The Chic Boutique On Baker Street

by Rachel Dove

  Losing Henry the year before, after twenty years of blissful marriage, had knocked the wind out of her sails more than she would ever own up to, and quite often, waking alone in the ornate four-poster bed, she was more than happy to see a friendly face as she awoke to seize the day.

  ‘Thank you, Taylor.’ She smiled as she took the ornate cup and saucer, embellished with tea roses, from the tray that he proffered.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, I trust you slept well?’

  Agatha rolled her dark blue eyes at her manager. ‘Taylor, really? After all these years, you can’t just call me Agatha?’

  Taylor chuckled, ignoring the daily request. ‘We have the summer fair to begin planning today, and the council meeting at 3 p.m., to discuss the permits for the beer tents and the marquees. Shall I be driving you?’

  Agatha sipped her tea, her eyes closing momentarily as the sweet nectar travelled down her throat, warming her bones and waking her up.

  ‘Yes, please, Taylor, and I have an eleven o’clock in the village for the children.’

  Taylor suppressed a smile. ‘Of course. I shall get them ready.’

  Taylor left the room, and Agatha heard his soft footfalls as he descended the large central staircase. She hauled herself out of bed and padded to the ornate dressing table in her slippers, obviously left there the night before by Taylor. She tutted at his stubborn archaic ways and began to put her face on. Her gaze fell to the silver-framed photo next to her jewellery box. Henry smiled out at her, giggling at something she had said as they stood arm in arm, fresh faces, happy smiles, all decked out in their finery on their wedding day. She smiled and stroked her husband’s face through the glass.

  ‘Good morning, Old Boot,’ she whispered, using her nickname for him. ‘Busy day today, my sweet.’ She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to the glass. When she had finished applying her make-up, she wandered off to the bathroom to get ready to face the day.

  ‘Err, gerrof!’ Taylor laughed as Buster licked at his head, sticking his wet tongue down his ear canal. Maisie, excited by Taylor’s reaction, jumped up at his crouched form and knocked him to the floor. Taylor closed his eyes and tried to cover his face as both dogs continued their slobbery assault on him. He tried to get up, and just got licked all the more. ‘Guys, come on now, stop it n—mmmffff!’

  Buster took Taylor’s open, speaking mouth as an invitation for a kiss and Taylor found his tongue being massaged by that of a huge, rather smelly dog’s tongue in return. Horrified, he shut his mouth and began reaching frantically into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. Just then, a bellow rang out and both dogs stopped, startled, and sat down, contrite at either side of a very wet and dishevelled Taylor.

  ‘Children, stop that immediately!’ Agatha was standing on the bottom step of the staircase, looking resplendent in a fitted peach skirt suit, pearly white blouse peeking from beneath, and matching cream cloche, her silvery white curls peeking out from beneath the fabric brim. Her dark blue eyes were shining with anger, and her taut gait made the dogs look to the floor. Taylor chuckled under his breath. Not every day two huge grey Irish wolfhounds looked like scolded children, which of course they were. Agatha, having never been able to have children, had always filled that maternal hole with the biggest, hairiest rescue hounds she could find, and Maisie and Buster definitely took the dog biscuit for being the craziest mutts she had ever given a home to. Agatha called them her children, and treated them as such, and both dogs adored her as much as she did them, although when Henry was alive, he had had to put his foot down and ban them from the bed, which, surprisingly, Agatha hated. She loved to cuddle up with them, but, even now, she honoured her late husband’s wish and they slept in two huge plush baskets in the hall of the house, or laid out like two overgrown rugs in front of the ever-present fire in the drawing room. Brandishing the two thick leather leads Taylor hadn’t noticed on the crook of her arm, Agatha smiled.

  ‘When you have quite finished, Taylor, let’s get into the car. Many, many things to do today, people to see …’

  She wandered to the front door, grabbing her cream leather bag from the hall dresser on her way past, dogs in tow, tails wagging excitedly. Taylor groaned good-naturedly, pulling himself to his feet. His suit now looked like a dog blanket. Lucky he kept a lint roller in his glove compartment, he thought to himself, as he wiped the dog drool from his chin. After locking up the huge front doors, he wandered over to the car, whistling as he walked. Agatha eyed him from the back seat as he got comfortable, and he flashed her a cheeky wink. Colouring, she huffed and returned her attention to the dogs. Taylor held back a grin as they pulled away to the village.

  A short drive later, they pulled up at the small parade of shops on Baker Street. Agatha had always loved this little slice of history—the large, ornate mouldings on the shopfronts, the quirky businesses they contained, it was always a favourite place of hers. She remembered running to the sweet shop as a young girl after school for her fix of sweets from Molly’s Delights, the little confectioner’s that used to be here on this very street. Molly had long since died, and the shop now changed hands, but the feel and look of the shops were still the same. She looked at the newest shop—A New Lease of Life. Rumour was—and Agatha always knew the truth—that the new owner was a city dweller, a quiet pale girl, who had recently upped sticks and moved to Westfield alone. The type of shop she had opened perturbed Agatha, and had since she had heard the new business application from the council meeting. Westfield was very much a make do and mend type of village, and an upcycling shop, whilst being a trendy fad to the city folk in today’s austere times, was less of a new concept to the villagers. The villagers here never threw out anything without revamping it or repairing it as much as possible, and not many people didn’t know how to sew, knit or bake. She did wonder how long this newcomer would stay, as she couldn’t see the shop being much of a success, even with the tourist trade. She made a mental note to investigate further. She would pay this girl a visit tomorrow and see what was what. Maybe she could help her integrate into the village, and boost her trade. She was just about to tell Taylor he could open the door to get the dogs out, when something caught her eye in the new shop window. Or rather, someone did. Ben Evans, town vet and owner of the dog groomer’s next door, was outside watering the planters at the front of the shop. Or, more accurately, he was drowning them. His arm was holding the green watering can over the poor spluttering plants, but his gaze was firmly on the shop window next door. More accurately, he was focused on the woman within, who was bent over the large wooden table in the centre of the shop, cutting and measuring fabric. She was a pretty thing, Agatha noted, with long brown hair tied in a loose, messy plait, her thin frame covered in a pretty floral dress and matching pastel pink bolero cardigan. Agatha watched as Ben’s eyes never left her back. She was the polar opposite of his ex-wife, Tanya, that was evident. Agatha’s brow furrowed at the memory of the Day-Glo orange Mrs Evans as was. All labelled clothes, designer perfume, which choked everybody in a one-mile radius, and gaudy talon-like fake nails. Everyone in Westfield had been scandalised when Ben, a native of the village, had returned fresh from university with his new love in tow. She was at such odds to Ben and his quiet, kind ways. Agatha had never taken to the woman, and was not sad when she had left for the bright lights and temptations of city life. She had felt for Ben though; the evil witch had decimated the poor young Evans lad, and he had not been the same since. Agatha’s romantic side kicked in immediately, and she was just thinking how wonderful it would be for the two to get together, when the moment was abruptly broken. The nearest plant, bearing the brunt, was half dead, gurgling with the sheer weight of the water, and the terracotta pot, now full, began to overflow and splashed on Ben’s denim-clad feet. Startled, Ben jumped back, tripping over the A-board that Tracy always had too close to the shop, and promptly fell over, his legs in the air. Quick as a flash, he jumped up, swinging his limbs widely. Grabbing the A-board for support, he
straightened himself up, now damp, and cast a furtive glance at the window to see if the girl had seen. The girl in the shop, however, simply worked on, unaware of the drama outside.

  Ben dusted himself down quickly and Taylor took this as his cue to get out of the car, coming round to Agatha’s door. Ben looked horrified, obviously realising that his little trip to the pavement had not gone completely unnoticed. He nodded sheepishly at Taylor and, looking into the car, beamed at Agatha, his grey eyes shining with embarrassment. Agatha grinned back at him before she could stop herself. She had always had a soft spot for the Evans boy, and he had grown into a fine young man.

  The dogs loved him too and, as Taylor opened the door, they both made a break for it, Ben only just catching their leads before they barrelled into the shop.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, how are you and your fine charges doing today?’

  Agatha smiled. ‘Fine, Benjamin, fine, as muddy as always, I am afraid. Buster here still thinks he is a spring chicken. I am afraid he was chasing rabbits again in the far paddock, poor Archibald had to dig him out of the warren!’

  Ben chuckled, thinking of the surly gardener, Archie, who had been the Mayweathers’ gardener for many years. He had been great friends with Ben’s father, Edward, and the only time anyone had ever heard him talk, let alone laugh, was in the Four Feathers on a Saturday evening, whilst thrashing Ben’s dad at the weekly darts and dominoes night. Ben’s parents had both since passed away, and thinking of Archie gave Ben a pang of loss for his dearly departed mother and father.

  Tracy came to the door of the shop and smiled tightly at Agatha.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather.’

  Agatha smiled tightly in return, trying not to stare at the girl’s shocking pink hair, which today was piled on top of her head like a solid structure of candy floss. The youth of today, she thought to herself. Tracy moved closer to Ben, taking the dog leads, attached to the very bouncy Maisie and Buster, from his grasp. Agatha caught a flash of colour from the shop window next door, and discreetly turned her gaze. The girl from the shop was now furtively staring at Ben as he chatted to Taylor, and her gaze flitted from Ben to Tracy, and back again. Did she think these two were together? Agatha’s interest was peaked. The look on the girl’s face was one she had seen before. It was how her husband used to look at her during their courting days, and how the young Evans lad had been looking at the girl only minutes before. The cogs started turning in Agatha’s quick mind, and a seed of a plan began to form.

  As Taylor said their goodbyes, closing the door near Agatha and moving to his own, he looked at his long-term employer and suppressed a smile. I know that look, he thought to himself, that woman is plotting again …

  Had Agatha noticed Taylor watching her through the rear-view mirror as she straightened her already immaculate suit on the leather upholstery of the back seat, she would have seen his amused look, and another, very different look in his eyes. But Mrs Mayweather was lost in thought, planning her strategy on her next pet project, and, as everyone knew, what Agatha Mayweather wanted, she generally got, sooner rather than later.

  Four

  Four months earlier

  London

  Stepping down onto the platform, Amanda juggled her leather briefcase, black wool coat and Grande Caramel Macchiato. She felt grotty, despite the flesh-grating power shower she had subjected her skin to only hours before. The fetid stench of the rat race seemingly clung to her clothes. The memory of the sweaty bloke’s armpit she’d travelled pressed up against on the train was still fresh in her memory, and the smell still lingered in her nostrils. She took a gulp of her strong caffeine and sugar fix and fumbled for her ticket, swiping it as she went past the ticket barrier, a single body in the herd of office workers walking stridently towards the various workplaces in the city centre. Feeling a buzz from her handbag, she tapped on her Bluetooth earpiece, barking, ‘Perry!’ into the busy atmosphere.

  ‘Miss Perry, it’s Elaine. I just wanted to go over your schedule for today. You haven’t left any time for lunch again. Do you want me to rearrange anything?’

  Angela rolled her eyes, almost tipping her coffee over herself as she flicked her wrist to check her watch. ‘No, Elaine, it’s fine. I will send out for something, and have a working lunch.’ She walked out of the station, click-clacking in her high heels along the pavement towards her office, law firm Stokes Partners at Law. She could hear her long-suffering assistant sighing down the line.

  ‘No problem, Miss Perry, shall I ring Antony’s?’ Antony’s was the deli round the corner from the office, and they delivered. Pasta, salads, breads and cheeses to die for. Amanda’s stomach growled, betraying the yoghurt and blueberries she had gulped down this morning. Amanda smiled at her assistant’s fussy care of her.

  ‘Yes, please, Elaine, my usual. Thanks, I’ll be there in ten.’

  Elaine said goodbye and the line clicked off. Passing the newsagent stand, Amanda’s eye was distracted from her fast walk to the office when she spied the latest craft magazines on the stands. Striding up, she smiled at the stallholder, then picked up half a dozen of her coveted magazines and passed the armful to him.

  ‘Wrap them up please, Terry,’ she said, handing over the cash.

  ‘I know, I know, can’t have those fancy lawyers knowing about your secret knitting habit, eh?’ he teased, as he wrapped up the magazines in brown paper and then sheathed them into a large carrier bag.

  Amanda laughed. ‘Something like that, Terry.’

  Moments later, she entered her office on the fourth floor, coffee still warm in her hand, fired up her computer and walked over to her filing cabinet. Opening the bottom drawer with a small key from her bag, she stashed the package of magazines inside, relocked the cabinet and double-checked it was locked. Relieved to have once again smuggled them in undetected, she walked across the plush grey carpet, her tiny stiletto heels leaving small dents in the thick floor covering. At the large low window, she reached across with a manicured hand and drew back the fabric blinds, letting the early morning London sun dance across her workspace. Amanda loved her office, with its stark white walls, huge cherry-red desk and a small seating area, complete with table and elegant carved chairs. Although the decor was a little too bland for her personal tastes, it was perfect for meeting clients in comfort. She preferred to work this way, rather than using the impersonal and imposing meeting rooms on the first floor. In fact, other than being in court, Amanda would be quite happy to spend all of her working hours in her office. She liked the logical side of the law, seeing through a project from start to finish, undertaking each stage, piece by piece, layering the work needed to be done in neat piles, all in colour-coded trays on top of the large mahogany surface she slaved at. The cut-throat side of the business always left her cold. She was tough, and fierce in the courtroom, but she had no passion for it. She always felt like her mother when she turned on the ball-breaker side of herself, and her grandma’s voice would ring in her head: You are not like them, my little duck, their world is not for you. She still wondered from time to time whether her grandmother was right. There must be more to life than feeling the need to conceal half of your personality every day. Did anyone know the real her? Didn’t anyone notice how conflicted she was? She sighed to herself. They don’t know, because you don’t show them. She knew what they thought of her.

  Amanda was well liked in the office; in fact she was pretty much considered a maverick in the law firm of Stokes Partners at Law. She was a shark; an organised, keen-eyed, methodical-minded shark and her billable hours were always stellar, month on month. Even when she had been knocked down with the flu, she had worked from her couch, sending in dictation via email to her disbelieving PA Elaine.

  The partners were considering a new addition to the partnership in the next few months, as Mr Ford, one of the oldest and most senior members of the firm, was retiring, much to his neglected (and at the moment, very insistent) wife’s delight.

  Amanda, as o
blivious as she was to such things as office gossip and the buzz around the water cooler, was the clear front-runner, and tipped to be the first ever female partner at the firm. The other contenders were few and far between, and it was widely accepted that the partnership spot was between Amanda and Marcus Beresford, a guy with more years at the firm under his designer belt.

  Amanda wasn’t even sure how she felt about the partnership. After all, what was the point of more money if you never left the office to spend it? And who would she spend it with? Other than her work colleagues, she didn’t even speak to anyone, let alone socialise. Last Saturday night, whilst her colleagues were all with their families, or knocking back overpriced drinks in loud sweaty clubs, she had been sat in her flat, knocking back wine, flicking through Plenty of Fish for a possible date and screening calls from her parents, both eager to give her pep talks about ‘the last push for partner’. Her mother had even taken to sending her daily emails, suggesting ways of clinching the partnership, whilst simultaneously disparaging her for not cutting her hair short or returning their calls.

  As though summoned by Amanda’s mind, Elaine buzzed through.

  ‘Miss Perry, I have your mother on line one.’

  Amanda rolled her eyes, groaning.

  ‘Tell her I am in a meeting please, Elaine.’

  ‘Er …’ Elaine’s hesistant voice came through the speaker. ‘I have told her that excuse the last five times, and she says if you don’t speak to her now, she will come to the office.’