The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I wish I’d been there.’

  Edie squeezed her friend’s wrist. ‘You were. You’re always with us. There’s no stopping him now, of course. Poor Louise, she’s got her hands full.’

  ‘Oh, your babysitter loves it; she told me she was dying for when he could walk,’ Madeleine said, pushing herself away from the door to adjust the hang of a scarf in the window.

  ‘Lulu, as Tommy calls her, is a saint. I thank my lucky stars the day Tilda put her in touch with us. She’s crazy about Tommy, you know.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. Hard to imagine she’s been part of your circle for almost a year now.’

  She gave Madeleine a soft smile. The last time she’d held Tom in her arms was this time the year before. It seemed impossible. There were days when it felt like yesterday. And then there were times, like now, when she pulled back from her busy life and all of its distractions to realise that weeks, even months, had flown past, without her crying herself to sleep or spending a day hiding her sorrows.

  ‘Tommy’s a happy little chap. That’s all that matters. And I love my work.’

  ‘Couldn’t be happier?’ Madeleine said dryly.

  She couldn’t fool her best friend. ‘I wish I had a photograph of him,’ she murmured, ‘because with each day I think his features blur a little more in my mind.’

  ‘That’s a good thing,’ Madeleine said. ‘Perhaps now you’ll let Mr Levi back into your life.’

  ‘Poor Benjamin. He’s a saint too.’

  ‘No, he’s not, Eden. He’s just a man in love. And he’s shown extreme patience with you.’

  Edie nodded, frowning slightly. ‘Yes. Ben’s changed, though. Not so long ago he believed my place was in the nursery or behind the stove.’

  ‘Oh, come on. I think he’s handsome, eligible, and clearly smitten.’ She linked an arm with Edie and they walked back the length of the salon, Edie running her fingertips over the day bed that she had designed herself, choosing the fabric and then having the piece of furniture made. The round seat that looked like four leather club chairs in a circle was her favourite piece and she’d sewn the cushions herself, using tiny pearl buttons as decorations and as a nod to the brides who would sit here and watch Madeleine model gowns.

  ‘Well, he’s extraordinarily proud of what you’ve done here . . . Give him a chance, Eden.’

  She couldn’t help but wonder if Ben had put her friend up to this. ‘When was he here, anyway?’

  ‘The day you finished the spring–summer collection and went home early. Same day you were furious the curtains hadn’t arrived and Tommy vomited on your purple dress.’

  Edie laughed. ‘How can I forget that day!’ She picked up a folder tied with ribbon. ‘It feels as though my whole life is in here,’ she admitted, undoing the ribbon to leaf once again through the sketches. ‘All of my dreams right here in pictures.’

  ‘They’re exquisite on paper, Eden, and once you make them up, women are going to flock here.’ She smiled. ‘I do love this one,’ she said and pointed.

  ‘The party went better than I could have hoped,’ Edie sighed.

  The unofficial launch of Valentine’s, at the eastern end of King’s Road at Sloane Square, had offered an opportunity for the wives and wives-to-be of London’s most well-heeled to attend a cocktail party and ‘play’ with fabrics, designs and colours, and to watch some of the salon’s wedding gowns walked across its stunning black-and-white geometric carpet by the inhouse model, Madeleine Delacroix.

  ‘Tom chose this site so well,’ she continued. ‘At first I thought he was barmy to tuck the salon away beneath the giant shadow of Peter Jones.’ She shook her head. ‘I see now his choice was inspired. Peter Jones is the main stomping ground for the women of Belgravia, Knightsbridge and Chelsea; Tom must have understood that no matter how tiny I was, those keen shopping eyes would not fail to notice Valentine’s as they swarmed in and out of the department store.’

  ‘I’ll admit, your husband was smart.’

  ‘Is smart, Mads. I’m not ready to put him into the past tense. And with one of my favourite haunts of Petticoat Lane just up the way, it all feels familiar. My father used to buy a lot of his raw materials from Petticoat Lane,’ she said, a slightly wistful tone in her voice. ‘The button-makers and importers of silks offered me instant credit because of his reputation.’

  ‘I’m sure he would want you to trade on it, Eden, especially with your official launch only weeks away.’

  The official launch would bring together some magazine publishers and newspaper editors with a few of London’s socialites. The plan was that this event would garner valuable attention for its new owner and ‘avant-garde designer’, as Eden Valentine was described by Vogue’s editor-in-chief in a newspaper feature on trends. Far more important to their success, however, would be word-of-mouth passed across luncheon tables, swapped between bridge quartets, discussed during cocktails before the theatre and at supper clubs after it.

  British Vogue’s editor described the salon as ‘a seriously cool oasis in a desert of British fashion innovation’ and went on to say that the ‘angelic-looking designer behind the label, together with the French-born goddess who models her clothes, are set to make heavenly fashion for brides of the new decade.’

  Eden chuckled as Madeleine read that last sentence from this morning’s newspaper yet again.

  ‘Try telling me you’re not on your way now, Eden Valentine,’ her friend glared with mock fury.

  ‘It all depends on the proper launch, when my designs are on display in the editorials and people start to make up their own minds.’

  ‘How many clients do we need, do you think?’

  Edie lifted a shoulder and dropped it again. ‘I honestly believe it’s about quality, not quantity. Tom used to have a catchphrase that perception is everything. I understand now what he was getting at. I think all we need is a handful of wealthy, influential clients who move in the circles of Queen Charlotte’s Ball and are on the lookout during the “coming out season” for husbands for their girls and it will gather its own momentum.’

  ‘You said Miss Fincham might say yes.’

  Edie grinned. ‘Her wedding is next April. She’ll have to hurry and make a decision.’

  Madeleine looked delighted. ‘Tell me it was because I put on that gorgeous cream and gauze silk shift.’

  ‘Of course it was! The problem is she wants it in white.’

  ‘Better in ivory.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, and neither could her head bridesmaid, but her mother wants her in white and Lady Fincham is not to be countered.’

  ‘The client is always right, Eden.’

  ‘That’s a myth. Besides, every bride is a representation of my design. I want that gown to be first seen in the ivory satin it was designed with.’

  ‘The Fincham bridal gown and trousseau, as well as her ten bridesmaids and mother-of-the-bride’s outfit, will help to put us, how you say, “on the map”?’

  ‘It would, but I can’t compromise before I’ve even had a chance to launch, not after Vogue has set me up for such high expectations.’

  ‘I guess it’s a balance of your esthétique values versus income.’

  ‘I just want to establish my place, Mads. People need to know that if they buy a Valentine it will have a certain look about it. And we both know the gown that Miss Fincham wants is my signature gown for next year. It must be worn in ivory or not at all.’

  Madeleine raised a worried eyebrow. ‘Well, I hope your persuasive powers are up to it.’

  ‘I’ve agreed that some of the sketches can be published, in the Sunday Times, particularly this one,’ she said, flicking a hand at the Fincham gown.

  ‘She won’t mind?’

  ‘She’ll love the attention and, besides, a sketch and a finished gown are a lifetime apart. Once she’s worn it, a client can ask me to produce it in sky-blue and pink with purple ribbons for all I care. But appearing in the Sunday Times will create the groundswell of inte
rest – another of Tom’s phrases – and then I’m guessing we’ll take orders for at least a dozen new spring wedding gowns that I am aware are up for grabs.’

  ‘And a host of bridesmaids, a queue of mothers’ frocks, a frightening array of honeymoon wardrobes, including one enormous order for Lady Pippa Danby, no less.’

  ‘I want that order for the Danby gown, Mads. I already know what I would like to dress Lady Pippa in.’

  ‘Eden, if all goes to plan, how are we going to do this? I mean, I can help sew on buttons, even answer the phone . . . but —’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’re not going to do, Mads. We’re not going to get anxious. We’re not going to doubt ourselves and, unlike my father, I am going to hire staff. Lots of staff, in fact; I know plenty of skilled seamstresses who would appreciate the work. But first we need to order all our silks and voiles, our threads and sequins, our lace and satins.’ Edie rubbed her eyes. ‘Gosh, I think I will probably have to spend a week just on the fabrics.’

  ‘Well, there go my nice, quiet Sundays,’ Madeleine moaned. ‘And I had visions of spending them in bed with Mr Quinn.’

  Edie swung around. ‘And who is Mr Quinn? I thought you were seeing someone called Fallon.’

  ‘I was. He became rather dull. It’s Quinn now, although I have my eye on Jonathan Gamble.’

  ‘The jeweller?’

  ‘So much more, Eden. Five shops now. But it’s not the rise of his jewellery salons that interests me,’ she said, baiting her friend.

  ‘Doesn’t work any more, Mads,’ she said, but laughed all the same. ‘Surely the sparkle of diamonds do, though?’

  Mads smiled, a sense of the wicked in her gaze.

  ‘Don’t give up your Sundays. We must have one day of complete rest from the salon – a chance for both of us to get away from it and everything connected with fashion. I think next Sunday I’ll have everyone around for Tommy’s birthday. I can do some baking at long last. You can bring Quinn or Gamble or whoever is currently escorting you around London’s fashionable haunts. I can’t keep up with you, Mads.’

  Madeleine groaned. ‘A birthday party? This Sunday morning I want to sleep.’

  ‘Then do it. Eat breakfast at teatime with us – so long as it’s cake, I don’t care when you eat.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll ask Tilda, Louise, of course. Delia might be in town that day. My neighbours love Tommy too so I’ll have them over. It will be fun. And I want to spoil him.’

  ‘As if you don’t already. Speaking of dinnertime, aren’t you meant to be meeting Ben?’ Madeleine reminded, glancing at her wristwatch.

  ‘I am.’ Edie began packing up the sketches. ‘I’m taking these home.’

  Madeline gave her a soft glare. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to do some final adjustments to the Fincham gown and bridesmaids for the feature.’

  ‘What about House of Ainsworth?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t fear the competition. Vogue said our designs would set trends. That means everyone else follows.’

  ‘Well, be careful with those precious sketches!’

  There was a tap at the door. They both swung around and there stood Benjamin with a bouquet of flowers.

  Edie smiled at Ben. ‘Sorry, not open yet.’

  ‘Let me take you both to dinner,’ he called through the glass.

  ‘I am no one’s raspberry,’ Madeleine drawled and made Edie suffuse with laughter. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s gooseberry.’

  ‘Go on. I can close up. Kiss Tommy for me. Tell him I’m very proud of his walking.’

  She kissed Madeleine. ‘Thank you, darling.’ Edie turned to Ben. ‘I’ll just get my coat,’ she called.

  ‘You’ll need it. It’s the coldest October I remember.’ They walked out arm in arm, and Ben pointed at Sloane Square. ‘Let’s head towards the Star & Garter,’ he suggested.

  The streetlamps were already glowing as they walked beneath the endless canopy that stretched out from the deep red brick of the Peter Jones shopfront that soared above them.

  ‘Do you know, you can walk into this department store now and buy everything from linoleum to a squirrel?’ Edie exclaimed, marvelling at how far down the street the Peter Jones empire now sprawled.

  Ben took Edie’s hand and guided her across the broad road, dodging horses pulling their wagonettes and cars rolling slowly behind. ‘How’s the little man?’

  ‘Tommy’s wonderful. I’m very lucky to have Mrs Miller look after him whenever I need to be alone in the salon. I’ve realised I can do all my design work from home and Mads can run the salon if we have no appointments. And I do the sewing at night and she watches Tommy while he sleeps. It’s a juggle but it works. Oh, I haven’t told you. He’s walking!’

  ‘Oh! I can’t wait to see that. Now your problems begin, I presume,’ he grinned.

  ‘I think you’re right. I’ll have to keep making adjustments as he grows. It’s not ideal but for now I’ve got good support and Tommy’s happy.’ She could tell Ben wanted to say something about that final remark and she imagined he would be all too happy to offer his support – financial as much as physical – in a more official capacity, but Edie deliberately swung around to stare at the shops. ‘I really must think about what to get him for his birthday. He never seems to want anything but cardboard boxes and wooden spoons to make noise with.’ She laughed, trying to deflect Ben’s thoughts.

  ‘I’ve got him a train set.’

  ‘Oh, Ben, how sweet that you remember!’

  ‘I can hardly forget holding that boy for the first time last summer. I knew his birthday was close. August 17?’

  ‘Nineteenth,’ she corrected softly. It was a bittersweet date for her. ‘But a train set? That’s a little extravagant for a one-year-old.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I wanted a train set for years and years. I think I was ten before I got my first. Who else am I going to spoil if not you two?’

  Edie smiled but had to look away. That searching question was not one she wanted to answer. ‘Well, he’s a lucky boy,’ she deflected again, before once more switching subjects. ‘I thought we were going to the pub?’

  ‘No, you deserve far better than a noisy pub. There’s a new restaurant I’d like to try. Apparently the Dover sole is its star dish.’

  ‘The flowers are beautiful,’ she said, inhaling from the bouquet and balancing her folder. ‘Perhaps I should have left them at the salon, though.’

  ‘No, they’re for your new flat.’

  ‘I love living in Chelsea. And we’re so close to the park.’

  ‘Well, I love that you’re back in London proper. Means I can see more of you.’

  It began to shower and they were instantly scurrying with the rest of London into doorways and shops, and in their case to an early dinner at a dining room that Edie didn’t even catch the name of.

  She began shrugging off her lightweight stole, with its fur trim.

  ‘You look very beautiful, Edie,’ he murmured as he unwrapped it from her shoulders and gave it to the cloakroom assistant.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, already knowing the organza and ivory lace handkerchief dress would steal attention. She had a bridal version of this in mind and was trialling the look as a frock first before she invested so much expensive fabric in a gown.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss. Do you want to leave that here?’ the girl asked, gesturing at Edie’s folder.

  Ben glanced at her enquiringly. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘No, thank you. Much too precious.’

  ‘Oh?’ he said, intrigued, casting a smile at the waiter welcoming them. ‘I have a table booked in the name of Levi, please.’

  While the man checked his reservations book, Ben looked back at Edie indulgently. ‘Secret salon business?’ he asked, glancing again at the folder.

  ‘My sketches. My life,’ she said with mock drama in her tone. ‘The competition would love to get its hands on these and make my salon fail before it even opens its doors.’

  ‘I’m sure
it’s safe here, right, young lady?’ Ben said, barely glancing at the cloakroom girl. He quickly moved away to speak with the maitre d’.

  The girl was clearly used to being ignored because she didn’t answer Ben and fixed her eyes on Edie. ‘It will only be released with this, I promise,’ she replied, handing Edie a ticket. Edie relented and exchanged the folder for the cloakroom ticket. ‘You don’t have to worry. I will take very good care of it. My name’s Sarah.’

  ‘Thank you, Sarah.’

  The girl smiled and it lit her face. Edie turned back to where Ben stood with the head waiter.

  ‘Very good, Sir. Please, follow me. We have a lovely table by the window for you.’

  After excited chatter about the salon’s opening day, and a main course of Dover sole, Edie licked her lips. ‘I’d forgotten how good butter tastes. It seems like such a treat to be able to buy it whenever I want . . . or sugar, or coffee, or white bread that hasn’t been stretched with coarse grains.’

  He smiled. ‘I love watching you eat, Edie. I always have.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your tiny mouthfuls that seem to incorporate a taste of everything on your plate.’

  ‘Father’s training. He was always so strict at the table.’

  ‘I know you miss him.’

  ‘I do. But the strange thing is, Ben, ever since . . .’ She blinked. ‘I have had to become extremely independent and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I love the freedom that it’s brought.’

  ‘Actually, I envy you.’

  ‘Why?’ Edie reached for her glass of wine.

  He shrugged. ‘Is it not obvious? I live with my parents! Still do as my father requests, still privately quake at the thought that my mother may tell me off for spilling something on my shirt . . .’

  Edie laughed. ‘Then leave home! You’re far too old to be under your parents’ roof.’

  Ben looked suddenly energised. ‘Well, I’m excited to tell you that I have been looking at houses. In fact, I think I’ve found one.’

  ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘Not far from here, actually. In Chelsea.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Edie tried to hide her private dismay at how close he would be by gushing, ‘That’s wonderful.’