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‘It was a bit of a splurge, I have to admit. I bought it in Harvey Nicks. It was six hundred and fifty. I know it’s purse-busting,but I do wear it every day in the winter instead of a coat and everyone who sees it comments on it and asks where I got it from, just like you have. I wish I could knit. I’d have one in every colour. I think one in emerald-green and cream would go with my colouring, don’t you think?’
Sophie laughed. It was good to talk to Scarlet.
‘Well, if you can master the craft of teleportation sufficiently to travel from London to Somersby and back again in one night, there’s a place reserved at the stitch and bitch sessions for you.’
‘Count me in, Scotty!’
***
‘Oh, don’t I look fabulous?’ Tish performed a twist and turn in front of Lilac’s huge, gilt-framed mirror in the dressing room of her Georgian home in South Kensington, smoothing the fluted crepe mini dress over her hips and experimenting with her best pout.
‘Come on, Tish. We can’t waste any time. Lilac is due back next week, and everything has to be ready for her first fitting. Whoever the mystery designer is, she’ll curse us for the delay. Every hour is precious when you have such an important commission to deliver. This gown is going to jettison their career into the stratosphere. It’s the pinnacle of anyone’s dreams to dress an Oscar-nominated actress on her wedding day.’
Tish pulled a face behind Nikki’s back but Nikki saw her in the mirror.
‘Okay, we have thirty minutes to get over to Brigitte Gasnier’s studio, then, if it’s not hers, we’ll take a cab round to Sophie-Louise Bridal. I’ve spoken to Sophie Henshaw’sassistant, Scarlet Webb. Unfortunately, Sophie has had a family bereavement and is currently away in the Cotswolds, but Scarlet assured us that she would be able to show us samples of their previous creations or work with us on a new design. And please, Tish, make sure you leave the talking to me.’
They clambered into a black cab and shot off to Chelsea. Tish spent the whole journey checking her appearance in her compact, patting her halo of blonde curls and reapplying her lipstick. She was made for a role in reality TV, thought Nikki with a smirk.
‘Hi, I’m Millie Channing.’ Nikki introduced herself and shook hands with Brigitte Gasnier, almost suffocating in the cloud of Chanel No. 5 perfume that swirled around the petite fashion designer. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see us at such short notice. As I told you on the phone, Miss Gertrude here is keen to decide on her wedding gown as quickly as possible.’
Nikki gave a polite little cough, clearly indicating that “Miss Gertrude” found herself in an unexpected predicament. She struggled to conceal her smile when Tish turned to her, her eyes widened in horror, her cheeks a hot shade of crimson. Was that because she’d called her Miss Gertrude or because she’d spilled the beans about her pregnancy? Nikki didn’t care – she deserved a little fun.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mizz Gertrude. Won’t you come this way where my assistant ’as a selection of fabulous gownz for you to consider? If nothing suits, I also ’ave a portfolio of designs in my office for you to peruse, or we can look at designing something to your precise specifications. Of course, it all depends on your budgie,’ Brigitte said, her French accent so pronounced that Tish screwed up her nose in confusion.
‘My budgie? I don’t have a budgie? I have a cat, though – Fluffy?’
Oh, God, thought Nikki. She had to tie up their business here as quickly as possible before their entente cordiale with all things French broke down. ‘Do you have anything that’s suitable for a celebrity wedding, but that’s ready to go? It’s just, as I said, we are in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Mmm, perhaps I ’ave something. Just wait one moment.’ Brigitte disappeared into the back room.
‘Why did you have to tell her I was pregnant? Did you see the way her eyes narrowed?’ hissed Tish, removing her compact and reapplying a slick of pearly pink lipstick for the tenth time. ‘I bet hers is the ball gown one with the lace panelling and the pointed shoulder pads, like Cinderella’s but in ivory? Which one do you think it is?’
‘Quit talking about Cinderella, Tish. Just concentrate on why we’re here.’
Brigitte Gasnier appeared with the most stunning dress balanced over her forearms and an assistant scuttling in her wake supporting its train. It was almost identical to one of the dresses on Nikki’s hit list, but not the one they were searching for. Nevertheless, she allowed herself a congratulatory pat on the back and performed an imaginary tick. Now all she needed to do was extricate Tish from her nuptial fantasy with the minimum of fuss and move on to the Sophie-Louise Bridal boutique.
She turned to look at Tish. The expression in the wedding planner’s eyes reminded Nikki of the hypnotist snake inThe Jungle Book. God, the girl has this wedding fever bad! She decided to turn Tish’s silent awe to her advantage.
‘That is a stunning dress, Ms Gasnier. It’s certainly a possibility.’ Then, with a look of abject horror, Nikki placed her arm around Tish’s shoulders and began to guide her tothe door. ‘Gosh, you don’t look very well at all, Miss Gertrude. You’ve turned the same colour as a frog with a hangover. Let’s get you some fresh air. Thank you so much, Miss Gasnier. We’ll be in touch.’
The expression on Brigitte Gasnier’s face could have been framed and hung in a gallery labelled “Astonishment”, but Nikki didn’t have the time or the inclination to think about it. She hailed a taxi and bundled a bemused Tish into the back seat.
‘Why did we have to leave so quickly? You’re such a spoilsport, Nikki. It was a beautiful boutique. You could have at least let me try the dress on – it wasn’t as though Lilac was going to wear it or anything. You know how much I love…’
Chapter Sixteen
The morning’s downpour had awakened the foliage of the trees that lined the high street like a wedding arch of sabres. The fresh green fragrance of newly cut grass rose into the warming air, lifting Sophie’s waning spirits.
It was Wednesday afternoon and most of the shops in Somersby closed for a half-day, another antiquated throwback that didn’t fit the consumerism of the twenty-first century, grumbled Sophie. She stood just outside the doorway of Gingerberry Yarns, her eyes focused on its stone façade, which had been bleached to a soft honey-hued colour by the passing years and the Gloucestershire weather but was as familiar to her as a beloved relative, as she tried to imagine how a new customer would encounter the store.
Sunshine shone on the gold lettering emblazoned across the huge plate-glass window spelling out the shop’s title, highlighting the fact that one of the letter “r”s was missing. The door, formerly a cheery yellow, had blistered and cracked to a hue of ochre. But it was when she pressed open the entrance door, the tinkle of the bell welcoming her into the cathedral of yarns, and she was presented with its shabby interior, that she sighed.
The room was devoid of its lifeblood – its ever-present laughter. In the eerie silence and gloom, Sophie battled her rising recollections, battening them down like a game at the fair. Against the patina of age, the colourful balls of wool crammedthe labyrinthine shelving in neat pyramids; from combed mohair to woven bamboo, from baby cotton to brash, chunky Aran – a veritable library of yarn.
And yet it was a throwback to past times.
As she took a step into the shop, a gust of outdoor air favoured her nostrils with a waft of lavender and nostalgia. A rose-tinted dreariness suffused the atmosphere – that first glimpse of the glass counter behind which her aunt had always stood – and dealt a thwack of pain to her heart. Gingerberry Yarns without Claire Garside was like London without Big Ben.
