by Lucy Hepburn
Molly shrugged. She had no idea.
“Anyway,” Simon brightened. “At least you can get on your way now.”
Molly looked at him. “Eh? But what about Pascal?”
“Of course you care, but he’s a grown-up, let him sort this out. Surely that’s what he’d expect you to do? You need to get the dress to Venice to your sister; he knows it’s a family emergency, yes?”
She nodded.
“Then do that! Just head off and let him catch up. He’ll understand—you can’t not be at your sister’s wedding.”
Molly couldn’t bring herself to tell Simon that this would be missing the point somewhat. If Caitlin could swap their places, send Molly to prison while Pascal and the dress traveled to Venice, Molly was pretty sure that’s what she’d do. No, Molly and the dress had to stay here till it was all sorted.
Chapter Seven
Hours until wedding: 45
Kilometers to wedding: 550
“What do you mean, bit of a hiccup?” Caitlin’s voice was steely, loaded with danger. “What sort of hiccup?”
Molly gazed glumly around the small terminal building, her phone pressed hard against her ear.
“My airplane had to make an emergency landing. I’m lucky to be alive—”
Caitlin cut her off with a huffing noise. “Something’s up with the dress, isn’t it?”
Thanks for caring, sis. “People were screaming and everything—”
“Is it ripped?” Catlin screeched. “Is it only half-finished? Delametri assured me it was perfect! I don’t believe this—it’s a disaster!”
“It is not a disaster! Listen, the dress is fine, I’ve got it here.”
Molly felt an uncomfortable pang as she spoke. She hadn’t actually unzipped the dress carrier to check the gown out yet—she hadn’t had a chance. But she trusted Pascal.
“Caitlin, Pascal Lafayette came on the flight with me—he’s going to fit the dress on you in person!”
A long silence. Molly could feel blood pounding in her ears.
“Again, please?”
Molly sighed. She noted that Caitlin hadn’t asked her to repeat any of the details of her near plane crash. “It was going to be a surprise. Pascal is coming. Delametri sent him, so that the dress could be fitted on you perfectly.”
Caitlin’s tone altered immediately. She gave a little squeak of bliss. “Ooohh! Don’t you just love couture? How’s that for attention to detail! How brilliant is that! Wait till I tell Francesco’s mum!”
“Hmmm.” Molly was dreading what was inevitably coming next.
She didn’t have to wait long. “Isn’t he a darling? And so, so…elegant! Can I speak to him? Please? Pascal and I know each other pretty well. Obviously Delametri’s been masterminding the project, but Pascal’s been present at all the fittings, doing the donkey work.”
“Well, obviously.” Molly expected nothing less.
“Delametri’s trained him well—I’m sure he’ll pull off the sort of bespoke finish the House of Chevalier is famous for—how amazing! You know what, even the most perfect couture can look less than perfect if the final fit isn’t flawless. I’d been wondering whether to ask Delametri about that—but he’s ahead of the game, as usual!”
“Marvelous,” Molly sighed.
“Put Pascal on! I’ve got to speak to him!”
Here goes. Molly steeled herself. “Caitlin, I’d love to put him on but, well… here’s where the hiccup comes in.”
“Tell me.” The menacing voice came roaring back. “Right now.”
Molly held the phone away from her ear and spoke. “Cait, Pascal has been arrested.”
“What?” Pavarotti’s deep voice had nothing on her.
“They’ve taken him away,” said Molly. “I don’t know where to or how long for.”
“You’re going to have to explain, Molly dear.” Another change of tone, this time to a voice which eerily resembled Cruella de Vil.
There was no way of sugar-coating the situation, so Molly dived straight in with the whole story. “Listen, Pascal is terrified of flying, so when the problems kicked off with the plane, well, so did he.” She searched around the empty terminal building looking for inspiration, a way to make this sound better. “He tried to open the doors and jump out; then he wrestled a stewardess to the ground when she tried to restrain him…”
“You’re kidding me, right? Pascal did that?”
“Cait, I wish I was.” She slammed back against the wall as she relived it. “He took something on the flight to calm his nerves—some pill, maybe two, maybe more—but whatever, he took too much and just flipped. He was rambling incoherently, had to be pinned down for the rest of the flight, and since then he’s been held by airport security. Only now he’s been formally arrested and taken away by Swiss cops, maybe to a police station, though I’m not certain about that.” She wished there was someone here to ask. “I’m still in the airport terminal, but I don’t know where he is. I’m trying to find out…”
“Why didn’t you do something?” Caitlin yelled.
“I couldn’t!” Molly felt defensive. “I was being held by security in another area!”
Silence. Then, “Excuse me?”
“Um, what I mean is, well…” Molly tailed off, kicking herself—she’d meant to keep that bit to herself. Why was it every time she spoke to Caitlin she turned back into the ten-year-old kid sister who was always in the wrong?
A shaky breath down the phone. “I. Do. Not. Believe. This.”
“Look, Caitlin, forget all that,” said Molly. “The important thing is I’m in Switzerland – not dead in some terrifying aviation fireball situation.” That was pretty important to Molly but not to Caitlin it seemed. “And I’ve got your dress. It’s all good.”
“GOOD?” Caitlin thundered. “NONE OF IT IS GOOD!”
“Please don’t shout, Cait, okay?” Glad that there was no one to hear this conversation other than the dust balls and luggage trollies. “My day has been crap enough without you having a go at me too!”
“What do you expect me to do?” Caitlin shot back. “I can’t believe you let this happen—actually, scrub that. I can believe it.” Here it came. “Honestly, Mol! You’ve done another spectacular!”
And there it was. Molly could feel her insides shrivelling: a sensation she remembered from right through her childhood. A wave of helplessness was welling up from the pit of her stomach, making her want to sit cross-legged on the ground and burst into tears.
“It’s not my fault,” she whispered, horrified at how tiny her voice had become.
“Yeah, right! Isn’t that what you said on my prom night? That was important to me too…oh, I don’t know… what am I going to do?”
“Sorry Cait,” was all Molly could think to say. “Cait? Hello?”
She couldn’t believe Caitlin would actually hang up on her. Angrily, she pressed ‘redial,’ but then stopped and ended the call. Given her past lack of success in winning arguments with her big sister, her chances of putting her side of the story across effectively were about zero right now.
Instead, she slumped down onto an orange plastic chair feeling more wretched even than when Reggie had dumped her. Crikey, was that only yesterday?
Fourteen years ago—almost to the day—Caitlin had been excitedly anticipating her high school senior prom. Molly, aged just ten, was almost as excited as her big sister, only her excitement had nothing to do with the dancing, or the make-up, or the boys.
Caitlin’s new dress was quite simply the most beautiful thing Molly had ever laid eyes on. Its tight cerise silk bodice was sprinkled with tiny crimson sequins, and the skirt, which was a perfect silk circle, was lined with layer upon layer of gorgeous, floaty pink tulle which made it stand out like the dresses Molly had seen in fairy tale picture books.
Molly had always loved playing dress-up with her dolls and teddies, turning them into brides and supermodels, but this vision
was in a different league altogether—in fact, she believed that her first sight of Caitlin’s dress had convinced her that she would spend the rest of her life working with beautiful clothes.
Tall, strawberry blonde Caitlin looked perfect in the dress just as it was, but Molly, intoxicated by the dress’s beauty and bursting to be helpful, had decided she would surprise her by making it even more special. So she had got up in the middle of the night and worked for hours under the eerie glow of an anglepoise lamp, linking the sequins together using a thick darning needle and bright green wool from their mother’s knitting bag.
Like a special necklace, she’d thought.
Then, in order to show off the fabulous net underskirt to better effect, she had cut a thick strip of silk from around the hem, formed it into a big rosette, and attached it to the waist of the dress, cleverly, she’d thought, using the heavy duty stapler from the stationery drawer. Finally, as a finishing touch, she’d drawn long stripes down the skirt with her craft glue pen and sprinkled them with red glitter, before hanging it back in Caitlin’s wardrobe and sneaking back to bed where she was too delighted with herself to sleep a wink for the rest of the night…
Molly thought she was like a fairy godmother. And Caitlin was Cinderella.
But Caitlin had tearfully declared the next morning when she saw the result, that she would never, ever, forgive her sister for what she had done. And it looked as though she would be true to her word.
She jumped when her phone rang. She looked at the screen and sighed. Caitlin again.
“Molly? What has happened?”
But it wasn’t her. It was a man’s voice. Francesco.
He didn’t sound angry. It was more disappointed, like a schoolteacher dealing with a child who hadn’t handed in her homework on time.
Molly didn’t know how to speak to Caitlin’s fiancé. She barely knew him, after all. “Francesco,” she began, keeping her tone light, “it’s been a bit of an adventure I’m afraid. But we’re getting there. How are you? Getting excited about the big day?”
“Caitlin is very unhappy,” Francesco replied. “She says the wedding is ruinedwhat have you done?”
There! Again! All Molly’s fault.
“What have I done?” she echoed. “Well, Francesco, I’m not sure I appreciate being accused of wrecking your wedding when all I’ve done so far is survive a near plane crash and risk incarceration for your wedding day. But would you be kind enough to tell my sister that her dress will be on the next flight?”
Why had she said ‘flight’? There were no flights…but she was too frazzled to try to unravel all that now. She just wanted to get Francesco off the phone.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Well, the plane had to make an emergency landing in the Alps, and we’re having a bit of an issue with customs, and Pascal’s been arrested but only because he had a panic attack on the plane. Apart from that, generally speaking, I’d say everything’s pretty much under control.”
Molly wasn’t trying to be facetious. She just wanted to give Francesco the impression that she’d be able to handle everything. But she knew her words hadn’t come out right. She could hear her sister in the background muttering and stomping about, and her tummy clenched in an uncomfortable knot.
“Say that again about Pascal? Arrested?” Francesco’s voice was still calm, though with added confusion.
“Yes. But you mustn’t worry.” Molly was now even more acutely aware how pathetic she must sound.
“Umm…”
“Listen, Francesco.” She didn’t let her voice betray how close she was to lying face down on the floor and bursting into tears. “Will you tell Caitlin that if I can’t lay my hands on Pascal for whatever reason, I’ll fit the dress on her myself. Please remind her that I have a degree with distinction in garment design, and my couture work has come on a little from when I was ten years old.”
The micro-pause before Francesco said, “One moment, please,” told her all she needed to know. She could hear him cover the phone and relay the message to her sister.
But he didn’t need to come back to her to relay Caitlin’s response to her offer. The ‘OVER MY DEAD BODY!’ from a sobbing Caitlin was shrieked so loudly, Molly would have heard it if she’d simply stepped outside onto the tarmac under the path of an incoming jumbo jet.
So without waiting for any more measured disappointment from Francesco she said, “I’ll call you when we’re on the move,” then hung up.
“I take it things aren’t going well?”
Simon sat down in the next seat, took hold of her wrist, and very gently eased one of her hands away from her face. He had to lean in close to look into her eyes. Molly felt absurdly grateful for the presence of another human being, and Simon’s friendly, non-judgmental face was full of concern.
“It’s Groundhog Day,” Molly moaned. “I’m never getting out of here, Pascal’s probably rotting in a cell, my sister hates my guts, and this flaming dress is probably ruined after being crushed under those crates, so why am I bothered?”
“Bummer,” said Simon with pity on his face.
“You said it.”
She looked up. “By the way, Simon?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you still here?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t get a car. Anyway, I was worried about you.”
“Oh!” The answer was so unexpected and so full of warmth that Molly felt tears pricking her eyes again. “Thanks, but please don’t worry about me. You should go—Yvonne will be worried about you, won’t she?”
“She’s fine for now, thanks,” he said. “What’s your next move?”
“Well, I’ve got Pascal’s phone, and I’m waiting for his lawyer to call me back. I only hope he speaks good English because I don’t know the French for ‘mid-air panic attack, possibly drug-related, plus assault.’”
“Me neither.” Simon chuckled. “Can’t one of the staff help out?”
Molly shook her head. “Doubt it. I’m guessing it’s a good idea to keep as low a profile as possible after all the trouble we’ve caused.”
Then Molly had an idea. “I’ll call Delametri!” she burst out. “He’ll fix this!”
Simon looked blank for a moment. “The designer?” he guessed.
Molly searched through the phone’s menu to Pascal’s contacts page and began scrolling through the names, enjoying a thrill of delight as her fingertips stroked past Delametri Chevalier’s private mobile number.
Molly nodded. “He’s French! He’ll sort everything!”
“Doesn’t always follow,” Simon commented.
Molly gave him a withering look and scrolled back to Delametri’s number. “He’s in Marseilles visiting his mother,” she told him, loving the sensation of being privy to her hero’s whereabouts. “But this is an emergency, I’m sure he’ll be desperate to help out his assistant. Far better than a lawyer! And less expensive.”
Simon was looking at her strangely.
She returned his look. “I’m from Yorkshire. We’re careful with our money.”
Her hands shook as she hit the ‘call’ button.
Delametri answered immediately. “Pascal?”
It took all of Molly’s concentration to hold it together. She turned to Simon, pointed to the phone at her ear, and grinned like an idiot, miming ‘it’s him! It’s him!’ but Simon simply raised his hands, palms upwards, clearly baffled.
“Monsieur Chevalier,” Molly said, trying to sound official and not like a teenager calling their favorite member of a boy band. “It’s not Pascal, it’s Molly Wright here. Caitlin’s sister?”
“ALLO? WHO? WHO IS THIS?” The din in the background was immense. Either Delametri’s elderly mother had her television on too loudly or else she was throwing a massive party. Molly couldn’t tell which.
“Molly Wright!” she cried. “Caitlin’s sister! We spoke yesterday about the wedding dress?”
“Qu
i?” shouted Delametri.
Molly sighed, rolled her eyes and said, “Francesco Marino’s future sister-in-law?”
“Ah, yes! Mademoiselle!” Molly was thrilled; he remembered her. Delametri Chevalier remembered her. “You must forgive me, I am at a party and it is very noisy…one moment, please!”
She heard a muffling noise as he covered the phone with his hands and spoke very quickly to somebody else in the room. But he wasn’t speaking French. It sounded more like Italian, though Molly couldn’t be sure.
“Sorry, sorry, what has happened?” he asked. “I could not…oi! Cameriere, altro champagne per i miei amici!”
“Excuse…? Monsieur Chevalier? Are you still there? Hello?”
Molly could hear the sound of footsteps and the party noises growing fainter. When he spoke again, his voice was much clearer.
“Is there a problem Mademoiselle? Is Monsieur Marino delighted with the gown?”
“Eh? Monsieur Marino? Francesco? He hasn’t seen it yet! There’s been a problem. Our plane was diverted to Sion airport…”
“Where?”
“I know, I’d never heard of it either. It’s in Switzerland, somewhere in the Alps.” Deep breath. “But Pascal has been arrested and taken to jail, and I wonder if you could help me get him out?”
That got his attention. So Molly told him the full story, repeating most of it several times as he made notes, and giving him as much information as she could. She even managed to make herself sound rather heroic when it came to describing her rescue of the dress from the bowels of the baggage handler’s lair.
Delametri took in most of her story in silence, occasionally saying ‘yes’ to encourage her to keep talking.
“Cher Pascal has never liked flying,” he said at last, when she had finished. “I will make some calls.”
“Thank you!” He was so wonderful: genius designer and philanthropist.
“Oh, and Mademoiselle?”
“Yes?” Molly smiled, waiting for his thanks.
“Monsieur Marino does not need to know about Pascal’s…infirmity.”
“Oh, n…no, of course not.” Molly’s face was red hot. She had told Francesco, hadn’t she? But he’d barely taken it in with Caitlin yelling away in the background. “Why would I do a thing like that?”