Page 55

‘If the theme was purple plus Antiques Roadshow expert, this would do.’ He pulled out a purple bow tie, silk with a fleur-de-lis pattern picked out in a darker, plummy shader. It was the kind of bow tie that came ready-tied and with a clip in the back to fasten it.

‘Let me see,’ Temperance took it carefully out of his hands. She ran her fingertips over the band at the centre, tracing the slight folds in the silk. Her skin warmed as a low hum of contentedness ran up her arm and into her rib cage.

Happiness and pride.

Temperance closed her eyes.

Charged wine glasses, a well-folded sheet of paper, a waistcoat that matched the tie.

Someone gave a father of the bride speech wearing this bow tie, and it had been the best day.

Temperance couldn’t deny that she was hoping that the tie might have slipped through the Molland net and was holding on to a depressing sort of drizzle of emotion that she could pass on to Abel with her very best wishes. But she owed it to Margie to do better than that. Her pseudo-granny would be so happy to have Abel there at her celebration, joining in with the theme, and even more so if he was in a good mood. Besides, the thrill of pairing someone with the perfect vintage item they’d normally not look twice at always called to Temperance. She loved not only rejuvenating clothes with her inherited magic, but also seeing the potential in something that hadn’t been loved for years and blind-dating it to just the right recipient. If only her real experiences with blind dates were so productive.

‘You know . . .’ she trailed off, her hand still pressed over the bow tie in her palm, her heart swelling with its memories, ‘this could work.’

‘You’re joking. You’re joking?’

She shook her head. ‘In shirts, you’re a sixteen-inch neck, right?’

Abel looked genuinely impressed. ‘Yes. How could you tell?’

‘Comes with the territory. But anyway – get in there and take your top off.’ She shoved him towards the changing cubicle with one hand, pulling the curtain around once he’d stumbled inside.

‘Tee, what—?’

‘It’s going to be a whole look, trust me. I just need my scissors.’ She dashed into the office to grab her sewing kit and some purple thread. ‘And you need a white shirt.’ She dumped her mini haberdashery on the desk and went straight to a beautifully tailored white dress shirt, with pin tucks at the front. In the next moment, she pushed it into the cubicle, her eyes averted.

Back at the desk, she snipped the threads that were holding the bow in place, setting the silk free. She then cut off the clasps at the back and speedily sewed the two ends together.

‘Do you have the shirt on?’

‘Hang on, just doing the cuffs . . .’

‘Come on!’

‘Alright!’ he growled. ‘I’m ready.’

Temperance swept back the curtain with an excited smile. ‘I’ve always wanted to be in one of those dressing room montages in movies, where they transform the geek to a cute soundtrack.’

His face remained stony. ‘I am not a geek. And those movies are actually fun. What am I doing in this? I know Gran will have me on pot-washing duty, but looking like a waiter feels like a step too far.’

Temperance tutted. ‘I’ll have you know this is a very fancy shirt – Saville Row.’

‘But it’s white?’

‘Obviously. But then you loop this around your neck.’ Temperance handed over the altered purple tie, its happy buzz dancing in her palm again. ‘Like you’re Daniel Craig, all rugged and handsome after some Bond shenanigans in a casino.’ Heat flared along her collarbone as she realised she’d just compared Abel to one of the sexiest men alive.

Abel lowered an eyebrow, threading the tie under his collar, apparently letting her comment slide.

Temperance blustered on to cover up her embarrassment. ‘No, no. The shirt needs to be open at the top for the whole thing to work.’

‘Ugh, it just took me five minutes to get those buttons done up, fiddly little berks.’

‘Some Bond you’d be. Fine, let me.’ Without thinking, Temperance stepped into the cubicle, toe to toe with Abel. Her hands set to work pushing the buttons out through tiny, stiff holes. She could feel the warmth of Abel’s breath hitting the bridge of her nose. His back seemed to stiffen, making him stand even taller.

With the buttons undone, she pushed the collar open and arranged the ends of the tie just so, smoothing them down over his pecs for maybe a second too long. Temperance was so far into her ‘work’ mode, that it took a minute for her to clock just how totally she had put herself in Abel’s personal space, and this was no dream – she was actually doing it. She should really pull her hands away. She should really put distance between them. But Abel wasn’t moving. He was just watching her fingers as they pressed the tie into his shirt, picking up his body heat. All at once she had his smell in her head again – toast, honey, but something else a little sharper cutting through now. Furniture polish.

A memory of Saturday chores set by Margie came flooding back – spraying and wiping down the leather seats in the pub. Only Abel and Temperance, sixteen and fifteen then, thought it would be hilarious to load the banquets with so much polish that people slipped right off them again. Temperance still got a fuzz of that stomach-creasing laughter whenever her bare legs touched the leather seats, to this day. There’s no subtle way to drench a pub chair in sea water and basil to clean away the memories, and no way she’d even risk annoying Margie to that degree.