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‘Sophie, you’ve just lost your aunt, your only remaining parental figure. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact there’s no safety net to catch you if you fall. You have to take some time to grieve; let it out, don’t bottle it up. Of course we’ll miss you, but we can manage for a couple of months.’
‘A couple of months?!’
‘Mourn, recharge your creative batteries, organise your family’s affairs. Spend some time with those handsome cousins of yours. Market the shop, sell up, or whatever you decide, but don’t rush this decision.’
‘You can’t seriously be suggesting that I run a little haberdashery shop in the Cotswolds alongside a couture bridal boutique in London?’
‘I’m just saying, take your time. We’ll keep in touch, let you know if there are any panics or problems we can’t handle. We can video conference every week, or more often if you want, and it’s only an hour or so’s train ride away if you need to come down.’
An invisible force pressed down on Sophie’s shoulders, inducing a dark, heavy lethargy. She had no idea how long she remained at that scarred pine table in the shop’s cosy kitchen, staring out of the window at the village green. It was a familiar scenario, as she, along with her best friend Nessa, had lurchedfrom one adolescent crisis to the next; all of which seemed trivial with the benefit of hindsight, compared to the current turmoil in her life. Sadness lanced her heart and failure sapped her self-esteem, but mingled in with the mix were spirals of indecision about what to do with her aunt’s beloved Gingerberry Yarns.
Outside, twilight tickled at the branches of the trees that lined the high street as the traders began to close their shops for the day. If shediddecide to carry on her aunt’s legacy – to honour her memory, to preserve Gingerberry Yarns for the community – at what cost would that be to her own dreams and ambitions?
She consciously shook herself out of her self-pitying reverie and chastised herself for her despondency. She dragged herself from her seat to dump her mug in the kitchen sink, her mind a scattergun of confused thoughts as she tried to assimilate the consequences of her failure to win the most coveted prize of her life. All those months of unrelenting hard work and unerring focus on one solitary goal that had been disallowed. A goal, she had to admit, she had thought would clinch the whole match.
Was she arrogant, overly confident in her own creative ability? Clearly she had been. She had neglected everything and everyone – her aunt, Seb and Dominic, her friends, her love life – in her quest for recognition, notoriety even; for the chance to showcase her design talent to the world, to become a part, however small, of the celebrity circus that was Lilac and Finn’s perfect summer wedding.
If it had beenherwedding, this farcical competition would be the very epitome of what she didnotwant. Such an intimate, joyful union demanded only the involvement of those who truly loved and cared for the couple and, as her fragile self-worth plummeted even further, Sophie thought she could count on one hand those stalwart friends who would be in attendance at her own marriage ceremony.
Anyway, what was she doing dreaming about her non-existent wedding? And there was no point in speculating on the identity of any potential groom. There was only one person up there in prime position.
Noah.
But she had no spare emotion to waste on dissecting her relationship with Noah. She shoved that cushion full of pins to the back of her mind for future examination. She had enough emotional pain in her life to be getting on with – neglectful niece to Claire, uninterested cousin to Seb and Dominic, absent friend to Nessa and Scarlet, and now mediocre fashion designer at Sophie-Louise Bridal Couture. Adding failure as a girlfriend to the list would tip her over the edge and she’d be looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror.
Anyway, she had a shop to get ready for sale.
Chapter Ten
‘My design didn’t win the Lilac Verbois wedding gown competition, Delia.’
Sophie broke off to inhale a steadying breath and tried to concentrate her attention on the window of the shop, beyond which the day promised warmth. The pavements of the high street were swathed in golden sunshine as the locals went about their daily business, popping into the village store, attending their hair appointments at Marietta’s Hair Salon, or leaving their car to be serviced at Andrews Autos.
She’d found it difficult to elucidate her failure aloud but was surprised to experience a welcome surge of relief now it was out there. She hoped Delia would grasp the baton of its knowledge and pass it on to the curious, as she knew her aunt had shared her shortlisting in the competition far and wide.
‘And also, Scarlet has agreed to look after the boutique for a couple of months to, erm, allow me to sort things out and recover from the duo of shocks.’
A fresh flash of guilt stabbed at her veins that her courage had failed her once again. She couldn’t mention the sale of the business to Delia. She experienced a heavy tug of dawning realisation of what kind of person she was – shallow and deceitful.
‘Oh, Sophie, you don’t know how delighted I am to hear that,’ Delia exclaimed, releasing Sophie from a flowery perfume-infused hug. ‘I know you have a busy and absorbing life down there in the capital, and colleagues desperate for your return, but you also have a great many friends up here in Somersby, you know. I’m so pleased you’re staying on for a while. Your aunt would definitely approve.’ Delia raised her eyes up to the cracked ceiling. ‘Claire would never have wanted the shop to close down. She was so angry and upset when she heard what had happened to the butcher’s shop. She even went as far as objecting to the planning application for change of use to residential – made no difference, of course. But what will happen to this village ifallthe shops close down and are converted into holiday homes and weekend retreats for escapees from the corporate rat race? Somersby would become a faded image of its current vibrancy.’
‘I—’
‘Gingerberry Yarns isn’t just a shop selling wool and trimmings; it’s a hub of social activity and provides a much-needed service to this community. Don’t you remember when you were still at home? All your aunt’s friends calling in for a chat, a word of support, of sympathy, of guidance? We’re part of the fabric of people’s lives. Look how supportive everyone’s been these past weeks, rallying round to offer not only a baked pie or a chicken casserole, but a listening ear, a word of comfort, and I have to admit I’ve succumbed to that offer more than once.’
Tears sprang into Delia’s tired eyes as she anxiously tried to get her message across to Sophie, who sat, head bent low to the table, studying the dregs of her cold tea. She reached across and took Sophie’s slender fingers in her own.
‘We can’t sell the place to a property developer out to make a fast buck. If it has to be sold, then let’s try to pass on the legacy to someone who will continue to run it with the same ethos. I’ll manage on my own so you can market the business as a going concern, a viable proposition for a potential buyer. It’d probablybe worth more that way, or it would be more likely to sell to someone who wanted to keep it on.’
Sophie’s heart contracted. Was Delia right?
Was she letting her aunt down by not at least trying to keep Gingerberry Yarns open? Could she handle the guilt of cutting all her ties with her childhood home? She had adored this shop, this village. The people who came were like an extended family to her. Many of her aunt’s friends still recognised her and had stopped her on the street to offer their condolences and had been touchingly devastated at her passing.
She recalled bumping into Iris, one of Delia’s best friends, and her daughter, Marcia. But what had really surprised her was that they’d been genuinely frightened about what decisions she was going to make about Gingerberry’s future. Marcia had even said it was the only thing she lived for, being able to bring Iris out in her wheelchair to the shop every day, leaving her chatting to Claire and Delia whilst she ran her errands.
‘When was the last time you and Nessa got together for a good old chinwag? Okay’ – Delia held up her palm, her stout fingers glittering with a cluster of rings – ‘I know you saw her at the funeral, but I mean really connected? You two were inseparable at school, as close as primer and paint. Pair of devils, you were! You know she’ll be over at the Fox & Hounds on Friday night. Why don’t you go and join her for a drink?’
‘Oh, Delia, I’m not…’
