When Only Cupcakes Will Do

by Daisy James

  ‘I have.’

  ‘So why is your face the same shade as my nail polish?’

  ‘It’s not. Anyway, Scarlet…’

  ‘And isn’t Theo’s band playing at Lilac and Finn’s reception? It was a real coup when Finn announced he’d pulled that one off. The Razorclaws will be on tour in Germany at the end of July so they’ve interrupted their schedule as a special favour to Finn. Wasn’t he at music school in Manchester with Theo?’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Callie. She felt like a deer caught in the headlights of Scarlet’s examination technique. She hadn’t mentioned the fact that Theo and his band would be playing at the wedding to her friend for exactly this reason. Nothing got past Scarlet.

  ‘So you’ll get to see him again.’

  ‘Only if our design wins the competition and that’s by no means a given.’

  Callie watched the cogs turn behind Scarlet’s emerald eyes.

  ‘So there’s a lot more than I thought resting on Callie-Louise Bridal Couture winning this competition.’

  ‘Look, Scarlet, you know I have no desire to see Theo again. I had to think long and hard about continuing with the entry when it was announced his band would be a part of the wedding arrangements. But I’ve worked my butt off to make it as a fashion designer and I couldn’t let an old relationship stand in the way of achieving my dream. If we do win, yes, I’ll need to be at the ceremony, but Theo won’t be there and my services won’t be required at the evening reception.’

  ‘So you’re still avoiding him?’

  ‘No, I just…’

  ‘Yes, you are. Which means you are not over him.’

  ‘Scarlet, you know what happened. You know what he did.’

  ‘Yes, but there are two sides to every argument.’ Scarlet affected an American accent. ‘I’ve heard your submission, Counsellor, now let me consider the case for the opposition.’

  ‘Oh, no…’ Callie buried her head in her hands and massaged her temples with her fingertips. She didn’t want to hear this right now. She didn’t have the strength to fight back.

  ‘Let’s see, these are the facts, Your Honour. A rep from a record company was attending one of The Razorclaws’ gigs. It was the most important night of Theo’s life and his girlfriend had promised to be there cheering him on from the wings. Said girlfriend was, once again, so engrossed in fulfilling her own dreams that she was late to the party. The Razorclaws got the contract, the champagne flowed, and they had been celebrating for hours before Theo’s neglectful girlfriend arrived to witness a drunken clinch with an anonymous girl groupie whom he said had thrown herself at him. What was Theo to do, Cal?’

  Callie swallowed down her agony. Every time his name was mentioned it surprised her that the pain was still so raw and near the surface three years later. After that fateful night, she had escaped back to London and used the money her parents had left her to set up Callie-Louise Bridal Couture. She’d refused every one of Theo’s calls and made her Aunt Hannah, who had brought her up after her parents’ death, and her best friend, Nessa, swear they wouldn’t disclose her new address to Theo.

  She had never thought she could experience such a kaleidoscope of emotions. Theo had always been there for her. He knew every detail of her history; they’d shared the same highs and lows, the same friends, the same dreams, or so she’d thought. When she was thirteen, Theo had borrowed his father’s spade and dug up one of his mother’s prize rose bushes. He’d raced round to collect her from her aunt’s house and dragged her to the local churchyard where he proceeded to plant the white rose bush next to the headstone of her parents’ grave. When she was fourteen, Theo had kissed her under the canopy of the old oak tree in the garden behind her Aunt Hannah’s haberdashery shop, Gingerberry Yarns, and then he’d carved her initials into the knobbly trunk. The entwined initials ‘CLH’ had, years later, become the logo for her bridal boutique. She had loved him and it still hurt a great deal that he was no longer in her life.

  But he’d never understood her need to sever the rural guy ropes and branch out on her own, to forge a life for herself away from the Dales. She had been so adamant about her desire to leave Allthorpe that she had expected Theo to share her ambition, with the clamorous draw of city music venues proving too tempting to refuse. But refuse he had. He remained at home with his parents and insisted on commuting to his degree course in Manchester, crashing at his friends’ digs when he had to. He had also remained loyal to their childhood friends – four of them made up his band – but whom, apart from Nessa, she’d not seen for years. Tears always gathered on her lashes whenever she recalled the nights they had spent together in Archie’s parents’ garage, jamming and tossing around suggestions of what to call the band. The Razorclaws had been an amalgamation of Theo’s suggestion of The Northern Claws and hers of The Razors.

  The three years she’d spent studying at Northumbria University’s prestigious School of Fashion and Textiles had been the best years of her life. She’d loved the people, the nightlife, the restaurants, the theatres, the fashion opportunities, even the football club. She had emerged from her time in Newcastle with a first-class honours degree in Fashion Design and Textiles and won a coveted place at the Royal College of Art to study for her MA in textiles.

  Whilst in London she had striven to put her dreams of becoming a fashion designer first and had embraced the freedom of the individual creative design philosophy her MA allowed her to explore. She had served her apprenticeship with Christianna Boulet, the well-respected doyenne of haute couture with a penchant for geometric print fabric edged with neon-woven tweeds. At Christianna’s insistence, she had learnt the more mundane aspects of the fashion business as well as the techniques required to produce a glittering showcase of catwalk-quality garments.

  But it had all come at a price when, after years of religiously returning to Allthorpe to fan the flames of their courtship, she had returned that night, albeit late, to stumble upon the scene that had remained scorched on the inside of her eyelids ever since. The shock had galvanised her into taking her dreams to a new level and the eponymous Callie-Louise Couture had been born.

  Every spare crumb of her love and affection had been lavished on her business. It was her baby and craved every moment of her attention. She was grateful for that as it meant she had no time to dwell on what had happened. But she had never forgotten Theo’s betrayal of their relationship.

  However, Scarlet was also right. What was Theo to do when girls threw themselves at him? And things could only have got worse now that The Razorclaws had topped the charts with their recent album. She just couldn’t see herself as part of that itinerant lifestyle. And she definitely couldn’t handle the roller coaster of emotions that went along with dating a famous rock musician.

  And, anyway, wasn’t Callie-Louise Henshaw about to become the most celebrated fashion designer in the country?

  Chapter Three

  ‘Look, come on. The courier will be here any minute now and we can’t risk him leaving empty-handed. I’m going to slide the dress into the wardrobe on the dressmaker’s dummy; less opportunity for it to crease. I’ll never forget that image of Princess Diana’s wedding gown on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral.’ Callie grimaced as she recalled the profusion of crinkles the dress had displayed to the seven hundred and fifty million people who’d been watching around the globe.

  ‘This is, without a doubt, the most beautiful wedding gown I have ever laid eyes on – you know that, Callie, don’t you? It’s definitely going to win the competition and you’ll see your own design worn by one of the most famous actresses in the world. How exciting is that?’

  Despite her natural reluctance to sing her own praises, Callie allowed herself a tiny nod to her ingenuity with a needle, coupled with her God-given talent, which had produced such dazzling results. It was one of her most adventurous creations to date, but every aspect of the gown had merged to form a true work of art. She had slaved through eighteen-hour days over the last three months to
get the sample ready for the final judging the next day.

  The gown’s pale ivory, organic silk flowed like ripples in a summer breeze. The strapless bodice draped exquisitely to enhance Lilac’s translucent, swan-like neck and pert breasts. The nipped-in waist would amplify her slender measurements, but it was the A-line skirt that drew the appreciative eye, ruched to the right where a darted panel of inlaid crystals and seed pearls shimmered like a sparkling waterfall whenever the bride moved, especially under the neon lights of Callie’s workshop. A fantasy dress for a fairy-tale wedding, putting even Cinderella’s to shame.

  Of course, if the design won it would have to be custom-altered and remoulded, but she would do anything, work 24/7, if it meant her dress could be displayed to the fashion world on such a famous model. That kind of exposure could jettison the Callie-Louise name into the order books of every style-conscious celebrity in Britain. It was everything she had been working towards. Every single, painful sacrifice she had made would have been worth it.

  Except maybe one.

  The two girls gently gathered the gown’s delicate folds and straightened the underskirt and hem. Callie fought a cauldron of emotions not to shed a tear as she and Scarlet manoeuvred the cardboard wardrobe crate towards the dressmaker’s dummy and carefully inserted the textile sculpture.

  They draped sheets of acid-free tissue paper around the dress until it was packed as tightly as possible without scrunching the delicate material and stood back to admire their handiwork before they sealed the door, knowing there would be no further tweaking allowed.

  As Callie closed the door and sealed the box with the brown tape, both girls let out a sigh of pleasure and of satisfaction.

  ‘A true masterpiece, Callie. Lilac would be crazy not to pick it.’

  Callie couldn’t speak. Her throat had tightened around a lump the size of a golf ball. ‘Oh, God, I nearly forgot! The paperwork for the courier.’

  ‘Callie? Callie?’ Flora’s voice floated down from the floor above. ‘Call for you in the Tumble Room. Said it was urgent!’

  ‘Okay, Flora, be right there.’

  Callie exchanged a smirk with Scarlet as she slipped on her black ballet pumps, stretched her long, colt-like legs and wiggled out the kinks in her shoulder muscles to her full six-foot height. She flicked the sides of her bob behind each ear and slid the pin cushion from around her wrist.

  Every call Flora put through was ‘urgent’. Despite being the salon’s receptionist since its inception three years ago, she invariably fell for the caller’s assertive demands.

  Rolling her eyes and experiencing a sweep of relief at the conclusion of the most important project of her career, she took the stairs two at a time to their ‘ideas’ room. It had been nicknamed the ‘Tumble Room’ because it was where Callie hoped their creative juices and ideas would tumble forth from brain to paper. In reality, it was a small conference room they used to receive their clients and listen to their dreams, decorated with wall art ranging from framed photographs of 1950s brassieres to Callie’s prized David Hockney, the celebrated Yorkshire-born artist, which she’d inherited from her father.

  ‘Thanks, Flora. Hi, Callie-Louise Henshaw speaking.’

  ‘Callie, at last! It’s Seb,’ announced her cousin with none of his usual comedic preamble.

  ‘Oh, hi, Seb. What great timing. We’ve just put the finishing touches…’

  ‘Callie, it’s Mum. Delia’s just rung. She collapsed when she was shutting up the shop. She’s been rushed to Harrogate hospital by ambulance. You’d better get up here. Delia is with her but she’s unconscious. The medics’ early diagnosis is a perforated bowel and she’ll be going straight into surgery. I’m racing across there now.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Seb, I’m on my way.’ An anvil-heavy weight pressed down on Callie’s chest restricting the flow of air to her lungs. She gulped for breath, her body frozen in alarm.

  ‘Callie? Callie? What on earth’s happened?’ Scarlet rushed to Callie’s side, rousing her from her shock and sending her stalled brain into motion.

  ‘It’s Aunt Hannah. She’s collapsed. On her way to the hospital. Having surgery. Got to go. Now!’

  ‘Oh, Callie, no!’

  Callie rushed past Scarlet’s blanched face, back down the wooden treads to her workshop and grabbed her handbag and mac. Fear wrenched at her gut. She couldn’t lose her aunt, she just couldn’t. When her parents had died in a head-on crash when she was only ten years old, Aunt Hannah had surrounded her with a comfort blanket. of love and brought her up alongside her two older cousins, Seb and Dominic, in a home filled with chatter and homely warmth. She adored her. She couldn’t envisage life without her.

  ‘What about the dress, Callie?’ cried Scarlet as she darted in Callie’s wake down the stairs to the workroom. ‘You need to fill out the forms, and sign the seal and the courier’s documentations. It’s part of the requirements, as evidence that the entry hasn’t been tampered with.’

  ‘Oh, erm, you do it, Scarlet,’ Callie called over her shoulder from the top of the stairs, the helix of panic tightening in her chest and throat, her brain ricocheting off into myriad nightmare scenarios.

  Scarlet jogged to keep up with Callie’s beeline for the exit and the car park at the back of the salon with a visibly upset Flora in her wake.

  ‘Callie…’

  ‘Scarlet. Just make sure it goes. It’s packed and sealed. It only needs a signature. I have to get to the hospital.’

  Tears sprang into Callie’s eyes and trickled down her pale cheeks. Her shallow breathing induced a dizzy spell causing her to pause at the door to draw oxygen into her screaming lungs. An icy drench of panic rose up her arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

  ‘Look, Callie, you can’t drive all the way up to Yorkshire by yourself – you’re in no fit state. I’ll drive you.’

  ‘Scarlet…’

  ‘What use will you be to your aunt if you end up in the same hospital after an RTA? Give me your keys!’ Scarlet brandished her palm and the expression on her face brooked no further argument.

  Callie realised that her objections were only serving to delay her journey. Any further refusals would only extend the time until she arrived at her aunt’s bedside.

  ‘Okay. Flora, if you can’t find Lizzie, will you stay until the courier arrives to collect the gown? All you have to do is fill out the documents and get a receipt.’

  ‘Sure, Callie. I hope your aunt’s going to be okay.’

  Callie could not recall much of the journey up to Harrogate. Scarlet drove swiftly, the car’s headlights tunnelling two piercing beams through the London streets, strangely devoid of their daily bustle on that late March evening, the clientele of the busy bars ignorant of the curling veins of turmoil swirling around Callie’s ragged brain. Raindrops splattered sporadically on the windscreen, the blades flicking them away like irritating flies. The amber glow of the street lamps cast their mellow light into the inky black puddles gathered in the gutters and across the rooftops.

  She couldn’t lose Aunt Hannah, she thought, panicking, especially as she’d already lost her parents. God couldn’t be that cruel, surely?

  Silence pervaded the vehicle whilst Scarlet concentrated on handling the unfamiliar controls of the Mini Cooper and delivering Callie to the hospital as quickly as possible, her own features pinched and sombre in the half-light. Anyway, what words were there to ease the pain?

  At last Scarlet pulled into the deserted hospital car park. Callie glimpsed the stout figure of Hannah’s best friend on the stone steps leading to the entrance hall, clearly keeping an anxious lookout for their arrival. Callie leapt from the car, grateful for Delia’s foresight – it meant she would not have to wander the neon-bleached corridors, going through the rigmarole of repeated questions to locate her aunt.

  ‘Delia? Where’s…’

  ‘Oh, Callie, I’m so, so sorry, my love. So very, very sorry.’ Tears streamed down Delia’s powdery, wrinkled face, her pale blue eyes gentle
as she hooked her arm threw Callie’s elbow.

  ‘Delia?’ Callie’s voice trembled.

  ‘Come on. Seb and Dominic are just in here,’ and she steered Callie into a tiny, fluorescent-bright room just off the entrance-hall corridor.

  As soon as the door swung back, Seb leapt out of the brown plastic chair and took Callie into his arms. Over his shoulder, Callie swung her horrified stare from Dominic to Delia as icy fingers of dread curled around her heart and squeezed.

  ‘No… no… no…’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cal. Mum passed away twenty minutes ago during surgery. Heart attack. They did everything they could…’

  ‘No…’

  CARINA™

  978-0-008-20683-3

  WHEN ONLY CUPCAKES WILL DO

  © 2016 Daisy James

  by Carina, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.