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‘So that makes you the mother-to-be of minor royalty,’ Grace said.
‘I can’t believe you’re pregnant.’ Emma was staring at Sophie’s stomach. ‘You haven’t put on an ounce.’
‘I have, many ounces, but half of it is Italian food,’ Sophie pointed out, but Emma’s words brought her situation home. It was too easy, back in the safety of her flat, of her routine, to hide from her future. But that future was growing rapidly and she couldn’t hide it for much longer. ‘And I can’t believe it either. There are moments when I’m thrilled—and then I start panicking again. I don’t know how to be a mother. It’s not like I have the best relationship with mine.’
‘Sure you know how,’ Ashleigh said with a soft smile. ‘You know how to be an awesome friend. You’re over halfway there.’
‘Besides...’ Emma jumped to her feet and stepped over to give her a hug. Sophie leaned gratefully on her shoulder, glad of the support. ‘You have us. We’re going to be the best team of aunties-stroke-fairy-godmothers any child ever had. You’re not alone, Soph. Don’t ever think it.’
‘And I wouldn’t worry about your future. I predict amazing things,’ Grace said, wrestling the laptop away from Ashleigh. ‘Not only is the whole of Italy wild about the alterations you made to Bianca’s dress, but they love the going-away outfit you made her too. I’ve seen dozens of blogs and articles raving about it. Now your website is finally going live...’ she shot a mock stern look at Sophie ‘...and people can actually order your clothes, success can’t be far away.’
‘Long-deserved success,’ Ashleigh chimed in, holding up her cup of tea in a toast.
Sophie blinked back tears. Not only had her friends collected her from the airport, smothered her with affection, tea and cake, waited patiently until she had been able to find the words to tell them about the baby—and about Marco and her feelings for him—but they had also gently encouraged her to capitalise on her new-found design fame, helping her put the finishing touches to her website and testing it for her so when it went live—any second now—she could be confident it worked. Ashleigh had also helped her organise her space in the tiny flat so that finished designs could be photographed in a clutter-free space and her material was neatly stacked, giving her more room to work. Potential customers could either choose from her small collection of existing stock or order by design, choosing the material they liked best from her assortment of vintage prints or sending their own for her to make up.
One day she would like to have a larger collection of ready-to-buy stock—but for that she would need a studio and storage, possibly a couple of seamstresses. No, tiny steps were best. If she could just make enough to keep herself and the baby afloat, then she would have options; she didn’t want to need Marco’s money. She would like his emotional support though.
Which was ironic—he had money to spare but support, real support, was much harder for him. Maybe too hard.
‘Right, we have to get off.’ Ashleigh hauled herself to her feet. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come, Sophie?’ Grace’s fiancé was hosting a glamorous fundraising event at his hotel and all three of her friends were attending. Funny to think that just a few months ago they would probably have all been waitressing for it.
Which reminded her, she needed to discuss hours and jobs with Clio. Heavy cleaning and too much standing around were probably out, but Sophie wanted to ensure she had some steady income while the first orders came in. Her waitressing days weren’t behind her yet.
‘I’m sure. I’m exhausted by nine at the moment. Besides, I want to stalk my inbox and wait for an order.’
‘It won’t be long,’ Grace said loyally, dropping a kiss onto her cheek. ‘If you need a hand, well, I can’t sew. Or cut out. But I am very good at parcels—and making tea.’
‘You’ll be my first port of call,’ Sophie promised, kissing her back and then embracing Emma and Ashleigh in turn.
The flat felt larger without her friends—a little larger—and a lot emptier. Sophie put her laptop on the kitchen counter and refreshed her email. Nothing. Maybe her friends were wrong, maybe the publicity and excitement over Bianca’s wedding dress and the two-piece, sixties-inspired going-away outfit she had gifted the bride were just a storm in a teacup and wouldn’t translate into sales.
But she couldn’t believe that, wouldn’t believe it. After all, photos of Bianca were everywhere and not just in the Italian press; a few British sites had picked up the chatter about the ‘London-based designer’ and had run short pieces extolling her as one to watch. Every piece used the same photo, taken at the wedding, Sophie in her grey dress smiling up at Marco, handsome in his tuxedo. Her heart turned over at the picture. They looked so happy, so together—to a casual observer as if they were head over heels in love. But she wasn’t a casual observer.
