by Rachel Dove
She shook her head, snapping herself out of work mode. When it came to suits on men, she was always dressing them, rather than undressing. She thought of Darcy’s honeymoon suit, the time she’d taken designing it from scratch, making it with her own two hands, just to hang in some wardrobe, untouched and unloved. A bit like her. Unless he had taken it with him, to hang in some foreign wardrobe with another woman’s clothes. A traitor suit. One that waggled its sleeves at any bit of clothing going. A slut suit, with no ounce of honour among its fine threading.
‘Bad day?’ she asked, paying the bartender and taking a refreshing swig from the ice-cold bottle of water. He turned to her again, a half-smile playing on his lips.
‘A bad month, to be honest,’ he said glumly, throwing back a shot with a flick of his head. Maria nodded in understanding.
‘I get that – me too.’ He looked across at her, and Maria felt his eyes run over her, scrutinising her from head to foot. She blushed, remembering she looked like a damn Bond girl.
‘Ignore the get-up. My mate Cass “dressed me” and dragged me out to cheer me up.’
The man nodded, turning towards the dancefloor, where it seemed everyone but them was. Maria pointed to Cassie, who was currently rubbing body parts suggestively with a man who looked like Channing Tatum’s slightly better-looking stunt double. Cassie caught them watching and waved emphatically, tossing her hair into Nearly-Tatum’s face, not that he seemed to mind. Maria laughed despite herself. Her friend was mad, but she loved her to bits, despite their normally different views on romance. The man peered back over his shoulder at her, flashing an amused grin. ‘So, she’s supposedly here to cheer you up, yet you’re sitting at the bar alone, drinking water, while she does that?’ He pointed again to Cassie, who was now pretty much in danger of being mauled by the males surrounding her. Mauled or peed on territorially. Neither was an appealing prospect. Nearly-Tatum looked all set to beat his chest and run up the speaker tower with her under his arm, taking a few rivals down along the way. Maria sighed and turned back to the bar, hailing the lazy barman, who looked like he was reading a comic book in the corner.
‘Two of whatever he’s having, please,’ she said, motioning to the empty shot glasses.
‘Make that two each,’ the man added, thrusting a twenty onto the bar. Maria couldn’t be bothered to argue, so she grabbed a twenty from her purse and put it on top of his. He smiled.
‘In the mood to get drunk?’ he asked. ‘I’m Mark by the way.’
She looked across at the unkempt but handsome man. Cassie was with her, she was pretty safe where she was, and the thought of getting blasted and having a laugh with a man who wasn’t going to jilt her at the altar and take another woman on honeymoon sounded like a pretty welcome way to spend the evening.
‘Maria,’ she said in reply, as the shots were lined up. ‘And you bet your ass I am.’
Chapter 4
Maria was pretty sure her head had been sawn off in the night, jammed with nuts and bolts, and then stapled back on. Even opening her eyes caused her physical pain, but she had a horrible feeling of dread that forced her to push back the pain and peel apart her crusty eyelids. Managing to pull open one eye, she half-sighed in relief as she realised she was lying on her front in Cassie’s spare room, her room while she was here. Her relief was short-lived when she saw a piece of paper on her pillow, some unfamiliar writing scrawled across it. Fighting against the wave of nausea that occurred when she moved her arm from her side, she reached for the paper, her fingers barely grasping it. Hungover was not the word. She felt as though she had been dug up. She could still taste the many, many shots she had drunk last night, along with an undertone of chips she didn’t remember eating. The paper said:
I had to get to work but thank you for last night. I really needed the company.
Mark Smith
A mobile number was underneath the name, along with a solitary kiss. Maria put the paper over her face, blocking out the sunlight from the window by her bed. A flashback of skin on skin popped into her head, and she grimaced. What the hell had she been thinking? Sleeping with a stranger went against everything she believed. And she did remember sleeping with him, however hazy her memory was. And protection? Oh Lord, she couldn’t remember. She rolled out of bed as urgently as she could (which wasn’t very urgently at all), crawling to the bathroom as the contents of her stomach warned her they were about to make an appearance. She had just reached the rim, her fingers curling around the cold porcelain, when she spotted something floating on top of the water. A condom. Thank heaven, the angels, and the makers of rubbers, she exclaimed in her head. The nausea subsided slightly with the panic, and she rolled onto her back, gripping the base of the toilet like an otter trying to break a clam.
‘Cass… i… e… eee,’ she called feebly. No reply. She banged her palm down on the tiled floor with a slap-slap sound, as loudly as she could bear with her headache. ‘Cass…’ slap ‘iieee…’ slap. ‘Cassie!’ she tried again, and heard a shuffling noise in the corridor. Maria was just about to shout again when the door opened and Maria found herself staring at the naked man parts of Nearly-Tatum, and the chips made a surprise reverse appearance after all.
Maria hugged the blanket around her for dear life as she looked at the Saturday morning autumn weather from the cottage window. She was dressed in fresh PJs, post-shower, and was still barely holding it together. Nearly-Tatum, a very friendly Australian otherwise known as Tucker, had made her a coffee and was now making scrambled eggs, in his pants, in the cottage kitchen. Cassie was lying in the armchair next to her, staring pointedly at her.
‘Cass, stop!’ Maria shuddered as the sound of her own voice rattled the pickled brain in her head. ‘I can’t talk about it. I can’t even drink this coffee.’ She put the steaming mug onto the coffee table, alongside a stack of law books and two yoghurt pots, spoons still stuck in. She gagged at the sight. ‘Seriously, Cass, I’ll clean this place for you, or hire you someone?’
Cassie, legs dangling over the IKEA chair arm, waved her away with her rather feeble fingers. ‘I will sort it, chill.’
The radio was on in the kitchen, and Tucker-Tatum was humming along to Bon Jovi as he clanged pans about. Cassie snuck a look at her, grinning devilishly. Even hungover, and with her Little Mermaid PJs on, she was still quite a sight with her perfect, sculpted brows and long, raven-black hair. Maria looked back at her, flicking her eyes to the kitchen. ‘So, what’s happening today? And what did you get up to last night?’
Cassie raised an eyebrow and shook her head. ‘Oh no, missus, you don’t get to find out about my night, till you spill about yours!’
Maria groaned. ‘Oh, Cass, it was a mistake, obviously. I shouldn’t have gone anywhere near a bloke last night. I can’t remember most of it, and I seriously think my liver is dying today. Those shots were little cups of poison, I’m sure of it.’
Cassie nodded, wincing herself. The smell of bacon and eggs started permeating the air, and they both licked their lips at the same time. A man, in the kitchen, cooking hangover food. It seemed that Cassie had won the morning after, at least. Not that Tatum-Tucker would be seen again after today. He was already on borrowed time, he just didn’t know it yet. It was a miracle he’d even got to stay the whole night. Maria was grateful for the fact that her friend didn’t do relationships, given the man had watched her vomit half-naked, held her hair back and picked her up off the bathroom floor. All done with tanned washboard abs and a pair of Captain America pants he had thankfully dashed to put on. Embarrassment was not the word, but he seemed to take it in his stride, calling for Cassie to help while he cleaned up the bathroom and got to making coffee. Now he was feeding them, and she had even seen him heading to the bins, black bag in hand. Cassie was oblivious to it all, having just helped Maria get changed before they plonked down into their respective blanket forts in the living room. It felt weirdly domestic, the longer they sat there, so Cassie turned on the television. Or rather, she jabbed at the
remote on the arm of the chair with a shaky, polished finger. It sprang into life, and she dived on it, hitting the volume button with gusto as the sound of the morning news filled the air. ‘Arrghh!’ they both moaned collectively at the noise.
‘Everything all right?’ The Australian twang came from the kitchen.
‘Yes!’ they both shouted, wincing again. ‘Yess…’ they whispered, shooting each other a sympathetic look as they retreated deeper into their blankets like turtles into their shells.
‘And in other local news, Darcy Burgess – is the honeymoon truly over?’
The newscaster couldn’t have caused a larger impact if he had parachuted in through the roof. They both jumped off the sofa, commando-crawling across the cream (and slightly stained) carpet towards the dusty TV unit.
‘Turn it up, turn it up!’ Maria screamed at Cassie, who was pressing the buttons like her life depended on it.
‘Just weeks ago, a certain August wedding was heralded as the crown in Harrogate’s events calendar, with Darcy Burgess, eligible bachelor and heir to the Burgess Tea Company, set to wed local Westfield entrepreneur and wedding planner Maria Mallory. However, on the day, the wedding didn’t go to plan, and pictures emerged from the overseas press of Darcy, looking alone in St Lucia. What happened to the pair? Was Darcy jilted at the altar? The Burgess family have yet…’
‘Breakfast, girls!’ Tucker said, an apron emblazoned with the chipper slogan ‘This came with the kitchen’ the only thing covering his half-nakedness.
‘Sshh!’ They both batted him away. Shrugging, he put their plates down on the coffee table, returning to sit on the couch with one of his own.
‘Where did you get that apron?’ Cassie asked him, looking at Maria. Maria shook her head, transfixed by the screen.
‘It was in the drawer, in a wrapper. You know,’ he said, shovelling a piece of bacon into his mouth, ‘that kitchen is pretty grim, almost like no one uses it.’
‘Sshh!’ Maria waved frantically.
‘Sshh!’ Cassie added, giving him a glare from her mascara-ringed eyes. He snorted, biting off a piece of bacon aggressively at her. She grinned at him before remembering to scowl.
Maria was glued to the screen. ‘It says they have yet to release a statement. It’s ridiculous, why would they do that?’ The look she gave Cassie broke her heart. She wrapped her swaddled arm around her friend.
‘Protection, hun – they have a reputation.’
Maria sniffed, wiping away a tear. ‘So do I, and a business. I have a living to make, and Westfield is such a small, close-knit place. People talk, and after last night…’
A vision of the events of the evening before swam into focus and Maria burst into tears. Tucker stood and quietly left for the kitchen, sensing the need for privacy. Cassie hugged her tighter.
‘We can spin this, you know,’ Cassie said, her legal acumen springing into action. ‘Why don’t we talk to the local paper, see if they’ll run your story? At the end of the day, Mar, he went on honeymoon with another woman after jilting you at the altar. He deserves to be run through the press, not you.’
Maria sobbed loudly. ‘I can’t do that. It’s too petty, not to mention embarrassing. How did this happen? Them being so quiet about everything makes me look awful. How can he do this to me, Cass? And Mark last night… I mean, oh God!’
Cassie wrapped her arms around her best friend once more, crushing her under their combined blankets.
‘Hey, listen, last night was… well… it was company. You needed comfort, and everyone spins out when they have a break-up. We all do silly things and hurt people. Mark left you his number as well, so it’s not all bad. He could be Prince Charming! Darcy arseface could be the frog. This could be a funny story you and Mark tell your grandkids by the fire.’
Maria laughed, prompting a snot bubble to blow out of her left nostril. Cassie visibly shrank away from her, always disgusted by anything gross or remotely like looking after a child. She grabbed the tissue box and threw it to Maria. Maria caught it gratefully and blew her nose.
‘That, my friend, is gross. Now, come on, let’s eat breakfast before it gets cold. You have to work today, remember?’
Maria groaned. Saturday was the day she worked alone in the shop, luckily. She could get away with drinking vats of coffee in her sweatpants with Lynn not around, and there were no brides booked in, so she could concentrate on doing the alterations at the back of the shop. She made the odd dress or two for the sale racks when she had time, and they sold well to the locals and the tourists, so maybe she could run up a couple of designs to fill the shopfront a little. The display would need changing too, she thought, as she started to eat her cooling breakfast. It would soon be the party season, and the bridal display could be taken down. Thinking of her own gown, wrapped up with the other dresses in the upstairs flat of her shop, her stomach roiled once more. She would return it, she decided, and get rid of it. They’d paid for it anyway. They would just have to get rid of the burger relish stain. Darcy could jolly well spring for a dry cleaner. She needed to try to take back some semblance of control.
It was at that moment that Tucker walked back in sporting his apron and a dish-washing brush. Both having forgotten he was even there, Cassie joined Maria in a loud scream, which sent Tucker diving down the back of the sofa, suds flying, and the girls running to the medicine cabinet for more paracetamol.
‘Dude!’ Cassie said, ramming a white pill into her desert-dry mouth. ‘You need to wear a bell!’
Tucker laughed as he walked into Cassie’s room, a tattoo of a kangaroo punching a koala on a surfboard on his sculpted back the last thing they saw before the door closed.
Chapter 5
Opening the door to Happy Ever After, Maria heaved a sigh of frustration. Her old Ford car was freezing, the heating having not worked even when it belonged to her mother years ago, but the shop was supposed to be warm, and it was so cold. She always silently thanked Lynn in her head for doing one of the many tiny but wonderful things she did around the business, like setting the heating in autumn and winter. The radiators were cold to the touch this morning, though, no hum of the heating. Wexley Street was a small row of shops linked to pretty cottages at either side, just in the heart of town, near Baker Street and jutting off Foxley Street. Westfield had been home for ever to Maria and her mother and father, and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Normally, at this time of year, with the wedding season slowing and the first autumn leaves dropping, Maria would be in her element. Designing fancy-dress costumes for kids that she sold online, catering for the local dances and parties that the festive season brought with it. It was magical.
This time, however, it felt so flat. She was alone. Nothing had changed, it seemed. Nothing at all. The shop was the same, with its slightly wonky walls, peeling paint and old-fashioned features. In its previous life it had been a bookshop, and her father had brought her as a girl to wander among the shelves, delving for literary treasures about pirates and princesses, while he studied one thing or another. It reminded her of the wand shop from Harry Potter, complete with dusty shelves and strange owner. Mr Hoffman had died not long after her mum and, with no family to speak of, the business closed. Maria had been dealing with the grief of becoming an orphan, living in an empty house full of memories, and a desire for something new, linked with the familiar. She had sunk all her money from the house into the shop, saving what furniture she could fit in and selling the rest. She had lived upstairs among the stock till Darcy had asked her to move in with him. Now she was back to being here, her safe haven, and she wouldn’t let anything or anyone take it from her.
Flicking the trusty kettle on, she shook off her fleecy coat and bobble hat, placing them on the old coat rack. Father’s hat still hung there, just as it had at home, perched on top, and she smiled at it fondly. It was on the far wall, near the double-windowed doors of the back room, next to the photo of her mother.
‘Morning, Mum,’ she said absently. ‘You don
’t have to say a word,’ she muttered, opening the back doors to let light into the rooms. It seemed so much darker today. She looked into the back room at her inbox of projects and alterations. Not much there, she mused. Lynn had struck again. She knew her assistant had taken care of everything for her, not wanting her to be stressed with work, but in truth, with the huge blanks in the diary, Maria could have used the distraction. She shook her head to chase away the blues and headed to the counter. Filling her favourite mug with some sweetener, she reached for the kettle and flicked it on again. She mustn’t have done it properly the last time, as it was cold. Nothing happened.
Flicking the button impatiently, she waited for the red light to flick on. Nothing. Moving to the light switch, she flicked it on. Still nothing. She sighed and, going into the back room, flicked light switches on and off, tried the sewing machine, the over locker. Nothing, and the phone was off too. Damn it. Heading through to the back, she opened the door to the back pantry and pulled down the cover to the fuse box. Something had tripped, obviously. The electrics had been pretty much untouched since she bought the shop, and probably for years before that. She was amazed they’d passed the survey, looking at them now. She switched one of the switches, which was flipped down, back up, but it tripped again.
She growled and flicked the switch again. The same thing happened. ‘What?’
She tried again but got nothing. ‘Damn it, I don’t need this today. What the hell is going on?’
The shop was due to open soon. She couldn’t very well open up with no power! She went to her handbag to get her phone but remembered she had left it at home switched off. Perfect, and the desktop wouldn’t work without power. She looked under the wooden countertop, hunting around among catalogues and sample books till her fingers touched what she was looking for.