If the Dress Fits

by Daisy James

  She consciously shook herself out of her self-pitying reverie and chastised herself for her despondency. She dragged herself from her seat to dump her mug in the kitchen sink, her mind a scattergun of confused thoughts as she tried to assimilate the consequences of her failure to win the most coveted prize of her life. All those months of unrelenting hard work and unerring focus on one solitary goal that had been disallowed. A goal, she had to admit, she had thought would clinch the match.

  Was she arrogant, overly confident in her own creative ability? Obviously she had been. She had neglected everything and everyone – her aunt, Seb and Dominic, her friends, her love life – in her quest for recognition, notoriety even; for the chance to showcase her design talent to the world, to become a part, however small, of the celebrity circus that was Lilac and Finn’s wedding.

  If it had been her wedding, this farcical competition would be the very epitome of what she did not want. Such an intimate, joyful union demanded only the involvement of those who truly loved and cared for the couple and, as her fragile self-worth plummeted, Callie thought she could count on one hand those stalwart friends who would be in attendance at her own marriage ceremony.

  Anyway, what was she doing dreaming about her non-existent wedding? And there was no point in speculating on the identity of any potential groom. There was only one person up there in prime position.

  Theo.

  But she had no spare emotion to waste on dissecting her relationship with Theo. She shoved that cushion full of pins to the back of her mind for future examination. She had enough emotional pain in her life to be getting on with – neglectful niece to Hannah, uninterested cousin to Seb and Dominic, absent friend to Nessa and Scarlet, and now mediocre fashion designer at Callie-Louise Bridal Couture. Adding failure as a girlfriend to the list would tip her over the edge and she’d be looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror.

  Anyway, she had a shop to get ready for sale.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘My design didn’t win the Lilac Verbois wedding gown competition, Delia.’ Callie broke off to inhale a steadying breath and tried to concentrate her attention on the window of the shop, beyond which the day promised warmth. The pavements of the high street were swathed in golden sun as the locals went about their daily business.

  She’d found it difficult to elucidate her failure aloud, but was surprised to experience a welcome surge of relief now it was out there. She hoped Delia would grasp the baton of its knowledge and pass it on to the curious, as she knew her aunt had shared her shortlisting in the competition far and wide.

  ‘And also, Scarlet has agreed to look after the boutique for a couple of months to, erm, allow me to sort things out and recover from the duo of shocks.’

  A fresh flash of guilt stabbed at her veins that her courage had failed her once again. She couldn’t mention the sale of the business to Delia. She experienced a heavy tug of dawning realisation of what kind of person she was – shallow and deceitful.

  ‘Oh, Callie, you don’t know how delighted I am to hear that,’ exclaimed Delia, releasing Callie from a J’Adore-infused hug. ‘I know you have a busy and absorbing life down there in the capital, and colleagues desperate for your return, but you also have a great many friends up here in Allthorpe, you know. I’m so pleased you’re staying on for a while. Your aunt would definitely approve.’ Delia raised her eyes up to the cracked ceiling. ‘Hannah would never have wanted the shop to close down. She was so angry and upset when she heard what had happened to the butcher’s shop. She even went as far as objecting to the planning application for change of use to residential – made no difference, of course. But what will happen to this village if all the shops close down and are converted into holiday homes and weekend retreats for escapees from the corporate rat race? Allthorpe would become a faded image of its current vibrancy.

  ‘Gingerberry Yarns isn’t just a shop selling wool and trimmings; it’s a hub of social activity and provides a much-needed service to this community. Don’t you remember when you were still at home? All your aunt’s friends calling in for a chat, a word of support, of sympathy, of guidance? We’re part of the fabric of people’s lives. Look how supportive everyone’s been these past weeks, rallying round to offer not only a baked pie or a chicken casserole, but a listening ear, a word of comfort, and I have to admit I’ve succumbed to that offer more than once.’

  Tears sprang into Delia’s tired eyes as she anxiously tried to get her message across to Callie, who sat, head bent low to the table, studying the dregs of her cold tea. She reached across and took Callie’s slender fingers in her own.

  ‘We can’t sell the place to a property developer out to make a fast buck. If it has to be sold, then let’s try to pass on the legacy to someone who will continue to run it with the same ethos. I’ll manage on my own so you can market the business as a going concern, a viable proposition for a potential buyer. It’d probably be worth more that way, or it would be more likely to sell to someone who wanted to keep it on.’

  Was Delia right? Was she letting her aunt down by not at least trying to keep Gingerberry Yarns open? Could she handle the guilt of cutting all her ties with her childhood home? She had adored this shop, this village. The people who came were like an extended family to her. Many of her aunt’s friends had stopped her on the street to offer their condolences and had been touchingly devastated at her passing.

  She recalled bumping into Iris, one of Delia’s best friends, and her daughter, Marcia. But what had really surprised her was that they’d been genuinely frightened about what decisions she was going to make about Gingerberry’s future. Marcia had even said it was the only thing she lived for, being able to bring Iris out in her wheelchair to the shop every day, leaving her chatting to Hannah and Delia whilst she ran her errands.

  ‘When was the last time you and Nessa got together for a good old chinwag? Okay’ – she held up her palm, her stout fingers glittering with a cluster of rings – ‘I know you saw her at the funeral, but I mean really connected? You two were inseparable at school, as close as primer and paint. Pair of devils, you were! You know she’ll be at the Fox and Hounds on Friday night. Why don’t you go and join her for a drink?’

  ‘Oh, Delia, I’m not…’

  ‘I want you to rekindle some of the love and community spirit Hannah and I were fortunate enough to enjoy, even if it’s just for a short time. The community’s support has been such an integral part of our lives, especially for your aunt after John passed away. She missed him terribly, as I’m sure you all did. Hannah drew on the comfort and friendship offered by her many friends. It helped to heal her sorrow, if not her heart. And it could do the same for you, Callie dear. Steer you through this miasma of grief and confusion.

  ‘Fate has a carefully drafted plan for us all, but sadly it must remain confidential.’ Delia’s eyes peered over the top of her glasses, their silver restraint glinting in the shafts of sunlight forging their way through the dirt-ridden windows.

  ‘I don’t believe in fate, Delia. I believe that we should mould our own destiny, not wait until it lands fully formed in our path.’

  But she knew Delia had a point. She had to at least try to give the misfortune that had befallen her in the last two weeks a positive spin. Life did go on, and if her aunt could survive after the loss of her beloved husband, then she could stop acting like a puppet clipped of its strings. She needed to quit wallowing in self-pity and put some elbow grease into those filthy windows.

  Callie collected a cloth from behind the counter and tentatively rubbed at a small patch of the front window to reveal a sparklingly clear outlook over the road to Marietta’s and the scaffolding-bedecked ex-butcher’s shop. The blackened stone façades of the depleted row of shops, their painted doors and bay-fronted windows open to trade, spoke volumes. Sadly, the six shops which had thrived for the last thirty years had been slashed to four with the closure of Wainwright’s butchers and Greenwood’s grocers. The loss of the butcher’s in particular
had been a grave blow to the community of Allthorpe’s Sunday breakfast.

  Marietta’s Hairdressing Salon was busy, though, churning out hyper-trendy, celebrity-inspired haircuts to the village elders as well as the more discerning teenagers. That just left Hale’s estate agents, the bookmaker’s and the bank – those peddlers of revolving financial transactions that seemed to be immune from the vicious knives of the current recession.

  Delia joined Callie in her toil and they spent the day scrubbing, dusting and reorganising the shop. ‘The high street is dying, I’m afraid. It’s not only the supermarkets’ advance that’s draining away our business to their neon-lit cathedrals of consumerism; it’s the influx of the weekenders. Those wealthy families chasing the rural idyll for a few snatched hours of calm before they return to their hamster-wheels in the city to churn out more money for their masters or their pension pots. Hannah despaired at every shop closure, every one a shining light extinguished along with the proprietor’s dreams. Our lives are wider than one, Callie.’

  When the sky dimmed, signalling the end of the working day, Callie smiled her gratitude to Delia as tears brimmed and choked her vocal cords. She waved her off and, as she secured the shop door behind her and pulled down the blind, took a moment to survey the careworn contents of the shop again. The only thing she wanted to do at that moment was abandon herself to the onslaught of nostalgia. The waft of her aunt’s favourite perfume still lingered amongst the multicoloured gems of angora and mohair, silk and cotton, jutting from the stands like jewels on a Fabergé egg.

  She mounted the stairs to her childhood bedroom, cloaked in a shroud of loneliness. Happiness was a mere apparition that punctuated her life with decreasing regularity. Instead, anguish and heartache stalked her daily path to sleep, the relief in its oblivion always a delayed destination.

  Fear gripped her heart as she realised she would now have to live her life without the safety net of her aunt’s, or anyone else’s, love.

  Chapter Eleven

  Callie took a deep breath and pushed open the door of the Fox and Hounds, feeling like a seventeen-year-old about to order alcohol for the first time. The buzz of muted conversation and background music swirled through the air, producing a welcoming atmosphere. She had spent too many nights to recall drinking at the village pub and it was as familiar as an old pair of favourite boots.

  ‘Hey, is that you, Callie? You look like you just walked off the catwalk!’

  ‘Hey, erm…’

  ‘Juliette? We were in the same art class at school?’

  ‘Of course we were. How are you, Juliette?’ Callie cast her eyes over the barmaid’s fresh face, devoid of any scrap of make-up, her cheeks glowing with the flush of health and her lips a natural rosebud pink.

  ‘I love your top. Where did you get it? M&S?’

  ‘Erm, no, it’s one I designed myself…’

  ‘Ah, sorry, yes. I did hear you made clothes now. Callie, I’m so sorry about your aunt. She was a lovely lady and we’ll miss her in the village.’ Juliette reached over and pulled Callie into a hug. ‘Hey, you’re all skin and bone. Look at you, like a line prop, bones jutting from all angles. What you need is one of Gavin’s Yorkshire hotpots.’

  ‘No! Thanks. No.’ Callie hadn’t eaten meat since she moved down to London. ‘Ah, Nessa!’

  Relief at seeing her old friend swarmed through her veins. Callie took in Nessa’s familiar features as she pushed her way towards her through the regulars hogging the bar, her long auburn hair flowing free from its usual clasp in honour of her escape from the strict regulations placed on gym mistresses at St Hilda’s High School.

  ‘Hi, Callie, great to see you. Come on – Seb and Archie are in the snug playing snooker.’

  ‘Is… is Theo with them?’ She prayed that the hint of hopefulness in her voice wasn’t too much of a giveaway. Sadly, her friend missed nothing.

  ‘No, but he might join us later. He usually does whenever he’s home. You okay with that? He said you’d thrown him out of the shop when he went to see you.’

  ‘A bit of an exaggeration, but that was always one of Theo’s charming quirks. I didn’t throw him out.’

  ‘Oh, Callie, it’s so good to hear your accent’s back when you’re hyped up over Theo!’

  ‘I’m not hyped up over Theo, Nessa.’

  ‘Okay. What’ll you have to drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a vodka martini.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Callie waited whilst Nessa pushed her way to the bar and returned with their drinks.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Pint of Theakston’s Best Bitter.’

  ‘But I asked for…’

  ‘We used to drink this stuff by the gallon, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but I… Oh, never mind.’ Callie took a sip and ran her tongue over her lips. It was delicious – golden, yeasty, fresh – and she swallowed a long draught, wiping the froth from her upper lip with the back of her hand.

  ‘Now we see her! The old Callie-Louise Henshaw is back with us again!’ exclaimed Seb, drawing her into a squeeze and dropping a kiss on her forehead. ‘Callie, I’m so pleased you decided to stay on for a few weeks.’

  ‘Hey, Callie! Great to see you.’ Archie rested his snooker cue against the table and strode round to envelop her in his arms. ‘Missed you, darling. We all do. It’s just like old times. Well, it will be when…’

  ‘So, Callie…’ Nessa guided her away from a trip down Archie’s Memory Lane to a bashed copper table in the corner of the snug next to a museum-standard display of Gavin’s best horse brasses and Toby jugs. ‘I hear you’ve decided to sell Gingerberry? Is it really true?’

  ‘Did I hear you right?’ asked Archie, who had edged round the table to take his next shot. ‘You’re selling up? You’re leaving again? Aren’t we your friends any more, Callie?’

  ‘Of course you are, Archie.’ But she couldn’t quite meet his accusatory stare.

  Another pint arrived and Callie gulped half down in one go. The unfamiliar dose of alcohol was working very nicely at erasing the sharp edges of the local pub. Good grief, she thought, what was Archie doing here, anyway? Why wasn’t he living it up in the nightspots of London or Manchester? He was the bass guitarist in one of the most successful bands in Britain at the moment. Hell, The Razorclaws were lucky enough to be booked to perform at the wedding of the decade. If they weren’t in demand now, they certainly would be after that. Jealous? Her? Yes!

  ‘I’m so sorry about Hannah, Callie. I loved her, too. We didn’t get a chance to talk much at her funeral. How are you holding up?’ asked Nessa.

  She saw her childhood friend study her over the rim of her pint glass, casting a worried glance over her scrawny frame. They’d been exactly the same build at school, but now Nessa possessed the taut, muscular silhouette of a sports instructor as well as the rosy glow of health and vigour achieved by spending her days on the hockey field with eleven adolescent girls. Securing her position as their old high school’s gym teacher was a dream come true for Nessa.

  ‘Oh, well, you know, I’m doing okay, I suppose.’

  The scene was a replica of their adolescent dialogues – the welcoming atmosphere of the Fox and Hounds, a ready supply of beer and her friend’s soothing words – it was the balm to cure many a teenage heartache. But with the empty space in her heart her aunt had inhabited, Callie doubted any amount of Theakston’s Best Bitter would heal the trauma she was experiencing at that moment. The aroma of Chanel Cristal, Nessa’s favourite perfume, and the sympathy oozing from her oldest friend conjured up the pain-lashed memories of the last few weeks and caused hot tears to flow down her cheeks.

  ‘I miss her so much, Nessa. I was a useless niece. I’ve hardly been home in the last three years. Too engrossed in my selfish ambitions, thinking I could run with the pack of celebrity wedding gown designers. Now I’m a true orphan.’ Her grief resumed; raw and violent.

  ‘You are not useless, Callie.’ Nessa’s habitually jolly face, stre
wn with freckles, reflected the pain she herself was suffering.

  Callie saw her friend sweep her eyes over her hair, usually as glossy as liquid tar, but which today hung flat and dull, her fringe skimming her spidery lashes and in need of a salon’s attention. She knew she looked a mess. Dark triangular smudges had lodged themselves beneath her eyes that no amount of foundation could disguise, not that she had tried; she sported not a scrap of make-up. What was the point?

  ‘I am, Nessa. Not only as a niece, but as a cousin’ – she shot a glance across to where Seb and Archie were studiously avoiding looking in their direction – ‘and as a friend. And I might as well add as a fashion designer, too. You heard, didn’t you? Delia is this village’s one-woman Twitter feed.’

  Nessa nodded, her amber lashes sparkling with empathic tears, but she knew Nessa was not going to stand aside whilst she slipped into self-obsessed oblivion.

  ‘Yes, I heard, but it’s not the end of the world, Cal. So you didn’t make it to the pinnacle of the pile this time, but you did make it to the shortlist. That, my girl, is a fantastic achievement and one which two hundred and fifty others would have died to achieve. Your aunt was so proud of your talents.’

  ‘Oh, Ness, all I want to do now is sell the shop and slink back to my old life, hide in the familiar routine of eighteen-hour days and as little contact with the outside world as I can get away with. Is that so awful?’ Callie paused to blow her dripping nose on the tissue offered by Nessa and take a gulp of her beer. She managed to pull herself together and produce a weak smile. ‘My plan is to block out my grief in a whirlwind of crazy schedules, deadlines and prenuptial angst.’

  The evening passed in a swirl of shared memories, snippets of recent gossip and several more pints of beer. After a while Callie began to relax and enjoy herself. She even managed to giggle at one of the stories Nessa told her about dating a guy from the golf club who had helped her to ‘improve her swing’.