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Chapter Twenty Two
Sophie sat at the mahogany table practising the new stitch that she would be demonstrating to the Cupcakes & Couture ladies at their next Tuesday night session in an hour’s time. She had also laid out three sample garments of the baby doll and teddy lingerie that she’d put the finishing touches to the previous night for them to inspect.
Under normal circumstances, she would have been honoured that so many people were prepared to hear her ideas, but since her wedding gown design hadn’t won the competition, she was upset to find that she struggled with creating new designs. It was the reason she’d asked Scarlet to email her old lingerie designs for the Cupcakes & Couture ladies to work on instead of sketching new ones.
For Sophie, who had been dressing her Barbies in her own wacky designs since the age of four, the withering of her passion for fashion had surprised her. A persistent lethargy had invaded her creative dexterity so that even putting pencil to sketch pad had been a tremendous effort which produced nothing of merit.
What was the point? Lilac Verbois’s wedding dress had been one of the most inspirational creations of her career and yet it had been rejected; she had been banished from the salon, even if itwasonly temporarily; and now she found herself skulking in the Cotswolds, compelled to manage an unprofitable business until it could be sold – an act of extreme hostility towards the community that had taken her to their hearts.
Her head reminded her that grief was a personal journey, an unnavigable maze impossible to share with even the closest confidante. Until the barrage of sorrow abated, she knew she could not recover her equilibrium or her flair for design.
But there was a glimmer of light on the horizon.
The lingerie she had made was exquisite, and she was certain there would be a market for it in her boutique in Wimbledon, as well as hand-sewn garters, basques and silk bra and knicker sets. If she could inspire the Cupcakes & Couture ladies to turn their skills to embroidery and lacemaking, it could be the start of an exciting cottage industry. There was already an established outlet with a readily available clientele and whilst the cost of a hand-made piece of lingerie would have been baulked at by those who frequented Gingerberry Yarns, residents of the capital had deeper pockets. She could perhaps even run the businesses side-by-side, each feeding from and into the other.
But was it too little, too late?
Despite having restocked the shelves with modern yarn and updating the window display, the shop’s income did not cover expenses. The fee for that evening’s Cupcakes & Couture class barely covered the cost of a coffee and a selection from the tray of Parisian marvels Tom had dropped by earlier.
Tom’s words of warning floated back to her. Should she have bolted whilst she’d had the chance to leave without a backward glance or a slice of guilt? Should she really be spinning a fantasy of false hope to these lovely people? Wouldn’t it have been less painful for everyone if she’d just kept Gingerberry closed after her aunt’s death and told everyone she was sorry, but her life was in London now and the continued operation of a tiny shop a hundred miles away was not a viable proposition?
Why was she doing this? Her aunt, bless her, would never know what her niece had done with her beloved shop. She’d never had the opportunity to note down her wishes. But who was she trying to kid? Her aunt would have wanted her to keep Gingerberry, probably just as it was.
Her ricocheting thoughts alighted on Delia whom it seemed was enjoying a new lease of life. With a jolt, Sophie realised that she, like her aunt before her, had grown to love Delia and her trendy haircut, her leopard-print-clad bosom, her bejewelled spectacles swinging in rhythm to the sway of her ample hips as she teased the newbies’ stitches into something presentable. This was why she was still here in Somersby; the community and their unerring support of her and of Gingerberry Yarns.
The bell jangled and Sophie raised her eyes to the door.
Nessa.
After chatting for a few minutes, Sophie realised that her friend had only arrived early to commence a one-woman crusade to reboot Sophie’s love life, conveniently brushing aside her arguments that she wasn’t interested as she was only back in Somersby temporarily.
‘Look, Nessa, stop nagging, will you?’
‘Sophie, I’ve spoken to Seb, and Archie confirms it, too. Noah is not involved in a relationship at the moment. You really need to get over that one mistake when he—’
‘How do you know it was once, Nessa? Don’t you think it’s stretching coincidence that his one-time lapse in loyalty just so happened to be when I walked in that night and caught him?’
‘Things are different in the music scene—’
‘You don’t have to lecture me on the quirks of the music industry. I dated Noah for years until… Well, I’m not in the slightest bit interested in what Noah chooses to do with hislife. Stop matchmaking! Please! And anyway’ – Sophie decided attack was the best form of defence where Nessa was concerned – ‘people who inhabit glass houses! Who are you dating at the moment?’
Nessa flicked the sides of her hair behind her ears, a gleeful smile lingering on her apricot lips. ‘Well, there’s this professional at the golf club; firm abs, taut butt, great swing, sends delicious ripples of desire around my—’
‘Okay, okay, sorry I asked.’
‘Soph, I know I don’t have to tell you this, but life is short, and there’s a goody bag of guys out there with whom to share the journey. Come on, why not let Dom set you up with his friend Fraser? He’s single, and he lives in Paris. What better place for a fashion designer to call her base?’
‘Nessa…’ Sophie paused in her task of laying out the bamboo knitting needles and colourful yarn on the gargantuan table to fix Nessa with what she hoped was her most fearsome expression. ‘I’m… not… interested! I’ve got enough to think about at the moment with sorting out Gingerberry and then getting it on the market.’
‘So, you are still selling up, then?’ asked Nessa softly.
Sophie sank her lanky frame into the scruffy second-hand leather sofa she had purchased after last week’s success of Cupcakes & Couture and draped with a pink throw to match the shop’s new décor. Her anguish over her prevarication about Gingerberry’s future had risen slowly like a creeping, ceaseless tide, but a decision had to be made.
‘I don’t think I have any choice, Nessa. I can’t split my time between two businesses so far apart. But I have to accept that I’ve been putting it off, arguing that it’ll be more attractive to potential buyers if I just spruce up the paintwork, maybeimprove and replenish the stock, revamp the window display, increase the income, run crafting sessions. But none of this will make any difference if the person who buys Gingerberry intends to turn it into a holiday let, will it? So I’m wasting my time and my money.’
Nessa opened her mouth to add her own soliloquy of criticism of the property developers who had taken over Somersby and many of the surrounding villages, but Sophie was saved from hearing it by the jingle of the front door bell and the next session of Cupcakes & Couture getting under way.
Ten minutes later the room was crammed with enthusiastic participants. The ranks were swelled by a married couple from the next village and two girls from Marcia’s reading group. Every one of the dedicated crafters from the previous session had arrived armed with their completed square of knitting, revealing varying degrees of competence. As a comfortable swirl of cheerful banter wove around the shop, two of the more experienced WI women proudly displayed an intricately knitted Fair Isle sweater that they had collaborated on to a great deal of murmured appreciation.
