by Daisy James
‘Fabulous idea, Seb!’ exclaimed Nessa. ‘We could offer hand-embroidered silk lingerie for a bride’s wedding night and honeymoon as part of her trousseau. We could…’
‘Hang on, Nessa, hang on, who’s going to do all this? Teach people to knit and sew and…’
‘You are, of course, you idiot! Have you forgotten you grew up with knitting needles protruding from the ends of your arms? You are your mother’s daughter, Callie. And what better way to mark Seb’s mum’s passing than to design a blanket that everyone can contribute to in honour of Hannah and everything she did for this village, then to present it to the hospice at their annual summer fayre!’
‘You are joking, Nessa. I can’t…’
‘Well, not by yourself, no.’ Nessa placed her palm on her chin and drummed her fingernails on her glossy apricot lips. Callie could almost see the cogs whirling behind those emerald eyes. ‘You’ll need some help.’
‘But who would come? No one is interested in…’
‘Wrong! In the last year alone St Hilda’s has had more interest in baking and crafts from the students than we can meet demand. All the girls want to get involved in making cupcakes, perfumed candles, fabric design and screen printing, sewing, embroidery and knitting!’ Nessa’s eyes strayed to the untouched perfect swirls of the baby-pink buttercream icing atop the cupcakes on the table.
‘It’s the Kirstie Allsopp effect. And you should see some of the girls’ fashion designs, Callie. They’d give Callie-Louise Bridal Couture a run for its money! I’m sure they’d come up with some awesome designs for bras, knickers, bodies and teddies if we asked them. Two of our girls were accepted at the Royal College of Art last year, the first students to attend since the person sitting glowering opposite me!’ Nessa smirked.
‘I can’t teach a bunch of teenagers to knit and crochet when all they want to do is party in the bright lights of Leeds and Manchester. They don’t want to hang out at the village haberdashery shop chatting about threads, buttons and ribbons and whether to use a cross-stich or blanket stick. Anyway, I do have my own social life, you know.’
‘What social life is that?’ Nessa said accusingly, certain of the reply.
‘Well, in London…’
‘It pains me to remind you, but you have not exactly been the life and soul of the party since you started work on Operation Lilac’s Wedding Gown. And when was the last time you went out on a date?’
‘Mmmm…’
‘Pardon, I didn’t quite catch that excuse?’
‘Not since Christmas.’
‘I rest my case, Your Honour.’ Nessa performed a theatrical bow. ‘You can stay here in the flat, run the shop and arrange the classes. Delia will help and so will I. Seb, Dom and Archie, if he’s around, will get stuck in with the decorating. We’ll give the shop a lick of paint but, more importantly, you can look into restocking the shelves with a decent selection of natural merchandise instead of all that rainbow acrylic that’s only fit to dress Barbie’s pet unicorn.
‘Even if it’s not your life’s ambition, then do this for your aunt! She adored this village and its inhabitants. Every time I came in here it was buzzing with conversation, with laughter, with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and lavender.’ Nessa closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, apparently hoping to catch a sniff of the nostalgia from her teenage years.
‘Last time I was in here was on Christmas Eve. Delia’s friend, Iris, and her daughter Marcia were camped out at the table, tucking into a batch of Marcia’s home-made chocolate brownies and slurping the most divine-smelling hot chocolate. I stayed for two hours! What an antidote to the stresses of persuading hordes of unruly adolescent females to play hockey on a frozen, mud-caked pitch.
‘That’s why I think this crafting bug has taken the country by storm. People are sick of the daily grind of anxiety and angst, the clamber to work harder, faster, longer, to earn more in the rush to the top. They’re tired of the obsessive addiction to celebrity culture, frazzled with the expelled energy required to strive for the perfection those magazines tout to our youngsters. Did I tell you the head has banned the girls from bringing them into the school?
‘People crave a return of real community spirit – the sharing of warmth, mutual support and friendship over a freshly prepared brew and an injection of sugar-sweet confectionary, not a cocktail down at the local wine bar to douse the stress and boast about the last deal. The top rung of the corporate ladder is stuffed with pompous idiots feeding off the talents of those on the step below before shoving them back down with the tip of their boot. It’s a world many of us refuse to join now, let alone aspire to.
‘Don’t close the door on Gingerberry Yarns just yet, Callie. What have you got to lose?’
***
‘So you’ve narrowed it down to three?’
‘Yes. Every designer who was asked to submit their sample gown did, so that leaves two who submitted without paperwork and the one who submitted the documents which were illegible.’
‘Why were they illegible?’
‘Erm, well, they were covered in a sort of yellowy-brown stain.’
‘What?’ Nikki curled her upper lip.
‘I think it may have been a coffee that got spilled, but it could have been whisky. Or maybe something else? And it could have been the delivery guys, not the designer.’
‘Okay. So let’s look at the photos of the three possibilities.’
Tish produced three pictures she’d printed from her iPhone before Nikki arrived back from her meeting. ‘As you are always telling me that I bring chaos to an empty room, I’ve made a special effort to be organised. I know I’ll never get a seat on the top table in orderliness but I can aim for a table mid-room, can’t I, instead of one next to the toilets?’
Nikki forced herself not to smirk as she studied the three dresses. They were all gorgeous, but the one Lilac had selected to wear on the most important day of her life was beautiful. Strapless, the bodice shone with tiny crystals that would look stunning under the lights of the Minster. From the back, the A-line skirt was simple with a short train edged in seed pearls that matched the ivory silk to perfection. At the front, crystals spilled from the bodice to a dart from the waist to the hem, twinkling whenever the wearer took a step.
‘Ah,’ Tish sighed, ‘the designer may be a dunce in the paperwork arena but she’s a wizard when it comes to fabric. Just look at all those sparkles. If I didn’t already have my dress sorted, I would definitely go for one like this.’
‘You have your wedding gown? I thought you weren’t dating anyone at the moment.’
‘Oh, I’m not.’
Nikki rolled her eyes.
‘Okay. So we have Carla Masconi, Brigitte Gasnier and Callie-Louise Henshaw. So which designer goes with which dress. Have you worked with any of these designers before?’
‘No, I haven’t. Sorry.’
Nikki placed the headshots of the designers, all printed from their websites by Tish, next to each dress and studied them, then swapped them around. ‘It’s no good. We can’t do it like this. I’ve had an idea. One of us will impersonate a celebrity who’s shopping for her perfect wedding gown. We’ll visit each of these designers and ask them to produce a sketch of the gown they would envisage for such a wedding. With any luck, they won’t be able to resist producing a similar design to the one they believe didn’t win the competition. Why wouldn’t they?’
‘You’re a genius, Nikki. And you’ll totally pull that off.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of me. You’ll have to be the celebrity. I’ll play the part of your fabulously efficient, but long-suffering PA. You’re the same dress size as Lilac for a start and I’m sure she won’t mind if you borrow one of her Stella McCartney dresses. If you tie your hair up in one of her Hermès scarves and wear a pair of dark glasses, I think we can pull this off. Of course, you’ll have to be a reality TV celebrity.’
Nikki turned her back on the expression of outrage flooding across Tish’s face and co
uldn’t resist a smirk.
‘Why can’t I be a movie actress like Lilac?’
‘Okay, what films have you been in?’
‘Erm, well, there’s…’
‘See, if you were asked that question by one of the designers you’d totally give yourself away. I’ll do all the talking. As soon as we’re sure we can strike the designer from our list, we leave, okay? No mooning over the gowns. I don’t even want you to try any of them on if we can help it.’
‘Nikki…’
‘Look, Tish. This is a nightmare that should never have happened. We need to rectify the problem as soon as we can and get on with everything else on our lists. Didn’t you say you were slammed? You don’t have enough hours in the day? Haven’t you got the cars to finalise?’
‘Yes, I suppose…’
‘Okay. It’s two o’clock. We’ll start with Brigitte Gasnier as she’s the nearest, then we’ll do Callie-Louise Bridal over in Pimlico. Just pray that it’s one of those, as I see Carla Masconi is based in Milan.’
‘Oooo, Italy…’
Nikki rolled her eyes. She grabbed her mac, swung it around her shoulders and stalked from the room. By the time she’d reached the pavement outside, her irritation with Tish had evaporated. She chastised herself for her recent propensity towards shortness. It wasn’t Tish’s fault that since Owen had dumped her she’d disabled her happiness app and downloaded a bitterness one in its place; but still, the girl had to ditch the delusion that she was playing the lead female role in her own romantic comedy.
‘Isn’t this exciting? We’re like a couple of Prince Charmings, touring the country as we search for the foot that fits the crystal stiletto, only this time we’re looking for a designer to fit a wedding gown. When we find the right person I think I’ll feel like Lilac’s fairy godmother.’
Yeah, thought Nikki, as she ran through the kaleidoscope of things on her ‘to do this week’ list, never mind her ‘to do today’ list, and glared at Tish’s exuberance – and I’m the wicked stepmother.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Delia, would you object if I gave the shop a lick of paint? I’m not sure what colour the walls are supposed to be, but nicotine-yellow is definitely not this season’s must-have colour.’ Callie grimaced as her eyes swept across the dull walls, which seemed to blend in with the coffee-coloured carpet and highly polished teak shelves to portray a sepia-tinted emporium of a bygone age.
‘And why do we stock all this candy-pink acrylic? Do we supply Sindy’s stitch and bitch parties?’ Callie unfolded her legs and strode over to grab a ball of the offending yarn, its scratchy fibres clicking the scraped skin around her fingernails. The shelves’ contents were a cacophony of the tropical colours more commonly seen in a Caribbean aviary.
‘Why not stock a selection of lamb’s wool? You know, there’s a farmer up in the Dales who has diversified into producing hand-spun organic yarns from his flock of Swaledale sheep. It’s expensive; I sourced a batch to weave into one of my designs for the Autumn/Winter Collection, but I’m sure he would guide us to other suppliers, local if possible. And if we can – organic cotton and silk? And where’s the cashmere? And what about mohair and angora – but only if it’s ethically sourced.’ She was vividly aware of the horror stories doing the rounds about the production of angora.
She marched around the drab room, dragging balls of yarn from their resting places, delving into the scattered wicker baskets and cracked leather valises, discarding every specimen as too brash or made from synthetic fibres and imported from China. She felt her inherent sparkle for all things fleece-related begin to return, just not for the type of products currently stocked by Gingerberry Yarns.
Delia’s gaze followed her from her position in the throne-like chair at the head of the mahogany table, calm and serene, a faint turn at the corners of her lips, but she said nothing.
‘Each one of these brightly dyed balls of yarn is supposed to be the catalyst for the creation of an original garment,’ Callie continued, her passion mounting, ‘a raw material that can be sculpted into an item to bring joy – from a baby’s bootee to a christening shawl, from a grandmother’s bed-jacket to a sofa throw – each with a purpose and a story to tell. It’s a unique garment made with affection for the recipient instead of the modern attire that’s replicated a thousand times and bought for a few pounds then discarded after one wear. If it’s worth spending the time creating such a work of art, then surely it’s worth sourcing the best materials?
‘And why all these mismatched hard-backed chairs? They’re like instruments of torture for people who knit. And they make the room look like a junk shop!’
‘Well, our customers need somewhere to sit, Callie.’ Delia’s soft eyes clouded as she continued her explanation. ‘Your aunt and I loved to hear the women’s stories. They’re not just our customers; the majority are our friends, people who have been coming into the shop for the last twenty-five years. Iris and Marcia have been coming in for ten. It’s not exactly wheelchair-friendly, but we manage.’
Delia continued, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. ‘Then there are our WI friends. They call in once a week – we donate any end-of-batch yarn to their knitting circle and they turn it into fabulous blankets and dementia mitts for the Heppleton hospice.’ Unshed tears sparkled at Delia’s eyes as she crashed back down to reality and began to gather together the debris of their morning tea break and wipe down the table.
‘Ah, here are Marcia and Iris now.’
The brass bell tinkled as Marcia reversed through the doorway, hauling her mother’s wheelchair backwards up the stone steps and parking her at the gigantic table. She dragged off her knitted, Inca–inspired hat complete with multicoloured pom-poms on strings. Her curtain of hair fell almost to her waist and her ears protruded through the sides like Noddy’s famous best friend.
‘Hi, Delia. We called at Wallington’s for a box of those cupcakes you recommended. They are gorgeous – today’s speciality is peppermint buttercream icing with raspberry stars and edible glitter. We got one for you too, Callie,’ Marcia added shyly, having just spotted her crouching in the window display, but unable to meet Callie’s eye.
‘Oh, thanks Marcia. Sounds like just what I need,’ Callie called over her shoulder. Especially after the two huge, buttered croissants forced on me by Delia less than an hour ago, she thought. She jumped down from the window sill to accept the gem of culinary perfection from the proffered box. It was a masterpiece of sugar-fuelled artistry. Tom was indeed a genius confectioner.
Drawing out a chair to join the gathering at the table, she ran her eyes over the features of the young girl hunched before her. With not a trace of make-up, or a nod to the twenty-first century, Marcia’s face displayed the lacklustre pallor of those who did not enjoy enough sunshine or fresh air. Her skin cried out for one of Scarlet’s invigorating facial scrubs and her eyes, the same colour as Callie’s, were obscured by a pair of overlarge reading glasses that lent her a studious countenance. Any curves she possessed had been well disguised beneath the hand-knitted, black-and-amber-striped sweater with the hint of a thermal vest evident at her neck.
Callie experienced a burst of protectiveness for this caring young girl and realised belatedly that Marcia had been aware of her assumed-covert scrutiny. She watched guiltily as she self-consciously swiped away her glasses and stored them in the appliqued pocket of her jumper, cut in the shape of a daisy.
‘Oh, these are Mum’s old reading glasses. I borrow them occasionally.’ Marcia swung her sweep of hair forward across her face, anxious to escape from the uncomfortable inspection. ‘Is there tea in the pot upstairs, Delia?’ She scuttled away, the block heels of her candy-pink shoes clacking on the stairs.
Callie glanced down at her own familiar attire, which could have done with a spin in the washing machine. She chastised herself for failing to pay attention to her sartorial elegance, especially as she was now the figurehead of a high-street shop. She only had to look in a mirror to be r
eminded that she would win no trophies in a beauty pageant. She, too, wore no cosmetics and she’d lived in her D&G jeans and black polo-necked sweater since she’d arrived in Allthorpe. It was either that or rummage through her aunt’s wardrobe, which she hadn’t had the courage to do yet.
A few moments later, Marcia reappeared. She set down the cupcakes on a patterned china plate she’d found in a cupboard for them to feast their eyes and then their taste buds on. They were, without a doubt, the most attractive things in the shop. In fact, Callie had to admit the skill and artistry that had gone into their production was nothing short of amazing. The exquisite fairy cakes were definitely not what she’d expected to see produced by the old-fashioned baker’s shop on the corner of their row, two doors down from the florist’s shop, Buds & Bows.
‘These are mini works of art, aren’t they? Too good to eat, really.’ Iris held her choice aloft for closer inspection, her soft features enclosed by a halo of curls the colour of ash, clearly reluctant to take the first bite and destroy its beauty.
‘They are beautiful. Not what I had expected from…’ Callie let her voice drift off for fear of causing offence by revealing her true feelings and the extent to which she had outgrown this rural backwater.
Iris smiled. It was clear she knew exactly what Callie had been about to say. ‘Me neither, Callie. I thought the same thing when Tom became the third generation of Wallingtons to take over at the bakery. But Delia must have told you that he completed his training at Betty’s in Harrogate, after a three-year apprenticeship in one of those glamorous hotels in Paris, whose name, like so many other things nowadays, escapes my memory. These cupcakes are fit to grace any celebrity’s wedding reception, don’t you think, never mind the tables of the residents of Allthorpe?’ Small apples of red appeared on Iris’s cheeks. ‘If there had been a competition to make Lilac’s wedding cake, Tom Wallington would have blown the competition out of the mixer.’