This had to stop. A day from now the show would be over, Hal Langdon would be out of her life, she would be back to normal and it would be hard enough without the kind of heartbreak that Hal could bring.
No matter how much she longed to be back in his arms, she needed to distance herself from his touch that turned her resolve to jelly and that she already knew would haunt her dreams. She had spent so much time and effort protecting herself from the pain of loss and rejection she would not be able to bear it if Hal became something else she had to survive.
‘It’s not you. It’s me. I can’t do this and I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Truly sorry.’
When she dared open her eyes, Hal was on his feet. His smile had faded and been replaced with a look of concern rather than hurt, regret rather than anger.
‘What are you so afraid of, Mimi? There is no shame in needing people. And I already know that there is a lot more to Mimi Ryan than I ever thought possible. Why are you so scared of letting that part of you come alive?’
‘Scared? I’m scared that you will become just someone else who abandons and leaves me. Someone else I have to mourn and endure when they are gone. That is what I am scared of, Hal, and that is why I don’t want you to touch me or kiss me or hold me. Can you understand that?’
Hal’s gaze racked across her face for a long, searching minute as though he did not quite believe her. And, just when he opened his mouth to answer, their silent idyll was rocked by the telephone on her desk.
Neither of them moved one inch to answer it. This was too special to break off for a telephone call, and after six rings the answer machine cut in.
‘Hi, Mimi, Poppy here. Hope everything is going okay. Can you do me a favour? If you see Hal can you remind him that he should have been back at my place to pick up his tuxedo half an hour ago? And we have to be there early tonight to meet and greet. Can’t wait to see your outfit later. Ciao.’
‘Your tuxedo?’ Mimi said, lifting her voice a little at the end in surprise, her senses sparkling and super-sensitised to his every reaction.
He glanced down at his tatty cut-off old jeans and lifted up the hem of his T-shirt with two fingers. ‘I thought this might be a little casual when I’m escorting the star of the show to her first proper fashion bash. Have to look the part for something like that.’
‘You’re wearing a dinner suit for me?’
‘Is that so hard to believe? You deserve the best, and while I’m around that is exactly what you are going to get.’ The fingers of one hand slid up into her hair and drew her closer, then closer, so that when he slanted his head and brought his warm, full lips onto hers Mimi felt weightless, her body totally supported by the ring of her arms and the buoyant life and energy in his heart.
The pressure of his moist mouth on hers increased with the heat between them. The air seemed on fire as she leant into him even more, his lips sliding back and forth, then onto her chin and throat, creating delicious shivers of heady sensation. She could have stayed there for ever in his arms, but it was Hal who moved his mouth to her forehead.
‘I do understand, but I promise you that you will never need to be scared about me. I’ll be back to pick you up in two hours,’ he whispered in a hoarse voice. ‘This is your night, Mimi. Get ready to have the time of your life!’
CHAPTER NINE
MIMI lay back against a soft duck-feather pillow on her mother’s bed, her arms wrapped around a large lavender silk cushion pressed into her stomach, and smiled at the silver-framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day, their arms wrapped around each other under the glorious Italian sunshine.
Her mother was dazzlingly beautiful.
The ivory wedding dress had been designed and made by her grandmother and embellished with pearls and crystal as a labour of love by all the aunts and Fiorini workshop-ladies. The bodice and train alone had taken three weeks of painstaking hand sewing. Her father looked so proud and handsome in his best summer wool suit, fine shoes and tie. They were both so young and brimming with hope and dreams of a happy, long life together.
Mimi looked around the room and breathed in the precious atmosphere. The scent of perfume, old wood and lavender sachets was totally unique and intense with memories.
This had been her parents’ private, sacred space and the only room Mimi had not been allowed in as a child.
Of course, once her mother had become ill, all of that became unimportant. Her mother had loved Mimi to sit on her bed, laughing and chatting, huddling together, filling the room with life.
Now it seemed over-filled with wardrobes containing fifty years of memorabilia and clothes; precious, wonderful clothes: shoes, gloves, hats. A treasure trove of the beautiful things her mother had loved. Wearable art had been nothing new to Talia Fiorini Ryan.
Each week she would choose something, some treasure, to bring beauty into her life and Mimi’s life. Sometimes she would wear it or display it on a dress. Other times Mimi would come back from school or university to find some jewel or exuberant hat on a box on the kitchen table. It had been her delight, and Mimi had loved her for that.
Mimi slid across the bed to sit opposite the polished cedar linen-chest with its wide, long shelves which ran along one complete wall of the bedroom. She carefully used both handles to pull out the top drawer. Her mother’s wedding dress was still in its white silk bag, folded and curled around special padded sachets so that the beading would not be destroyed. Mimi ran her fingertips along the beautiful cover her grandmother had stitched and initialled by hand before closing the drawer shut with regret. It had been her mother’s dream to see Mimi married in this dress. She had never got to see it.
The fact that Mimi would have had to lose several inches to actually fit into the dress was totally irrelevant. It had always been Mimi’s dress. Even after all of these years, there was still the faint tang of her mother’s favourite gardenia perfume. Or was she imagining it?
Sniffing back a lump in her throat, Mimi opened up the bottom drawer which held the matching silk shoes and gloves. And one more treasure—a slim shoe-box hidden from casual eyes at the back of the drawer.
Only this box did not contain shoes, but a long, dark, purple velvet bag, closed with two drawstrings. Mimi unclipped the box and the three strands of perfect creamy pearls took her breath away. The clasp was in platinum and diamonds with the mark of a famous maker, although she could barely see it through her tears.
There had been many times when selling this precious piece would have made things a lot easier, but these pearls were intended for Mimi to wear on her wedding day, and to her mother that was more important than roof repairs.
She needed to wear something linking her to her Mum tonight. She would be with her in spirit—that would never change—but the necklace would be a special physical connection. Not to the Fiorinis, but to the woman who had given up everything for the man she loved and the daughter she had taught so very well.
Sniffing away even more tears, Mimi slid off the bed, fastened the clasp of the pearl necklace around her neck and looked at the image which gleamed back at her from the mirror.
Wow. So this was what serious jewellery should look like. This was how designers used real jewels to turn a T-shirt and trousers into a couture outfit. She had heard about it, but until this minute she had never really appreciated it. She would wear her mother’s wedding pearls for the first time.
And she would wear them with love as the perfect accessory to the perfect gown.
Just like a real designer would.
Gulping down a breath and the lump in her throat, Mimi collapsed back down on the duvet and stared hard at the racks of clothes filling two wardrobes which stood opposite with their doors wide open. Clothes made by famous designers from all over Europe, including exquisite vintage Fiorini pieces made by craftswomen who had dressed royalty and famous celebrities.
As she looked at those wardrobes, wearing these fabulous pearls intended to adorn a woman accustomed to we
aring couture gowns, a well of bitter doubt and fear built up in the pit of her stomach.
A real designer.
She felt as though every scrap of self-confidence and self-belief she had built up over the past few days was being sucked out of her, leaving behind an empty and self-deluded husk.
She was a total and absolute fraud. An imposter.
Mimi closed her eyes, heart thumping, her mouth dry and head aching, and snatched up the cushion, squeezing it with all her might as she tried to fight off the growing sense of panic which was threatening to overwhelm her.
Who was she trying to fool?
Whatever she did, she already knew she would be totally intimidated by the people in the room tonight.
What had she been thinking to imagine for one moment that she could launch her own range of clothing and compete against these famous names in the fashion world?
The stunning models with their perfect figures, she could cope with. It was their job to look good and they worked hard to keep it that way. But the designers, their assistants and their stylists would all be there. Experts. Trained and experienced in top design-houses.
While she was—what? What credentials did she have to offer?
She could just imagine the small talk.
And where is your salon, my dear?
Oh, I have a knitting shop in north London. Do you know the area?
Mimi groaned and pulled the cushion over her head.
What was she going to do?
Peeking over the top of the cushion, she looked at the blue cocktail dress hanging on the rail ready and waiting for her to slip on.
She had made it herself, sewn every stitch by hand. Chosen the fabric and experimented with the design for days until she was happy that it was perfect.
Looking at it now, she saw the dress through an outsider’s eyes.
And was totally disgusted. It was pathetic; plain, small-town; home-made, rather than designer hand-sewn; without verve or panache. Worse, the dress was hanging next to her mother’s collection of designer gowns; the comparison was so painful that she turned her head away with a shudder. She couldn’t even look at the dress she had been so proud of only a few hours earlier.
If she wore that blue dress tonight, she would just be setting herself up to be the laughing stock of the show. A real country bumpkin with delusions of grandeur—just as her Fiorini cousins had said that she was. And this pearl necklace would make the contrast scream out even louder.
She was going to let Hal and Poppy down. She just knew it.
Hal had worked so hard to make her dream come true and now she was going to ruin everything.
Oh, Mum. What have I got myself into? What do I do now?
Hal Langdon swung his heavy left leg onto the top flight of steps to Mimi’s apartment, let his cane take the weight and straightened his bow tie one-handed in his reflection in the glass.
He had made it; stormed the castle on his own two feet. Well, one good foot and one painful and swollen foot, but he was here all the same. The cane was a last-minute replacement for the crutch but it seemed to be working.
Not bad, mate; not bad at all. Just the right amount of style and dash to wow the fashionista into opening up their cheque books for the charity.
He stretched out his hand to ring the doorbell, then hesitated and took a breath as his hand dropped away.
Maybe this was not such a good idea after all.
Working with Mimi had given him some sense of purpose in the dark days when there had been so little light on the horizon, and he was more grateful than she could know. But it was more than that. A lot more.
In a few short days Mimi had become a very important part of his life.
He had never planned to need to be with her, hold her, share his life and past with her.
It had been a very long time since he had felt so close to a girl and the impact had sent him reeling.
Only a few hours ago she had also shared some of the pain of the last twelve months with him. She had trusted him with a part of her life which was so very personal.
He had been totally in awe. For a few minutes, holding her in his arms, he had come so close to telling her what had happened on the mountain that day. So very close. But his nerve had faltered and he had lost that tiny door into his heart that only Mimi seemed able to open. Her pain had been so raw and fresh; he had no right to add fuel to that fire with his own pain.
Mimi had had to watch her mother fade over months and years of extended suffering. The fire of life and power that had been Tom Harris had been extinguished in a fraction of a second when his head had hit the rocks. How could he compare her pain to his?
That would have been totally unfair on both of them. But at that moment something had changed for him.
His admiration and respect for her had moved into a new depth. A depth which had startled him then and was still singing in his head even now.
What he was feeling for Mimi Ryan was something unique and precious. And he had no clue about where it was going to take them.
She had a life here, a home, a business and a career she had built up at huge personal cost. Her gentle touch had told him that perhaps, just perhaps, there might be a place for him in her life. Perhaps even a place to come back to. A centre around which the turmoil of his life could move when he was ready to work and rediscover where he fitted into this crazy world.
But in the meantime he had one mission alone: to help Mimi Ryan celebrate the launch of her clothing collection and the work she had done for Tom’s project.
And he had every intention of seeing that mission through to the end.
His finger pressed on her doorbell; a very strange version of Vivaldi, played on an out-of-tune piano and a tin whistle, filled the calm evening. It was certainly a door chime with a difference.
A few seconds later he heard a strange shuffling sound and the door opened.
To reveal not quite the vision of loveliness that he had been expecting.
Mimi was wearing a long towelling dressing gown tied tight around her waist. The normally luscious hair was swept back from her forehead by a headband made from what looked like a knitted tie, exposing a pale and exhausted-looking face.
Her face and neck were red, her eyes were puffy, and from the state of the smudged mascara all over her eyelids she had started on the make-up and given up halfway through.
Okay…
‘Ready to go to the ball, Miss Ryan?’ Hal asked in the most positive, energetic and enthusiastic voice he could come up with. ‘Love the outfit, by the way. So different! Glass slippers are optional.’ And he glanced at her feet.
Mimi looked down. She was still wearing pink fluffy slippers with bunny ears. ‘Oh,’ she replied in a dazed voice, and blinked several times. ‘Is it that time already?’ She glanced at the kitchen wall-clock and groaned. ‘And now I am going to be late as well.’ Her shoulders slumped even lower and she held the door open for Hal. ‘You had better come in. I’m having a bit of a problem.’
‘So I see. Anything I can help you with?’
Her answer was a quick nod. Then she did something quite extraordinary.
She held out her hand towards him as though she needed him.
She needed him.
Hal grasped his cane even tighter, took her tiny fingers in his right hand and smiled weakly at her, willing any strength he had to pass through that tenuous connection to soothe what was troubling her. Because something had obviously happened to upset her, and for once he was going to keep quiet until she was ready to tell him.
He held on to Mimi’s hand as she drew him across the kitchen and into a large old-fashioned bedroom filled with heavy wooden furniture: wardrobes, chests, a dressing table, and one huge bed with an elaborate polished headboard.
Every flat surface in the room seemed to be covered with photographs, shoes or clothing of all kinds and shapes and colours. Bags and shoes were scattered all over the carpet between the open wardrobes and the bed.
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br /> If this bedroom was anything to go by, the girl was out of control and floundering.
Mimi collapsed down on the soft bedspread and he shuffled along to sit next to her. Her fingers slipped from his grasp so that she could steady herself. There was a man’s jacket draped along the pillow next to a very flimsy coffee-coloured lacy garment, but he said nothing.
The moment he moved his arm around the place on her huge dressing gown where her waist should be, Mimi leant her body against his so that her head could rest on his right shoulder.
He closed his eyes and held her closer, his chin resting gently on her head, breathing in the scent of her perfume and her, listening to the soaring classical music which was playing somewhere in the flat. Seconds. Minutes. His body was reacting in ways he didn’t want it to, but he couldn’t risk losing her by rushing her. Not now. She was too important to him to mess it up with motivational speeches, or by challenging her to argue with him, and break her out of whatever slump she was in.
‘Do you realise that this is our first anniversary?’ Hal whispered into the air above her head. ‘This time last week I was making you spill your coffee onto your shoe. Have you forgiven me for that yet, by the way?’
The girl below his chin sniffed and replied in a trembling voice, ‘Not a bit.’
Hal smiled to himself. The old Mimi was still in there.
‘Drat. I was hoping I had redeemed myself along the way.’
Mimi instantly twisted around inside the circle of his arm and lifted her hand to press against his cheek so tenderly and with such exquisite feeling that, looking into her eyes, Hal felt his heart melt with the sight of her need and pain. With that came a feeling and connection with her that was so new, so raw and so intense that he was speechless and powerless against the force of it.
‘You have redeemed yourself, in so many ways. Don’t you dare think any differently.’
He smiled, took both of her hands in his and held them tight against his chest, before daring to lock his eyes onto hers and whisper, ‘Then tell me what has upset you so much. Trust me. It’s okay.’
Her Moment in the Spotlight Page 12