If the Dress Fits

by Daisy James

  ‘Of course, but us artisans can’t be too precious about our creations, can we, Tom? They are but temporary offerings for our patrons’ delectation. Well, where is everyone?’ He swung his gaze around the refurbished shop, his arms flounced in theatrical style. ‘Oh, I love what you’ve done with the place, Callie; pink sorbet and peppermint are two of my favourite shades. I’m so pleased I chose those lilies – they’re just perfection. Icing on the cupcake!’

  Delia appeared in the shop. She greeted Tom and Marc and fussed around the flowers.

  ‘You know, Tom,’ said Marc, ‘you should really have submitted a proposal to be appointed as Lilac Verbois’s wedding cake supplier. You would have definitely been shortlisted. Ms Verbois is known to have the most exquisite taste.’

  Marc’s dark eyes met Callie’s and his hand shot to his mouth. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It’s okay, Marc, but thanks for the motivational direction. And yes, Lilac does have an eye for exquisite design.’ She squeezed a smile into her eyes for Marc and then Tom who lurked like a frightened lamb caught in a wolf’s lair over by the door. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay?’

  ‘Erm, no thanks,’ and Tom disappeared through the door in a flash.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m staying right here. I wouldn’t miss this party for all the tulips in Amsterdam. Jacob is out celebrating with his tennis gang tonight, but I demurred and promised to meet up with him for cocktails when we’re done here.’

  Marc strode over to inspect the new merchandise that had been crammed into the freshly painted cubes of shelving and piled into the dipped bamboo baskets. He selected a soft-spun natural lamb’s wool yarn and held it to his cheek, appreciating its texture.

  ‘Oh, I’m thinking a cream and peach Fair Isle sweater, Callie. Have you been watching those Danish detective shows? Perhaps I could knit one for Jacob for Christmas? Or maybe I should go for one with a picture of Rudolph on the front? I simply adore the annual craze for festive knits!’

  ‘Marc, I think we should begin our sessions with something a little more basic, don’t you? But as it looks like it will just be me, you and Delia tonight, perhaps we can…’

  Chapter Eighteen

  When the tinkle of the brass doorbell reverberated through the shop, Callie was so relieved she resolved there and then never to be irritated by its cacophony of chimes again.

  ‘Hi, Callie. Hi, Delia. Sorry we’re a little tardy, love, but Grace had to wait for her daughter to arrive to sit with Arthur.’

  The WI sisterhood of yarn bustled into the shop. Delia had reported how anxious they had been to lend their support so their sanctuary would survive even if its proprietor sadly had not. They fussed over the sweet-smelling floral display, swooned over the cakes and dragged out the seats with the cushions. They were just settling in for the session when Delia’s friends arrived, pink-cheeked and breathless, followed swiftly by the giggling trio from the school, which included Nessa, who had clearly been at the wine.

  ‘Hi, Callie,’ they chorused. ‘Wow, did you make these?’

  ‘No, of course not. Tom Wallington brought the cakes and Marc Bairstow from Buds & Bows donated the floral display.’ She indicated Marc who waved a fingertip greeting whilst dissecting the girls’ choice of attire as though possessed of laser-vision.

  Marc stepped forward to receive their enthusiastic praise, in his element with so many women surrounding him, before claiming the seat at the head of the table, poised to learn his first stitch on the way to the promised Christmas sweater.

  ‘I think we should begin, Callie,’ Delia said.

  Callie pressed the tightened coil of nerves to the back of her mind. She suspected she might be about to explain to her aunt’s WI friends how to suck eggs, but hey, in for a penny…

  ‘Can I first of all thank each and every one of you for coming here tonight. As this is our first session and we have a diverse range of talents here, I think we should begin with the basics and those who are more experienced can help the beginners before we break for coffee and some of these delicious cakes and a gossip?

  ‘What I’d really like us all to do is work on two different projects. For the first part of the session, I’d like everyone to concentrate on a six-inch knitted square that can be practised on at home and brought to the next meeting. We can make use of the acrylic and man-made yarns Gingerberry used to stock. I hoped we could create a blanket from the samples we make, which could then be donated to the hospice in Heppleton in memory of Aunt Hannah?’ She glanced across to Delia for her approval and saw a sparkle at the corners of her pale eyes.

  ‘I am grateful to the ladies from the WI who together knitted this gorgeous navy and cream Aran-style sweater for us to display in Gingerberry’s window. Our new stock arrived this morning and I have to admit, it’s gorgeous.’

  Callie passed around the sweater for the group to inspect, followed by balls of soft-spun angora and cashmere to appreciative oohs and ahhs. ‘I truly believe that if we are to spend our time in any artisan pursuit, then we should produce a garment worthy of our labour, in natural and not man-made yarns. Not only do we now stock cashmere, but also mohair, pure organic cotton in four-ply, a selection of bamboo yarns, which produces a lovely drape when knitted up, and organic lamb’s wool sourced from a farm high up in the Yorkshire Dales.’

  Callie held up a photograph she had printed from the internet of a Nordic-patterned sweater. ‘These hand-knit sweaters are flying off the shelves at Selfridges and Liberty’s. And they sell for over four hundred and fifty pounds apiece.’

  ‘Four hundred and fifty pounds? Ridiculous! Who would pay that sort of money when you can knit one yourself?’ exclaimed Iris.

  ‘That’s just the point, Iris. People are either too busy to make their own garments or have never acquired the skills to knit, and believe me, these sweaters have been carefully designed by the fashion houses that produce them. Then, there are the one-off pieces of couture. In fact, this one I’m showing you here’ – Callie held up a photograph from LuxeLife magazine of a blonde Scandinavian woman sporting navy-blue, calf-length flares and a hand-knit cropped sweater fashioned in white angora with crystal detailing around the yoke and the cuffs – ‘this one retails at seven hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘That’s gorgeous!’ gasped Julia, one of Nessa’s friends from school.

  ‘Well, there’s no reason why you couldn’t have a go at that, Julia.’

  ‘Where do I start!’ she exclaimed, grabbing a pair of needles from the centre of the table, slotting them under her arms and making a clicking noise.

  ‘With the basics,’ Callie laughed.

  ‘What is the second project you have in mind, Callie?’ asked Nessa.

  ‘Well, as you all know, I own a small bridal boutique in London.’ Murmurs of acknowledgement looped around the room. Callie saw the expressions of sympathy on a couple of the WI women’s faces and pressed on. ‘Aunt Hannah has amassed a cornucopia of pretty embellishments over the years – seed pearls, tiny crystals, sequins, beads, ribbon, lace – in every colour imaginable. I thought we could use some of it to make bridal lingerie.’

  Callie bent down and extracted the bolt of ivory silk that Scarlet had FedExed up from Callie-Louise that just happened to be the leftover fabric from the ill-fated Lilac Verbois wedding gown. Scarlet had also emailed her the lingerie sketches she had worked on at college and not had time to develop. Callie handed round the designs she had photocopied.

  ‘Wow, these are gorgeous. Look at this garter, I love it. Shame they are only worn for weddings nowadays,’ declared one of the WI women. ‘I adore this nightwear. What’s it called?’

  ‘That’s called a baby doll and that one’s called a teddy, Kath. I thought we could have a go at stitching a few samples and see if they’ll sell at Callie-Louise. The salon only stocks silk in cream, ivory and white, but I could maybe source some fabric in peach, pink, even scarlet?’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ declared Kath and a
ripple of excitement spread around the table.

  They spent the next thirty minutes learning how to cast stitches onto a needle using the thumb method, as Delia insisted this technique produced a neater edge. Kath and her friends helped Nessa’s friends to keep the stitches on the needles to much hilarity and giggling. At the end of their first hour the WI women had finished two squares each and Nessa’s friends had managed five lines filled with holes, but new friendships had been forged.

  For the second part of the class they moved on to sewing and embroidery. They rolled out the silk and helped Callie pin out the paper patterns for the lingerie onto the fabric before taking it in turns to carefully cut out the pieces. They selected spools of ribbon and lace from the shelves and draped each over the silk, admiring the effect and offering suggestions.

  ‘Okay, I think we should break for coffee now,’ Callie called above the hum of contented chatter. Yarn and needles were stowed away and the silk pieces placed gently in a leather trunk lined with Liberty print. The remaining paraphernalia was cleared from the table and replaced by the huge brown teapot and a cafetière, along with the silver platter that everyone had been drooling over since they arrived.

  ‘Hey, don’t you think our meetings should have a name?’ proposed Nessa as she poked her tongue around her crumb-laden lips. ‘I vote for “The Knitting Ninjas”! What do you think?’

  ‘Great idea!’ laughed Delia, ‘but we are sewing bees, too!’

  ‘What about “Cupcakes & Couture”?’ suggested Marcia to a chorus of approval.

  The doorbell jingled, causing everyone to swing their scrutiny to the unexpected intrusion.

  ‘Hi, I hope we’re not too late to join in the fun? Oooh, what fabulous little cakes!’

  ‘Girls!’ Nessa shot up to greet the trio of teenagers from St Hilda’s, her auburn hair swinging in a ponytail, her school mistress’s hat firmly on. ‘You’ve totally missed the lesson. We’ve moved on to the coffee, treats and gossip part of the evening!’

  ‘Eh? Thought it was an eight o’clock start, Miss?’

  ‘No, seven, and anyway it’s eight forty-five!’ Nessa assumed her best ‘patient teacher’s’ voice as she rolled her eyes at Alicia, Polly and Megan, the gang who adored their crafting sessions at school.

  ‘Oh, Megan’s dad’s dropped us off and adjourned to the pub so we’ll just have to stay for the coffee, cakes and gossip bit then.’ Alicia looked anything but regretful.

  The girls swooned over the melt-in-the-mouth delicacies, then fingered the ivory silk and drooled over the lingerie photos. They placed orders of their own for the teddies, suggesting leopard-print and tiger-print satin, and joined in with the gossip as though old friends.

  As darkness crept up unnoticed and the amber glow of the street lamps suffused the gathering with a golden sheen, Callie sank down into a chair next to Delia and surveyed the scene. The room had come alive that evening with the swirl of chatter and laughter that wrapped a cloak of comfort and serenity around the group. The shop shone with the promise of a bright future; several friendships had been forged that would never otherwise have been contemplated. For the first time in months, Callie experienced a boost to her flagging spirits and the anvil-heavy weight that had clutched at her chest began to crumble.

  This night had been for her aunt and, as she head-counted the participants, she knew it had been a great success. She had made no money as she had donated the acrylic yarn for the hospice project and the ivory silk from Callie-Louise. However, the silk would hopefully be turned into items she could sell under the Callie-Louise brand and the money would be shared between the ladies who decided after this evening to take part in the new enterprise. Delia had in any event signed up every attendee for the next session of Cupcakes & Couture.

  ‘Okay, okay. Can I thank every one of you for showing your support this evening? Delia and I truly appreciate it.’ Callie was shocked to find her throat had choked up and she struggled to swallow down her rising emotions.

  Delia pressed her palm on Callie’s forearm and continued on her behalf. ‘Many of you here tonight knew Hannah as more than the proprietor of Gingerberry Yarns. She was a loyal and supportive friend endowed with a warm, welcoming smile and a listening ear for all our highs and lows as we pass along life’s treacherous journey. I, and I’m sure you all, miss her dreadfully, but I hope that our little haberdashery shop can continue to move forward into the future. I know you’ve all enjoyed the evening and learnt something new. Cupcakes & Couture will return in a week’s time and I hope everyone will come back with renewed vigour for the world of Gingerberry. Thanks, everyone.’

  Callie swiped away a tear on the cuff of her black polo sweater and began to gather the discarded crockery as the class scraped back their chairs and prepared to leave with shouts of thanks and promises to finish their homework squares.

  At last, the bell became silent.

  ‘Delia, I…’

  ‘It’s okay, dear. I know Hannah was with us this evening and was bursting with pride at what you’ve achieved. I know I am. Oh, here’s Seb. I thought he’d promised to drop in.’

  ‘Wow, look at this place. What a wonderful transformation. Gingerberry is definitely going to remain a thrumming hub of creativity and chatter. What, no cakes left?’ Seb hugged Callie to him. Before drawing away to greet Delia, he whispered in Callie’s ear, ‘Hope you don’t mind – I brought a friend with me.’

  Still retaining her welcoming smile, Callie brushed her now almost shoulder-length hair from her cheeks to behind her ears and focused her tear-reddened eyes on Seb’s companion. Without warning her heart shot like a stone down a well into her stomach and bounced back up again, causing her knees to weaken under the sudden onslaught of emotion.

  Theo!

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Can we talk?’ Theo asked.

  Callie nodded, snatched her jacket from the hook by the door and followed Theo out of the shop, leaving Seb and Delia watching them like a pair of gobsmacked goldfish.

  It was a mild night for early May. They sauntered down the high street, a soft breeze licking at the eaves and lifting Callie’s overlong fringe from her eyelashes. The moonlight glanced against the shop fronts and lit up their path.

  Neither spoke. Callie was relieved as her throat was so tightly constricted that any reply would have come out as a squeak worthy of Tweetie Pie. Theo’s proximity had sent her heart into a frenzy of unfathomable emotions. They reached the churchyard and paused at the lynch gate where the clematis wound its sinewy stems up the wooden posts to the slated roof.

  ‘Remember when we used to frighten ourselves stupid playing hide-and-seek in the graveyard?’ said Theo.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Remember when Seb dressed up as a ghost and you threw a rock at him? He’s still got that scar in the middle of his forehead.’

  ‘Served him right,’ Callie smirked, chancing a glance from beneath her fringe at Theo. ‘Have you been pruning the rose bush we planted for Mum and Dad?’

  Theo nodded, staring through the darkness towards the plot where Callie’s parents were laid to rest.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We loved them, too, Callie. Seb, Dominic, me. It was the least I could do whilst you were… away.’

  ‘I should have come back more often. I should have spent more time with Aunt Hannah before she…’

  Theo lifted Callie up onto the moss-covered stone wall and jumped up next to her, studying his fingernails.

  ‘I told her it was my fault. If she had to blame anyone then it had to be me.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Theo. If anything it was me who jumped to hasty conclusions. Always reacting before thinking, that’s what Aunt Hannah used to say. She was right. Why do things have to be so difficult?’ Tears slid down her cheeks.

  ‘They don’t have to be, Cal. You could come back home, run Gingerberry…’

  ‘I can’t. I love my life in London. I adore the buzz, the nightlife, the people, even the traffi
c! And I love my boutique. It’s the culmination of all my dreams from as far back as I can remember, you know that, Theo. You were there. But now I’m back here, it feels like this is where my heart truly is.’

  Callie couldn’t look at Theo but she knew he was staring at her. It felt like the last three years had slipped into oblivion; that they had simply been apart for the weekend and were now back together. They had so much shared history, so many mutual friends and experiences. ‘A girl can’t have everything, though.’

  ‘Even when I’m on stage playing to thousands of fans, all screaming my name, asking for one more song, you know what I’m thinking? When can I jump on that plane and fly back home to Allthorpe? Mum and Dad despair of ever getting rid of me. They’ve even taken to leaving estate agents’ sales particulars lying around the house where I can find them. But do you know what? Every one of those glossy brochures is for houses within a ten-mile radius of home.

  ‘This is where my heart is, Cal, where it will always be. No matter how far I travel, or how successful the band becomes, I will always come back home. And I think you feel the same way. You’ve just been in denial these last three years.’

  Callie met Theo’s eyes at last and almost fell from her perch on the wall. Her breath quickened and longing flashed through her veins and sparkled out to her fingertips. This was her Theo, the man she had given her heart to when she was a teenager and who had refused to let her have it back. He was the first boy she’d kissed and, she realised with a smile, his picture was still sellotaped on that ridiculous wedding scrap box she and Nessa had made all those years ago. She still had it, hidden under her bed. She wondered if Nessa had kept hers and whether Robbie Williams’ picture was still pasted on the lid, or whether a new photo had taken its place.

  ‘Look…’ Theo jumped down from the wall and turned to look Callie in the eyes. He reached into the inside pocket of his black denim jacket and produced a pair of tickets. ‘I’ve brought you these. They’re tickets for a gig The Razorclaws are doing in London. It’s the last one before Finn’s wedding so it’s more of a rehearsal, really. Just a few members of the official fan club, and friends and family members of the band and our management team. Come, please. Bring a friend?’