‘I would suggest we add structured boning to the corset to strengthen the support and stop the delicate fabric slipping down. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that happening?’
Sharon grinned. ‘Jamie would love it.’
Laura pinned the satin straps to the back of the dress. ‘The vicar might not.’
Sharon nodded. ‘This is true.’
Laura moved to the front. ‘However, if we add in subtle decorative strapping, like this …’ She draped both straps diagonally across Sharon’s chest, pinning them off-centre. ‘The corset will stay in place, the line of the gown will be preserved, and both your shoulders and lovely—’
‘Zeppelins.’
‘Will be on display.’ Laura pinned a decorative satin rose at the point where the straps crossed. Standing back, she allowed Sharon to see the finished look. ‘What do you think?’
‘You’re a bloody genius.’ Sharon swished from side to side. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Excellent.’ Laura marvelled at her own skills.
‘What size is this?’
Laura checked the label. ‘Eighteen. Not to worry. This style goes up to a size thirty. Based on your measurements I would suggest ordering a size twenty-four.’
Sharon shook her head. ‘This size will do. I’m planning on losing weight.’
Laura’s heart sank. She’d encountered many a bride who’d assured her they would be losing several pounds before the big day. Some managed it, but most didn’t. She chose her words carefully. ‘As we need extra room to allow for the boning, I would recommend sticking with a larger size. We can always take in the dress, but we can’t make it any bigger.’
‘Good.’ Sharon looked determined. ‘It’ll be an incentive. Order the eighteen.’
Laura inwardly sighed. ‘May I ask when you’re getting married?’
Sharon beamed. ‘November.’
Laura did a quick calculation. However much Sharon wanted to lose weight, Laura knew damn well that if she didn’t and the dress was too tight, she would be blamed. She’d learnt over the years that brides had short memories when it came to recalling discussions about sizing. ‘On average, each stone of weight lost equates to a drop of two dress sizes. That means you’d need to lose approximately three and a half stones in less than six months. Is that something you feel is doable?’
Sharon nodded. ‘Piece of cake.’
A poor analogy in the circumstances. ‘My concern is that if you don’t hit your target and the dress is too small we won’t have time to order another one. Not only will you be left with a dress you’ve paid for and are unable to wear, but you’ll be without a wedding dress at all. Is that something you’re willing to risk?’
Sharon angled her body, admiring herself in the mirror. ‘If I have to lose weight, I will. But if I don’t have to lose the weight, then I won’t. I’m a lazy cow. I need a goal.’
Nice logic. Risky strategy. Laura tried a different tack. ‘Can I suggest a compromise? The dress doesn’t need to be ordered for another couple of months. Why don’t you place the order today, but delay confirming the size until late July. If you’re on track for the required weight loss, great. If not, we can order a bigger size. How does that sound?’
Sharon shook her head. ‘It won’t give me the kick up the arse I need. My mind’s made up. Order me a size eighteen.’ Cupping her breasts, she looked down. ‘Prepare for shrinkage, ladies.’
What more could Laura do? ‘Excuse me a moment.’
There was no way Laura was risking taking the blame for Sharon’s dress not fitting. Nothing would please her more than for Sharon to show up in five months’ time having lost three stone, but experience had taught her this was about as likely as Martin whisking her off to Venice for a romantic weekend.
Opening her order book, Laura carefully wrote down the bride’s specific request for a size eighteen dress and the assurance that she would pay the balance if the dress turned out not to fit. It wouldn’t stop a meltdown if it happened, but getting the customer’s signature would at least protect Laura’s investment, not to mention her reputation.
As Laura wrote out the order she could hear Sharon on the phone, giggling, making no effort to keep her voice down. ‘I will if you will.’ More laughter. ‘I dare you, go on, send me a pic.’ Silence followed by another burst of laughter. ‘Dirty boy! Me? What’s my reward?’
Laura tried to focus on the job in hand, which was hard when someone on the other side of a curtain appeared to be sexting. Lucky her.
‘What am I wearing? My wedding dress … Yes, of course it shows off my tits, I’m marrying you, aren’t I?’ More cackles of laughter. ‘No way, you have to wait until the big day. A preview? Let’s see … What can I send you a photo of?’ Various noises followed – something banging against the side of the dressing room, the rustle of clothing, more flirtatious laughter – before Sharon said, ‘And that’s why you love me.’
Allowing her customer some privacy, Laura picked up her phone and walked to the front of the shop. She didn’t want to listen to the sounds of a couple flaunting their relationship. It was depressing. The irony was, Laura had almost felt sorry for Sharon when she’d first arrived, feeling herself to be somehow superior. Why? Because she was slimmer? Younger? Had a more sophisticated vocabulary? What did any of that matter? Sharon was the one flirting with a man who lusted after her body. She felt confident about her curves, trusted in her willpower to lose weight and didn’t doubt her fiancé loved her. Laura was the one moping about, mourning the loss of her marriage. If anyone deserved pity, it was her.
Inspired by such overt flirtations, Laura starting typing Martin a text message, only to find the words wouldn’t come. Taking a leaf out of Sharon’s book, she ducked behind a rail of wedding dresses, lifted up her top and snapped a picture of her breasts. Before she could doubt her actions, she typed ‘Want to see more?’ and pressed send.
As she waited for Martin to reply, her heart thumped erratically in her chest. So when her phone rang and Martin’s number flashed on the display, adrenaline coursed through her veins. It reminded her of days gone by – when Martin had responded to her advances. Had this been all that was needed? A saucy text?
Answering the call, she waited for Martin’s words of encouragement. Maybe he’d arrange for them to meet up somewhere? Book a room? Suggest role play?
‘Laura?’
‘This is Laura speaking.’ She sunk against the dresses, her bones melting inside as she envisaged the two of them lying on the backseat of his car, minus their underwear. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Why are you sending me pictures of your chest?’
The word ‘chest’ doused water over her desire faster than hearing the annoyance in his voice. Martin used to joke about younger women having breasts and older women having chests. At a certain age it was no longer appropriate to view them as individual beings. They morphed into one motherly, matronly, schoolmarm-ish lump. Not something to be lusted after.
Laura’s playfulness dissolved. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Martin. Because I thought you might like it and appreciate your wife trying to brighten your day.’
‘What’s got into you? I was in a meeting. Your photo flashed up on my screen. My director saw it. Do you have any idea how excruciating that was?’
Humiliation flooded her. ‘Why wasn’t your screen locked?’
‘Because I was showing him another message when it came through. Funnily enough I wasn’t expecting my wife to send me pornography, otherwise I would’ve locked it.’
‘Pornography?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Laura gripped hold of one of the dresses. ‘Actually I don’t. When did you turn into such a prude, Martin? It was a harmless photo. I was trying to ignite some kind of interest. But, like everything else I’ve tried of late, it hasn’t worked.’ Twisting around, she became entangled in the dresses. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.’ She ended the call, fighting to free herself from an abundance of chiffon.
She vaguely heard the doorbell chime.
Untangling herself from the mass of gowns, she stumbled free, her top still skew-whiff, her hair falling loose from its clasp. Bloody Martin. Selfish arse of a man!
The sound of a man’s laughter startled her.
Standing in her showroom was David Robinson. Dressed in jeans and casual jacket, he looked like something from GQ Magazine. The combination of his smile and aftershave melted away any exasperation she felt towards Martin. Far from rebuking her advances, as her husband had just done, David Robinson was staring at her like she was the most enticing creature on earth. ‘I was passing. Thought I’d drop by and see if you liked the flowers.’
Laura straightened her top, noticing how his gaze dipped to her stomach as she did so. ‘What flowers would that be?’
He smiled. ‘And there was me thinking I’d made an impression.’
Enjoying the attention, she unclipped her hair and let it tumble onto her shoulders. It used to drive Martin wild. Now he barely noticed. ‘Remind me.’
His eyes danced from her hair to her breasts to her legs, moving with appreciation over her body. She certainly couldn’t accuse this man of not noticing her. ‘It was about three weeks ago. Three dozen roses?’
‘Three weeks ago, you say.’ She tried for a thoughtful look as she stretched up, curling her hair into a twist and clipping it back in place. ‘A lot’s happened since then.’
He walked towards her, his gait slow and deliberate, like a gunslinger in a western. ‘I wrote a card. It said “From an admirer.”’ His gaze focused on her neck.
She resisted the instinct to back away, his close proximity invading her personal space. ‘Not much admiration if it’s taken you three weeks to follow up.’
He reached up and loosened a tendril of hair from the clip, pulling it down, wrapping it around his finger. ‘I’m a man who likes to take his time.’ He traced the hair across her cheek, the lightest of touches. The sensation sent waves of goosebumps shooting up her arms. He tucked the tendril behind her ear. ‘I wondered whether you might like to join me for a drink?’ His thumb traced the outline of her earlobe.
Her body screamed for more, but she suspected that was his intention. She forced nonchalance. ‘I’m working.’
He nodded. ‘Another time perhaps.’
‘Perhaps.’ She held his gaze.
He handed her a business card. ‘Call me.’ His eyes travelled lower. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
She wondered if he could sense how fast her pulse was racing. Probably.
Leaning closer, he grazed her cheek with his lips, setting off a whole host of fireworks inside. She should move away. She should push him away. But she didn’t want to. Her body craved his mouth as it moved from her cheek to her ear. He whispered one word: ‘Laura.’
It was her undoing. Angling her face closer, with the sole intention of kissing him, she parted her lips. But he stepped away, taking all promise of warmth with him. Without a backwards glance he was out the door.
She watched him leave, her mind still imagining the taste of his kiss and the way his body would feel next to hers – hard, strong, powerful, assertive.
It took a moment to register the sound of Sharon’s voice dragging her back to reality. ‘Fuck me, that was sexy. Was that your husband?’
Husband? Laura’s fingers went to her wedding ring. ‘What? No, er … I mean, yes.’ What was she saying?
‘He’s fit.’ Sharon still had the dress pinned to her clothes. ‘Any chance you could remove the bondage?’
‘Of course, yes. Sorry.’ Reverting to professionalism, she guided Sharon back into the dressing room, ignoring the overwhelming feeling that somehow she’d just dodged a bullet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, 16 May
It was gone 6 p.m. by the time Evie adjusted the last sprig of eucalyptus and stood back to get a better look at her creation. Even with the addition of silver glitter spray to enhance the impact, it wasn’t great. On paper it had worked just fine, the design clever and innovative, even if she did say so herself. But in reality, it was a little … What was the word she was looking for?
She glanced at Saffy. ‘What do you think? Be honest.’
Her assistant tilted her head to one side, her nose wrinkling as though there was a nasty smell in the room. ‘What’s it supposed to be?’
‘A bridal headdress.’ Evie lifted the design off the coat stand so she could model it for Saffy. ‘It’s for the flower competition.’ She eased the piece into place, ignoring an unruly twig digging into her skull. ‘I didn’t want to go for a traditional bouquet. I figured everyone would do that. I wanted something a little more … avant-garde. Have I achieved that?’ She twirled so Saffy could see how the design looked from all angles.
Saffy’s expression soured even more. ‘It’s a bit … compost.’
‘Compost!’ Evie stopped twirling. She hadn’t meant to shout, but her reaction sent Marlon cowering under the counter. ‘Sorry, baby.’ She looked at Saffy. ‘Seriously, compost?’
‘With all the twigs and stuff.’ Saffy pointed to the trailing foliage.
‘It’s supposed to be a woodland theme.’ Evie reached for her sketches, passing them to Saffy. ‘A forest nymph. You know, Titania.’
Saffy’s lip curled. ‘Who?’
Evie sighed. ‘The fairy queen in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ Saffy’s expression remained blank. ‘Shakespeare?’
‘Oh, right.’ Saffy shrugged.
‘Don’t they teach you anything at school?’ Evie removed the headdress, dumping it on the side.
Saffy frowned. ‘You know you sound old, right? That’s something my Gran would say.’
Evie started to dismantle the headdress, ignoring the insult.
Her first attempt at a practice run for the competition hadn’t gone well. Perhaps she was being naive. Maybe saving her business by becoming a renowned artistic florist wasn’t such a master plan after all. Not if her designs looked like – what was it Saffy said? – compost. Not exactly the reaction she was hoping for.
Losing patience, she ripped away the fabric base and rolled it into a tight ball. ‘When you empty those buckets could you take Marlon outside?’ Saffy had started clearing up for the night. ‘He looks like he’s crossing his legs under there.’
‘Sure.’ Saffy clicked her fingers, attracting Marlon’s attention. ‘Here, doggy. Walkies!’
Marlon shot out from under the counter like his bum was on fire, his paws slipping on the tiled flooring.
‘Not the W-word!’ Evie glared at Saffy. ‘Thanks a bunch. You’ve set off a grenade.’
Marlon jumped up at the door, barking, his tail wagging like a manic windscreen wiper.
Saffy looked repentant. ‘Sorry.’ Opening the back door for him, Marlon charged outside, Saffy following behind him.
So much for Evie’s plan to take the van home and enjoy a Friday evening curled up on the sofa with a DVD. Now she’d have to walk home so Marlon could get his walkies. It wouldn’t be fair to deny him now that Saffy had unhelpfully raised his expectations.
Having binned her disastrous headdress, Evie began sweeping the shop. It’d been a long week, busy, which was great, but not enough to eradicate the worry over the future of her business. She’d done some research online, but none of the major moneylenders offered the level of personal loan Evie needed to buy out Diana. She had nothing to secure against a business loan. It looked like getting a mortgage was her only option.
She was about to lock the front door when she noticed the advertising board still out front. She headed outside to retrieve it.
The problem was, and always had been, finance. Ahead of Diana getting a valuation, Evie had asked a local estate agent to give her a rough price. He’d estimated one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds for the premises, which meant she’d need approximately seventeen grand for a ten per cent deposit. As she only had eleven thousand saved up, she was someway short. She’d
been squirreling away almost every penny since arriving in Kent, hoping to be in a position to buy the business, but there was no way she could save another six grand in such a short time span.
Slotting the advertising board behind the counter, she was about to lock the front door when Saffy appeared inside. ‘I’ve been calling Marlon, but he won’t come. He’s had his pee but I think he’s punishing me for not taking him for a walk.’
‘I’ll get him. Can you wipe down the sides? I made a mess binning the eucalyptus leaves.’
‘Sure thing.’
Leaving Saffy to tidy up, Evie headed into the alleyway. It was still light outside, although the sun had lost its intensity and the overhang from the cedar trees created deep shadows. Evie checked up and down the narrow lane. Her dog was nowhere to be seen.
‘Marlon?’ No response. ‘Marlon, come here, boy.’ Still nothing.
Evie jogged to the end of the alleyway, hoping to find him with his head buried in one of the bins. No sign of him. ‘Marlon?’ Silence followed. There was no through road, just the loading area for the shops. He couldn’t have escaped. Worryingly, it meant he must have followed the alley in the other direction and exited onto the main road. It wasn’t overly busy, but it definitely wasn’t safe for an unaccompanied dog. Would Marlon run off? He hadn’t before.
Evie sprinted to the other end of the alleyway and looked up and down the main road. She called his name, louder and more assertive this time, but still nothing. Her heart began to thud harder in her chest. Where was he? The thought of losing her dog was highly distressing.
Saffy’s head appeared from the side door. ‘Have you got him?’
Evie ran towards her. ‘No, where was the last place you saw him?’
Saffy nodded up the alleyway. ‘Over there. Don’t tell me he’s gone AWOL? Shit, sorry, boss. He was right there, I swear.’ She pointed to the blocked end. ‘Seriously, just there.’
‘Well, he’s not there now.’ And that was when Evie spotted a package sitting on the doorstep. She bent down to pick it up.
‘What’s that?’ Saffy wrinkled her nose as Evie removed the tissue paper, revealing a small gothic figurine sitting on a toadstool. Before she could comment, Saffy had taken the figurine and was laughing. ‘I’ve seen these on the net, they’re dead trendy.’ She turned the figure upside down. ‘This one’s called Gothic Fairy. Cool. Look at her, she’s so cute.’
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop Page 19