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Nikki turned her back on the expression of outrage flooding across Tish’s face and couldn’t resist a smirk.
‘Why can’t I be a movie actress like Lilac?’
‘Okay, what films have you been in?’
‘Erm, well, there’s…’
‘See, if you were asked that question by one of the designers you’d totally give yourself away. I’ll do all the talking. As soon as we’re sure we can strike the designer from our list, we leave, okay? No mooning over the gowns. I don’t even want you to try any of them on if we can help it.’
‘Nikki…’
‘Look, Tish. This is a nightmare that should never have happened. We need to rectify the problem as soon as we can and get on with everything else on our lists. Didn’t you say you were slammed? You don’t have enough hours in the day? Haven’t you got the cars to finalise?’
‘Yes, I suppose…’
‘Okay. It’s two o’clock. We’ll start with Brigitte Gasnier as she’s the nearest, then we’ll do Sophie-Louise Bridal over in Wimbledon. Just pray that it’s one of those, as I see Carla Masconi is based in Milan.’
‘Oooo, Italy, I’d love to go to Italy.’
‘Oh, God.’
Nikki rolled her eyes. She grabbed her mac, swung it around her shoulders and stalked from the room, with Tishscrambling to follow in her wake. By the time she’d reached the pavement outside and hailed a cab, her irritation with Tish had evaporated. She chastised herself for her recent propensity towards shortness. It wasn’t Tish’s fault that since Owen had dumped her, she’d disabled her happiness app and downloaded a bitterness one in its place; but still, the girl had to ditch the delusion that she was playing the lead female role in her own romantic comedy.
‘Isn’t this exciting? We’re like a couple of Princess Charmings, touring the country as we search for the foot that fits the crystal stiletto, only this time we’re looking for a designer to fit a wedding gown. When we find the right person, I think I’ll feel like Lilac’s fairy godmother.’
Yeah, thought Nikki, as she ran through the kaleidoscope of things on her “to do this week” list, never mind her “to do today” list, and glared at Tish’s exuberance – and I’m the wicked stepmother.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day, Sophie skipped down the stairs to the shop with much more energy, her mood elevated from the first decent night’s sleep she’d had for months. It was so quiet in Somersby, with none of the screeching brakes, blaring car horns, and noisy late-night revellers that frequented the street outside her home in London. In fact, she could even hear the bird’s delivering their daily dawn chorus, something else that had lifted her spirits.
Even though it wasn’t quite nine o’clock, she wasn’t surprised to see that Delia was already there, feather duster in hand, reaching up to flick the non-existent dust from the top shelves. Sophie wrinkled her nose as her gaze swept across the drab walls, which seemed to blend in with the coffee-coloured carpet and highly polished teak furniture to portray a sepia-tinted emporium of a bygone age.
‘Delia, would you object if I gave the shop a lick of paint? I’m not sure what colour the walls aresupposedto be, but nicotine-yellow is definitely not this season’s must-have interior design colour.’
‘Of course not, dear.’
‘Great.’
Sophie decided that while they were talking about making improvements to the shop, she should take the opportunity to broach another, more delicate, subject. She strode across the room and grabbed a ball of neon-pink yarn, its scratchy fibresclicking the scraped skin around her fingernails. The contents of the floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves were a veritable cacophony of the tropical colours more commonly seen in a Caribbean aviary.
‘Why do we stock all this bright pink acrylic? Do we supply Barbie’s stitch and bitch parties?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ said Delia, her forehead creased.
‘Why not stock a selection of natural wools? You know, there’s a farm in Devon that produces hand-spun organic yarns from their flock of Whiteface Dartmoor sheep. It’s expensive; I sourced a batch to weave into one of my designs for the Autumn/Winter collection last year, but I’m sure they would guide us to other suppliers, local if possible. And if we can, what about organic cotton and silk? And where’s the cashmere? And what about mohair and angora – but only if it’s ethically sourced.’ She was vividly aware of the horror stories doing the rounds about the production of angora.
She marched around the dowdy room, dragging random balls of yarn from their resting places, delving into the scattered wicker baskets and cracked leather valises, discarding every specimen as too brash or made from synthetic fibres and imported from China. She felt her inherent sparkle for all things fleece-related begin to return, just not for the type of products currently stocked by Gingerberry Yarns.
She could see Delia’s gaze following her actions with interest from her position behind the enormous glass and mahogany serving counter, calm and serene, a faint turn at the corners of her lips, but she remained silent, so Sophie continued with her commentary.
‘Each one of these brightly dyed balls of yarn is supposed to be the catalyst for the creation of an original garment,’ she said, feeling her passion for the subject mount. ‘A raw material that can be sculpted into an item to bring joy – from a baby’s bootee to a christening shawl, from a grandmother’s cosy bedjacket to an attractive sofa throw – each with a purpose and a story to tell. It’s a unique garment made with affection for the recipient instead of the modern attire that’s replicated a thousand times, bought for a few pounds, then discarded after one or two wears. If it’s worth spending the time creating such a work of art, then surely, it’s worth sourcing the best materials?’
Sophie turned her attention on the huge leather-inlaid table and the congregation of chairs that looked like they’d been sourced from the local rubbish dump, or at the very least, the second-hand shop in Cranbury.
‘And why all these mismatched hard-backed chairs? They’re like instruments of torture for people who knit. And they make the room look like a junk shop!’
‘Well, our customers do need somewhere to sit, Sophie.’ Delia’s soft eyes clouded as she continued her explanation. ‘Your aunt and I loved to hear the women’s stories. They’re not just our customers; the majority are our friends, people who have been coming into the shop for the last thirty years. Iris and Marcia have been coming in for ten. It’s not exactly wheelchair-friendly, but we manage.’ Delia paused to inhale a breath; her eyes fixed on the middle distance. ‘Then there are our WI friends. They call in once a week – we donate any end-of-batch yarn to their knitting club, and they turn it into fabulous blankets and dementia mitts for the Cranbury hospice.’
