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Impatient to shake her bad mood, Sophie grabbed her pad and pencil. The success of Bianca’s wedding dress made her wonder if there might be more bridal commissions in her future and she wanted to be prepared...
Stretching, she realised she’d lost track of time. Over two hours had passed while she’d sketched her first attempts at twenties-, fifties-and sixties-inspired bridal gowns. Not too bad, she decided, standing back and taking a fresh look. She’d like to get some samples started soon, a heavy silk for the twenties dress, lace and chiffon for the fifties dress and embroidered velvet for the sixties-inspired design.
As she moved the pad further away her hand knocked the keyboard and her laptop screen blared into life, opening onto her brand-new inbox. Only, it wasn’t empty as it had been when she last looked; no, there were four unopened emails sitting there and they didn’t look like spam... With a trembling hand she clicked on one and scanned the message; would she be able to design a wedding dress and what were her fees?
Sophie took a deep breath; she’d been right to turn her attentions to bridal. The second was from a boutique here in Chelsea asking if they could discuss stocking some of her designs, the third another enquiry, this time for an evening gown. So far so good. No actual money but the possibility of work. The fourth, however, came from the automated payment system she had set up. She took a deep breath and clicked. ‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘Yes!’ An order, a real order for two of her dresses, a shift dress in a polka-dot pink and a copy of the dress she’d worn to Bianca’s wedding in a gorgeous green flowered cotton. She had done it! She was a real designer with real sales to people she didn’t know.
She looked round, wanting to jump up and down, to babble her excitement into someone else’s ear, to have someone else to confirm that, yes, the emails said exactly what she thought they said. But there was nobody there; her shoebox had never felt so spacious, never felt so lonely. She could text her friends, of course. They would be delighted. But, she realised, sinking back onto her stool, the euphoria draining away, she didn’t want to impress them. She didn’t need to witness their reactions.
She wanted Marco there, celebrating alongside her. She wanted to see him look impressed, to tell her how proud he was. But he was a long, long way away. Emotionally, physically, in every way that mattered. She’d thought she’d been lonely in the past, but it didn’t compare to how she felt now. Completely and utterly alone. She couldn’t let that stop her. She’d pulled herself back from the brink before, she could do it again. Besides, it wasn’t all about her, not any more. She had to be strong for the baby—she simply had no other option.
* * *
Marco took another look at the address. He hadn’t thought too much about where Sophie lived, but he’d assumed it would be in a flat in one of Chelsea’s leafy streets, possibly sharing with a couple of friends. Not on this noisy, busy road, cars honking horns impatiently as they queued three abreast, fumes acrid in the damp air.
‘Number one eight one,’ he muttered, coming to a stop outside the right building. There was a takeaway on the ground floor and Marco grimaced as the scent of greasy fried chicken assailed him. The door to the flats was a dingy green, the doorstop covered in thrown-away boxes and discarded chicken bones. No way was any child of his growing up here, he vowed.
He scanned the names, almost illegible against the long list of buzzers, but before he found Sophie’s name, the door opened and a young woman barged out, leaving the door ajar. Marco added security to the list of undesirables and shouldered it open. He needed Flat Ten. He looked at the door at the end of the ground floor—number one. It looked like he was going up...and up and up. Another item for his list: too many stairs. How on earth did she think she would cart a baby up here?
It was easier to list all the reasons for Sophie to move than it was to face the other list, the list that had brought him to the door. The list that started with how big, how lonely his bed felt every night, the list that included how much he missed her. The list that concluded that he didn’t want to live in the Chelsea house or Venice on his own. The list that told him he had reacted badly to the news of her pregnancy, that he might be a little too convinced of his own eligibility, possibly bordering on arrogant where his marriage prospects were concerned. He patted Nonna’s ring, secure in his top pocket. He would do better this time. He had to.
Finally he made his way to the top floor. Sophie’s door was the same dull navy as all the other flat doors, but the handle was polished and two terracotta pots filled with lush greenery brightened the narrow landing. Marco shifted, nervous for the first time since he had boarded the plane this morning fired up with purpose. Before he could start listing why this was a bad idea he raised his hand and knocked firmly at the door.
