If the Dress Fits
Page 10
Would a fresh coat of paint be enough to drag the business into the twenty-first century? Was she a fool easily parted from her injection of cash on a few tins of paint, after which she’d sell up and scuttle back to her old life in London?
Pulling back her shoulders, she resumed her critical, professional assessment of the shop’s fittings as she decided which would be painted with the peppermint paint she’d ordered and which would not. She ran her fingertips along the varnished surfaces, disturbing the dust, stroking the smoothness of the ribbons, fingering the intricate lace, and allowing the painful memories to assault her senses.
She couldn’t wait for the delivery of the pure wools, the tweeds, the fibres that Yorkshire was so famous for. The county’s history was steeped in the textile industry. If she could fill these nooks and crannies with natural, instead of man-made, yarns and display sample garments that the trendsetters would give their hard-earned cash for, then maybe, just maybe…
Her stomach hollered its objection to the forfeiture of breakfast so she trudged back up the stairs to flick on the kettle, dragging forward her trusty sketch pad to start planning the renaissance of Gingerberry Yarns. She was determined to keep busy, to focus on menial tasks not the big picture, but disloyal thoughts strained like elastic to return to the melancholy lodged resolutely in her mind. As she sipped on her third cup of Earl Grey and removed a fourth chocolate-coated digestive biscuit from the tube, she pondered on how easily she had succumbed to the oestrogen trio of solace: chocolate, tea and gossip.
She had no idea how long she had been at the kitchen table, mulling over her scribble, when a banging on the door broke through her reverie. She unfurled her legs and slotted the pencil behind her ear, the points of her ebony hair curling beneath her chin. She had made a concerted effort to avoid the bathroom mirror lately, but she knew she needed to arrange her debut visit to Marietta’s.
‘Oh, hello?’ She had expected it to be Marcia or Delia, despite the half-day closing.
‘Erm, hi. I’m Tom. Tom Wallington? From the bakery on the corner? Just thought I’d drop by to offer my condolences. I know I’m a little tardy, but well, what with the shop and visiting Dad…’ He attempted a conciliatory expression, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze focused on a point to the left of Callie’s eyes, his diamond stud earring glinting in the afternoon sunlight.
‘Hi, Tom, I’m Callie. Come in, come in. I’ll make us some coffee.’ She eyed the pale peppermint cardboard box he clasped in his reddened hands and could almost feel the drool beginning to form.
‘I’ve brought you these. Just a few leftovers from this morning.’ He opened the cake box to reveal the most exquisite, hand-made selection of French patisserie Callie had laid eyes on – and that from someone whose best friend had worshipped the world of Betty’s as they grew up.
Tom pointed to a pale pink sugary gem. ‘This is a raspberry Miroir – raspberry mousse with pink-and-white biscuit, topped with a raspberry-infused glaze, finished with a pink-and-white-striped chocolate square. This one is a Paradiso – alternated mango, passion fruit and coconut-infused mousse topped with a rolled white-and-dark-chocolate cigarillo. And these are pistachio and vanilla macaroons.’
In the concentration of the description and the passion it had produced, Tom had emerged from his timid shell to present his culinary creations with the pride of any accomplished maestro.
Callie had kept her mouth clamped shut to prevent the risk of subconscious drooling. ‘Wow, they look amazing. Why don’t you grab a seat at the table, Tom, and I’ll fetch the cafetière?’
She set the glass coffee pot on the huge mahogany table in the empty shop and sank her teeth into one of the tiny sculptures, allowing the symphony of flavours to melt on her tongue and set her taste buds alight.
‘Delicious, Tom, you really are a genius. Delia says you trained in Paris and then at Betty’s in Harrogate?’ She watched Tom nervously lace his elegant fingers around his coffee mug so that he had something to do with his hands.
‘Yes, I adore French patisserie. I’ve been introducing a new product to the bakery every week since I took over from Dad at Christmas. I’m not sure Allthorpe is ready for blueberry and lemon millefeuille with Madagascan vanilla custard and blueberry jam, though! Dad, of course, tells me I’m crazy and that I should stick with the standard fare of barm cakes and loaves of parkin that customers buy every week, but…’ Tom shrugged.
Callie totally got it. If he had to endure banishment to rural North Yorkshire, then he wanted to make an impact on the community’s taste buds, just like she did with her natural textiles and crafting sessions. Maybe there was a great deal to be learnt from this ginger-haired giant crouched over the table in front of her.
‘I was thinking of doing something new here, too. Like repainting the walls and the shelving, upgrading the stock, suggesting a more modern twist to the customers with the sample garments we display in the window.’ She grimaced as her gaze fell on the burnt-orange sweater draped limply over the adjacent chair like a wet flannel. Who could wear orange successfully? ‘Maybe even start with a few crafting sessions to bring in a new, younger clientele.’
‘But what’s the point, Callie? The village is floundering under the onslaught of the hypermarkets. Our high street is in intensive care now. At least you have the option of selling up and moving back to your life in London.’ He flashed his moss-green eyes at Callie in apology, clearly not wanting to seem disrespectful. ‘With the greatest of respect, once your aunt’s probate has been finalised you can sell up. Whereas I’m subjected to daily lectures from my increasingly frail father about what I’m doing wrong in the business and how I have three generations of bakers behind me to measure up to.
‘Sorry, Callie, but why bother? Why strive to put all your energy into a dying business when you don’t have to. We’ll all be slaving for the supermarket masters by the end of the year, working for minimum wage, watching the corporate fat cats drain all the creativity from our veins whilst we comply with their demands for homogenous loaves of bread and cream cakes the texture of polystyrene. The church congregation is flagging, youngsters are escaping to the city, small businesses teeter on the cliff of financial oblivion, like Wainwright’s the butcher’s did, like Greenwood’s the grocer’s has. Only the wealthy are beating a return path, buying up renovated weekend homes, bringing their supplies with them. We don’t have a hope of competing with that, so why are we flogging ourselves to death trying?’
Tom ran his chapped fingers over his hair and scratched at his auburn stubble. ‘Every morning except Sunday, I get up before five o’clock to prepare the dough for that day’s bread, to produce the repetitive fare the villagers of Allthorpe have come to expect from Wallington’s. If I had any spare time, which I don’t, I’d love to indulge my passion for hand-made chocolates, but that’s not what our customers want. One of my biggest fears is that I may be losing my culinary edge without the daily stretch of creativity to finely hone my skills.
‘And all this is before I limber up for the battle with the paperwork bureaucrats. I ask you, who needs the morning workout of kneading dough when I can flex my brain muscles in the eternal fight with suppliers, delivery guys, bankers, councillors who profess to have the small businessman in their thoughts, not to mention the spectre of the taxman. The government tells us we need daily exercise to avoid an early grave, but it’s the red tape that they throw at us that’s enough to give anyone a heart attack.’
At last, Tom met Callie’s eyes. ‘I’m exhausted, Callie. But I’m doing this for Dad. It would kill him if there was even a whiff of a hint that I intended to close the bakery. Oh, I know he thinks my intricate creations are the product of namby-pamby pandering to rich, nouveau-cuisine connoisseurs for whom he has no time. He used to cringe when I was a teenager and he saw me carry out my confectionary autopsies to ascertain the precise mix of ingredients and then attempt to reconstruct them with more panache than the original inventor.’
Tom leaned towards her. ‘Callie, listen to me. You don’t need to plough all your money and energy into refurbishing or wasting your design talents on a parochial shop catering to the needs of the old dears who use it as a community centre. No one would think badly of you. They all loved your aunt, but this is about your life, your ambitions. It’s not worth it. Don’t throw your dreams away, Callie, like I have!’
‘But, Tom, running your Dad’s bakery clearly isn’t preventing you from experimenting with new recipes. We adore your cupcakes – they are divine creations of sugary art,’ she enthused as she wiped away a crumb from her lips.
‘But do the discerning customers of Allthorpe want a steady diet of pistachio macaroons and tiramisu pyramids?’ he asked.
‘Never underestimate the hungry customer, Tom. They may be elderly, but they, like everyone else, can be lured to partake of a delicious petite madeleine or glazed fruit tart. Many still bake from scratch at home, you know, unlike the teenagers, although I am reliably informed by Nessa, my friend who teaches up at St Hilda’s, that the girls are loving the cookery classes they have reintroduced into the curriculum and they’re struggling to meet demand. Hey, and GBBO fever is sweeping the nation, too. Why not tailor your forensic culinary experiments each week to produce your own twist on one of the recipes featured on TV?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Who would be interested in that?’
Callie rolled her eyes at the scepticism and the lacklustre response from this quiet, self-effacing man with the elegant fingers. ‘Well, I would, for a start, and so would Delia, and Marcia – oh, and Nessa and her students in the cooking class. Maybe you could offer to give a cooking demonstration to the class at the school, mixed in with a soupçon of gossip from your exploits in the kitchens of Paris and Betty’s?’
Callie paused in her organisation of Tom’s future business exploits as a look of pure horror invaded Tom’s face and made her laugh for the first time that week.
***
‘Don’t forget, Tish, let me do the talking at the next boutique,’ warned Nikki as she clambered from the back seat of the black cab onto the pavement outside Callie-Louise Bridal.
‘Why did you have to tell that Brigitte Gasnier woman I was pregnant? Did you see the way her eyes narrowed? Please don’t use the same excuse this time, Nikki,’ pleaded Tish, removing her compact and reapplying a slick of pearly pink lipstick for the tenth time. ‘Oh, isn’t this an adorable little shop? I love the peppermint-and-gold theme. I bet this is where the fairy-tale gown was designed. It has to be.’
‘Tish, stop with the romance claptrap, will you? Someone needs to break it to you that there’s no such thing as “true love that lasts forever”.’ She signed the universally accepted two-fingered speech marks of sarcasm.
Tish’s lower lip trembled with annoyance, but she rallied. She tossed her curls behind her ears and fixed her eyes on Nikki. ‘Finding a soulmate is a tough task, I get that. It can take years. Hell, you’re right; some people may never find “the one”. But you know what? I’m never going to stop looking and when I do find him, I’m going to use every weapon in my armoury to hang on to him. If the choice is happiness versus loneliness, I know which I’d rather invest in.’
‘But what’s the point? There’s nothing you can do if your soulmate decides to run off with a shop assistant from the local department store, is there?’ asked Nikki.
Tish ignored her; she was on a roll. ‘My theory is that the more love you give, the more you receive. The more you expect it to fall into your lap when you’re not looking, the less likely it is that you’ll find it. You need to let people into your heart, Nikki. Sure, I adore weddings, but don’t misunderstand me – I love romance more. I love happiness more. I love being in love more. After all the glitz and hype, even actresses and rock stars have at some stage to go home and cook dinner and wash the dishes. And those mundane tasks in life are made much more interesting if your soulmate is at your side slicing the sushi.’
Nikki stared at Tish as though she had gone stark raving bonkers. ‘Tish, will you pull yourself together? Don’t you understand how serious this is? Your first celebrity client, Lilac Verbois, is getting married in three months’ time. She has no gown. Don’t you think she’ll have a problem with walking down the aisle in her lingerie? I’ve about had enough of this “make-believe” fairy tale you insist on living in. Get over it. Life isn’t a picture-book story with a Prince Charming just waiting in the wings to whisk… What?’
‘Lingerie!’ Tish covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I’d completely forgotten.’
‘But surely Lilac…’
‘She asked me to do it,’ she squeaked.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake…’
She’d just about had enough of Tish. Didn’t she realise there was no such thing as true love? Even when you thought you’d found it – it could still vanish in an instant, borne away on the wings of a blonde Scandinavian girl who worked in the china department of Liberty’s. Yet, sadly, you just couldn’t control who you gave your heart to, no matter how much you tried to stack the odds in your favour.
However, what she could control was her job. As she stood on the pavement in Pimlico, looking up at the pretty peppermint signage announcing in curly golden lettering that they’d arrived at Callie-Louise Bridal Couture, she drew in a deep, steadying breath. She pushed open the door with a petulant Tish stomping in behind her.
‘Ah, you must be Millie Channing. I’m Scarlet Webb – we spoke on the phone.’
Nikki shook hands with Scarlet and introduced her to Tish who simply nodded. Nikki watched Scarlet run an expert eye over Tish’s dimensions.
‘And I think I might have the perfect dress for your client.’ Scarlet smiled at Tish but got no response. ‘Please, come through. Would you like a glass of champagne? It’s English sparkling wine, actually – Callie insists on it. I can assure you it’s just as delicious.’
Tish’s frosty mood evaporated. ‘I’d love a glass of champagne! Thank you!’
Flora appeared with a silver tray and offered a flute of the effervescent elixir to Tish who took it and drained it in one. Nikki shook her head to refuse, but, before Flora could whisk the glass away, Tish had grabbed that one, too. She smiled like the Cheshire Cat at Nikki as she relaxed on the huge cream chesterfield sofa, crossed her slender, stockinged legs and waited for the gowns to be paraded.
Nikki’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since supper the previous evening and then only an attempt at cheese on toast. There was never anything in her fridge anyway. She usually tried to stock up on fresh salads, fruit and fish on a Saturday, but by the following Friday she’d not had the chance to eat any of it and had to throw it away in the bin and start the circle all over again. She knew it was a waste but, as far as food was concerned at least, she was an eternal optimist – one night she would get home at a reasonable hour and cook a decent meal for herself. It just hadn’t happened since Lilac had announced she was marrying the handsome hunk that was Finn Marchant and was holding a competition to select the designer of her wedding gown. If it had been she who’d been lucky enough to be getting hitched to a rock star, Nikki would have opted for a quiet, intimate wedding, perhaps in a tiny church on the beach in some exotic location, like Bali or Hawaii. Even the dress was superfluous if you had the man of your dreams standing next to you, barefoot in the sand.
Her uncharacteristic sojourn into nuptial oblivion was brought to an abrupt halt when an exclamation erupted from Tish’s lips. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Nikki focused her attention on the dress Scarlet was displaying and leapt from the sofa. ‘Oh, Scarlet, I could kiss
you! That’s it! That’s the one! It’s a Callie-Louise!’
Unlike Nikki, Tish had no reservations on the kissing front. She clutched a shocked Scarlet to her chest and slapped a loud kiss on both cheeks. ‘Thank God, thank God. You are an absolute saviour. I love you.’
‘Erm, I’m glad you like it. Do you want to try it on?’
‘No!’ screamed Nikki. ‘No! Sorry, let me explain. I think you should sit down.’
Nikki guided Scarlet to the couch and perched next to her. She scrabbled around in her Birkin for her business card and her ID. ‘You’re not going to believe this. I’m Nikki Coates. I’m…’
‘You’re Lilac Verbois’s PA. Oh, and you’re Tish Marshall, her wedding planner. I thought I recognised you. I wasn’t sure, but… Why are you here?’
‘The Callie-Louise design has been chosen by Lilac as the one she wants to wear on her wedding day.’
‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Flora, get in here!’ screamed Scarlet.
Flora appeared at the door, her eyebrows raised in mute enquiry.
‘We’ve won!’
‘Won what?’
‘The Lilac Verbois competition.’ And Scarlet promptly burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just such a shock. We thought, we thought when we didn’t hear anything that…’
‘Well, it’s taken us some time to find you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Scarlet asked, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the tissues they usually reserved for tearful brides-to-be.
‘There was no documentation with your dress when it was delivered to The Dorchester. Is this the dress Callie-Louise submitted?’
‘Yes, it is, but I don’t understand. Why… oh.’ She turned to look at Flora’s pale, almost translucent face, her eyes wide, her fingertips resting on her lips. ‘You forgot to fill in the paperwork? Flora!’
‘Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry, Scarlet. I know you mentioned it, but remember, we were in a panic about Callie’s aunt and I was upset and I suppose I just…’