immediately after because although the romantic film had made me believe in happy-ever-afters I couldn’t believe I’d contacted Darius. I couldn’t decide if it felt like a step forward or a step back.
Mum’s jubilant chatter about how she’d started knitting for the twins was a welcome distraction from my confusion. Not only that, the conversation prompted me to rifle through the craft supplies I’d stashed away in plastic storage crates on top of my wardrobe.
I needed the comfort of crafting, the security of it. Creating something new always helped me organise my mind; working methodically through a pattern to make something from nothing being a fail-safe way of sorting out the jumble of mess inside my head. If a twisted ball of wool could be transformed into something useful and practical with nothing more than a crochet hook, then surely the knots of confusion in my brain could be worked out too.
I spent a solid cathartic hour sorting through my stash after talking to Mum. There were so many materials I’d impulse-bought; skeins of scarlet thread to make Christmas decorations, balls of soft merino wool to knit winter hats, fat quarters of fabrics I’d planned to stitch together to make an heirloom patchwork quilt. There were half-completed cross-stitches and tapestries, miniature bottles of glass paints and a dented metal tin containing an assortment of pretty buttons and beads. So much potential waiting to be made into something beautiful.
I chose a thick, fluffy wool that was soft to the touch, a bright raspberry shade that left me craving sorbet and cosmopolitans, and selected the thickest needle from the wrap containing my crochet hooks. My fingers automatically formed a pretzel-shaped loop and started a chain, and before long I had the beginnings of a scarf. The repetitive motion brought calm, and working without a pattern freed my mind from thoughts of Darius. Best of all, it hadn’t felt like a waste of time because the scarf was growing, absorbing my mixed emotions and turning them into something productive.
Four balls of wool and three hours later, I’d finished the scarf. Although it was a simple pattern and just one colour, I’d been pleasantly surprised by the result. Having taken a break from my hobby after furiously felting my way through the split from Darius (nothing quite like stabbing something with a pronged needle and concealing it as art rather than voodoo), I revelled in the sense of pride that took over as I held the scarf in my hands. It wouldn’t have existed if it wasn’t for me. It’d still just be wool, four spherical balls.
Searching through my supplies, to look for a way to embellish the scarf, I was disappointed. Although there were reels of ribbons – matt and satin, patterned and plain – I couldn’t see anything suitable.
There were plenty of ends of wool though, leftover threads from previous projects – a small amount of rose-pink from when I’d made a bonnet and booties set for Marcie’s little granddaughter and an off-white that I’d used to knit a matinee jacket for Noah. The texture of the wool against my skin brought back all the emotions I’d felt when knitting it – the joy for Nick and Chantel and the excitement at our family growing, tinged with a hint of sadness – envy even – that it wasn’t me, as the oldest child of my generation, providing Mum and Dad with their first grandchild. Maybe I’d start making something for the new babies soon, once Chantel had her sexing scan.
Crafting is powerful. Mindful. Wonderful. To me it’s a form of therapy, keeping my mind and my fingers occupied when I feel stressed.
Why had I ever let Darius dampen the joy making things brought me? I’d taken his unkind remarks to heart, let his opinions affect my own decisions. I’d compromised myself a thousand times over.
Moving the small skeins of wool to one side, I pressed the lid of the box closed and moved the crate back to its usual place. Up there it would be out of sight, but no longer out of mind. I was mentally making a list of the people I could make gifts for this Christmas, even though it was only April. There were card-making supplies in the box too, patterned squares of paper, rubber stamps and all kinds of stickers and washi tapes. The possibilities were limitless.
The realisation that I could have new things without spending money hit me. I didn’t need to buy things, I could make them, or refashion what I already had. Etsy sites were full of upcycled goods people had added their own detail to to make them more desirable.
I held that thought as I looked at the sc
arf, draped over the back of the settee. A few crocheted flowers sewn around each end would give it a cute kitsch look.
I pulled a thinner crochet hook out of the wrap which I’d purposely not packed away and began creating, glad there was something in my life I could control. Crafting is magical. Crafting is my remedy.
May
Chapter 11
I’d been floored when Darius had suggested meeting at McDonalds. Usually he’d have put forward the idea of a bistro at Sunday lunchtime, somewhere small and exclusive, an upcoming place that would be the most in-demand booking in the area the following month. But when he’d texted to confirm the meeting he’d mentioned Summer would be with him, and that she’d been pestering him for junk food all morning, so the fast food joint it was. My heart had clenched with love at the thought that I’d finally get to see Summer again.
The place was rammed – full of families giving in to their little treasures’ demands for Happy Meals – and so very, very noisy. I get why it’s popular. The food might not be the most nutritious, but it’s warm and quick, and kids eat it without kicking up a stink.
I pinched some French fries between my fingers before popping them into my mouth. Their salty flavour started my mouth watering so I sipped my Diet Coke to quench the onset of thirst, all the while wondering where Darius was. He was late.