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‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she mumbled, channelling Saffy. As the door shut behind him she turned to her assistant. ‘Let’s hope that’s the last we see of him.’
Saffy went over to the window and watched him climb into his van. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I rather liked him.’
‘Come away from the window, we don’t want to encourage him.’
Saffy turned and looked Evie square in the eye. ‘You sure about that, boss?’
Evie felt a blush of heat on her cheeks. ‘Absolutely. Now get on with some work.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_eb85abf6-c9c9-5965-b8ff-502e073a4686)
Saturday, 22 February (#ulink_eb85abf6-c9c9-5965-b8ff-502e073a4686)
Laura could always sense when intervention was needed. It was partly why she was so good at her job, even if she did say so herself. The ability to read a person was an essential trait when selling wedding dresses. Brides weren’t just purchasing a dress, they were buying into the dream, creating a wondrous fairy tale that would export them into a romantic whirlwind of perfection. Weddings were about excess and style, accessories and glamour, the whole event organised with military precision, choreographed down to the last scented petal, ensuring the guests were left in spellbound awe, watching as the stunning bride and slightly stunned groom sailed away on a cloud of wistful bliss, their bank accounts empty, their hearts filled with love.
And then there were brides like Anita.
Laura moved her client through to the alcove at the side of the shop, behind the rails of pricey designer gowns, and opened the curtain with a dramatic swish, as if revealing the sparkling contents of Aladdin’s cave. ‘I think we might have what you’re looking for through here.’
With some hesitation, the woman followed. ‘I don’t want anything fancy. It’d be ridiculous at my age to turn up in one of those big frilly gowns. I just want something simple. You know, tasteful, appropriate for a woman in her fifties.’
Laura smiled. ‘I quite understand. Which is why we have a selection specifically designed for just such a requirement.’ She moved across to the rail of dresses. ‘At Truly Scrumptious we cater for all brides, including those looking for a more bespoke service; perhaps marrying for the second time, or simply wishing to have a more low-key occasion. Not everyone wants or can afford a huge whistles and bells production.’
The woman visibly relaxed. ‘Oh, I agree. We’d love to have a big do, but we just can’t afford it. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find something within my budget.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place.’ Laura lifted a dress off the rack, an ivory-coloured vintage design with lace overlay and belted waist. ‘This style proves very popular for the more mature bride. The knee-length cut and capped sleeves give it a less formal feel, yet the detail in the fabric and underlay skirting provides enough glamour and sophistication to give it impact.’ Laura waited for the woman to be seduced by the beauty of the dress before adding, ‘At seven hundred pounds, I think you’ll agree it’s very reasonably priced.’
When the woman coloured, Laura replaced the dress, moving on to the next rail.
‘However, our dresses start at one hundred pounds, rising to several thousand, so hopefully we have something for everyone.’
The woman edged towards the cheaper end of the rail. ‘It’s a simple ceremony, you see. Followed by a reception in our local village hall.’
Laura nodded. ‘Of course. But it is your wedding day, and you’ll be the star attraction. Don’t be too afraid to stand out.’ The woman’s expression indicated she hadn’t thought of that. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying, you have an amazing figure. Any of these retro designs would complement your frame perfectly, making you the envy of many women half your age.’
The woman coloured again.
Laura knew she was winning her over. ‘Why don’t I leave you to browse through the dresses at your leisure? Let me know when you find something you’d like to try on.’
‘Yes, thank you. I’d like that.’
Laura smiled. Another fish baited, hooked and reeled into her lair, primed for a sale. A relaxed and comfortable customer was much more likely to buy, Laura had learnt. If you evoked trust, created confidence and gave them the illusion of being in control, they would hand over their credit card. If you pushed too hard, they went elsewhere. All tricks Laura had mastered since setting up the business three years ago.
She turned up the volume on the love songs CD and pressed the wall-mounted perfumer, releasing a discreet waft of rose water into the air. ‘Can I tempt you to glass of fizz, Anita?’
‘Oh, no, I best not…’ And then she paused. ‘Actually, you know what, that would be lovely. After all, you only get married … twice.’ She laughed at her own joke.
Laura laughed along with her. ‘Excellent decision.’ She left the woman to it and headed into the kitchen to commence stage two of her carefully honed sales seduction technique.
Just because Laura had perfected the art of turning even the most difficult customer into a satisfied one, it didn’t mean she was mercenary. Far from it. She genuinely cared about her brides, wishing them every happiness on their special day. She just wanted them to be wearing one of her dresses when they said ‘I do’. Was that such a bad thing? She’d never sell someone a dress that wasn’t right for them, that was why she carried such an extensive range. It was a competitive market out there. She needed to be on her game to stay in business.
Not that she needed the money. Martin made enough to keep a roof over their heads, but that wasn’t the point. She needed something in her life to focus on, to challenge her, to bring out the romantic in her. And since her marriage no longer did that, running Truly Scrumptious helped to fill the void.
Laura removed the chilled bottle of Prosecco from the fridge.
Things had been so different eight years ago, when she’d first met Martin. Fresh out of university, his boyish charm and honey-coloured hair had provoked an immediate spark when he’d propositioned her in a Starbucks café, wooing her with frothy macchiatos and his plans for a career as a sports agent. He was vibrant and energised, with big hopes and a persuasive persona. She’d been charmed, entertained, and fallen in love before finishing her second coffee.
Opening the bottle of wine, Laura poured two large glasses, ignoring the fact that it was barely lunchtime and too early to be drinking. Catching sight of herself in the vanity mirror, she unclipped her long auburn hair, smoothed down the kinks and refastened the clasp. It wouldn’t do to look dishevelled.
Her striking appearance had been one of the things that had first attracted Martin. He loved her pale skin and long legs, his desire for her evident from the start. And she’d loved it. In those early days he’d been just as smitten as her, encouraging her dreams to become a fashion designer, promising her a world of adventure and spontaneity. And for the first few years that’s exactly what their life had been like. Moonlit picnics, floating down the Thames in a rowing boat looking at the stars, travelling to exotic destinations, existing on adrenaline and limited income. She’d never been happier.
In turn, Laura had supported Martin through his internship, holding down two jobs and giving up the opportunity to work in New York for a wedding dress designer so he could pursue his dream of becoming a sports agent. They’d married on a beach in Phuket and hitch-hiked their way through Vietnam and Thailand for their honeymoon. It was the stuff of dreams.
Laura took another slug of wine.
For the first couple of years, things had been great. But then Martin had become disillusioned with not being able to break through into his chosen career and had taken a job at a financial recruitment firm. It wasn’t all bad; the increase in income enabled them to buy their first home and when Laura took over the management of Truly Scrumptious things were pretty good. But then Martin’s job grew steadily more demanding, the hours increased and soon he was coming home tired and grumpy. They stopped going out during the week, and then at weekends, and then Martin’s work took him travelling without her and she became more and more fed up.
Laura contemplated how she socialised more with her friends these days than with her husband. It was a depressing thought. She carried the tray through to the alcove, her cheeks flushed from the wine.
She wouldn’t mind so much if the sex was still good, but even that had tailed off. There was a time when Martin couldn’t keep his hands off her. Now she was lucky to get a quickie before bedtime. If she didn’t make a move in the ten minutes before climbing into bed it was game over, Martin would be asleep before she’d even cleaned her teeth. Their sex life was no longer the stuff of dreams – it was in danger of fizzling out completely.
In her absence, Anita had been productive. Three dresses had been selected for trying on, including the retro dress that Laura had picked out.
Placing the tray on the distressed-finish side table, Laura handed the woman a glass of Prosecco. ‘Here we are, a little something to aid the task of dress hunting. I see you’ve made progress. Would you like to try them on?’
Anita nodded, sipping delicately at her wine. Unlike Laura, who’d downed her glass in two large gulps.
Laura carried the dresses through to the changing room. ‘Give me a shout when you need zipping up.’
Whilst she waited for Anita to change, Laura picked up the bouquet of flowers Martin had sent her for her birthday and carried them through to the kitchen. The primroses had lasted well, but the cut irises were wilting, bending low as if hanging their heads in shame. The petals were dry and withering, sapped of life and vibrancy. Kind of how she felt about her marriage.
Anita called out from the other room. ‘I’m ready.’
Dumping the flowers in the bin, Laura returned to her bride.
She found Anita wearing the retro dress, the ivory colouring a perfect complement to her skin tone. The woman stared at herself in the mirror, swishing one way and then the other, enchanted by the movement of the petticoats around her legs.
Laura fastened the zip, the nipped-in waistline enhancing the woman’s trim figure. ‘You look beautiful.’
Anita smiled self-consciously. ‘I do, don’t I?’
Laura nodded. ‘It’s perfect for you.’
A quick glance at the price tag, followed by a biting of the lower lip, preceded Anita announcing, ‘Sod the cost. I have to have it.’
Laura smiled. Things might not be great at home, but she was a frigging genius when it came to selling wedding dresses.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_a2546a9c-fdc3-55c4-838a-3a6b4cbc2a50)
Monday, 24 February (#ulink_a2546a9c-fdc3-55c4-838a-3a6b4cbc2a50)
Throwing his phone onto the bed in annoyance, Scott closed the bedroom door. He needed a moment to compose himself. Oshma’s back was playing up again. He wasn’t angry with her – it wasn’t her fault she had a dodgy disc – but it meant he’d have to rearrange his diary so he could look after Billie. Another day without income wasn’t a welcome prospect. He was struggling with the bills as it was. He rubbed his forehead, trying to dilute the frustration. He had two call-outs booked, both needing urgent attention. Cancelling was bound to send them elsewhere, losing him much-needed custom. But it wasn’t his mum’s fault. She needed him. He’d just have to suck it up.
Having sent apologetic texts to his customers, Scott masked his annoyance and went to tend to Billie. He found her in the kitchen being spoon-fed porridge by her attentive grandson. Her right arm was usually strong enough to grip a spoon, enabling her to feed herself, but some days her muscles were troubled by a weakness that rendered her virtually paralysed. Today was one of those days. It broke his heart to see her struggling.
Knowing she wouldn’t appreciate a fuss, Scott clapped his hands together. ‘Breaking news, guys. Oshma won’t be in today so you have me running the show.’ He planted a kiss on his mum’s cheek. ‘Lucky you, eh?’
The right side of her face creased into a frown, a questioning look in her eyes.
‘Her back is bad. She’s booked in to see the physio later. Hopefully she’ll be here tomorrow.’ Scott squeezed his mum’s shoulder, overriding any attempt to insist he go to work. ‘I didn’t have anything important booked for today. It’s no big deal to stay home.’
He doubted his mum bought his lie. Billie Castillo might have lost all manner of functions, but she hadn’t lost her radar for bullshit.
When a dollop of porridge landed on Billie’s dressing gown, Scott handed Ben a paper towel. ‘Besides, social services are visiting today to do an assessment. It’s best I’m around.’
Scott hated official visits. Not because he had anything to hide, but because the way they inspected everything, assessing his abilities to meet his mother’s care needs, always made him feel substandard. It was like being back at school when his English teacher used to humiliate him in front of the class because he refused to take notes. The woman had never grasped that he wasn’t being deliberately challenging, he just struggled to write things down. He hadn’t enjoyed being dumb. He’d much rather have been a smart-arse like his sister, but the genetics hadn’t worked out that way.
Scott made himself a coffee. ‘I thought you were on a study day?’ He tried to give Ben his best parental look, popping a slice of bread in the toaster.
‘I am.’ Ben held the straw to Billie’s lips so she could sip her tea. ‘I was up early. I’m on my first official break.’ He grinned at his gran. ‘Nanny and I are going to watch The Bourne Identity and discuss the merits of Matt Damon’s acting talents. Isn’t that right, Nan?’
Billie nodded, her love of films one of the few pleasures she hadn’t lost. It was a passion she’d passed on to her grandson.
Scott buttered his toast, doubting that Matt Damon had anything to do with Ben’s English curriculum but appreciating his nephew’s efforts to keep Billie stimulated. ‘Just make sure you get some studying done. I don’t want the school on at me because you’re falling behind.’
Ben laughed. ‘I’m on course for straight As, Uncle Scott. Chill, will you?’
There was nothing Scott would have liked more than to ‘chill’, but that wasn’t going to happen. He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t stressed or aggrieved by his situation. But for the sake of his mother and nephew, he didn’t let his anxiety show. He was just grateful that Ben had inherited Lisa’s aptitude for study and not his own shortcomings.
Ben wiped Billie’s mouth with the paper towel. ‘Big date tonight, Nanny. I’m taking Amy to Francini’s for dinner. We’re taking the train into Ashford after school.’
Scott wasn’t sure what a ‘big’ date involved. Should he be worried? When it came to women, Scott avoided offering Ben any kind of guidance. He was hardly an authority on romance. Look at what had happened with Nicole. One minute they were in love, buying their first home together, engaged to be married, and the next his mum was struck down by a stroke and everything had crumbled around him.
Finishing his coffee, he stacked the breakfast things in the sink. The resentment he felt about his situation hadn’t eased in the two years since everything had gone tits up. If anything, it had become worse. His mum was blameless, but the resentment he felt towards Nicole was different, fuelled by confusion and betrayal. In the initial weeks following Billie’s stroke she’d been supportive and caring, helping him with the multitude of tasks that had landed in his lap. But when Nicole realised he wasn’t about to place his mum in a care home, cracks had developed.
She’d argued that settling his mother in a home and sending a fifteen-year-old Ben to foster carers was the sensible thing to do. Scott didn’t see it that way. Billie and Ben needed him. In the absence of Lisa, he was their only family. There was no way he could abandon them.
The biggest shock came when Nicole broke off their engagement, claiming she wasn’t being ‘put first’. In that moment a small part of him had stopped loving her. Self-interest wasn’t an attractive quality. But most of him didn’t want her to leave. He needed her. It felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest. But if she’d truly loved him, she would have supported him, not given him an ultimatum.
There was never really any choice. Scott would never have chosen anything other than looking after Billie. So they split up. He moved to Kent, while Nicole stayed in the house they’d purchased together in Putney.
‘Is that okay, Uncle Scott?’
The sound of Ben’s voice broke through his thoughts. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Lisa’s allowance doesn’t hit my account until tomorrow. Can I borrow twenty quid? I don’t want to be caught short on my big date.’ His continued emphasis on the word ‘big’ rang alarm bells. But Scott wasn’t up for a birds and bees discussion with his nephew, who probably knew more than him anyway, so he dug out his wallet and gave Ben his last twenty-pound note.
‘You really need to make your mum’s money last the month,’ he said, trying to make a point, but knowing Ben would never call his mother anything other than Lisa. Or, if he was really pissed off with her, ‘that woman’. ‘Budgeting is an important lesson to learn.’
‘I know, and I wouldn’t normally ask, but I’m taking Amy on a—’
‘Big date, yeah, I heard.’ Scott sighed, once again feeling like he should be questioning the kid’s intentions a bit more, or at least mentioning the merits of using protection, but he chickened out. He was a terrible guardian.
Ben pocketed the cash. ‘I’ll pay you back tomorrow when I get my allowance.’
‘No need.’ Use it to buy condoms, he should’ve added, but didn’t, wimping out again.
‘Thanks, Uncle Scott. I’ll return the favour when you start dating again.’ The kid turned away before Scott could reprimand the cheeky blighter. ‘Come on, Nanny, let’s get you set up in front of the TV.’
Scott ruffled Ben’s hair as he wheeled Billie into the lounge. The kid was right though, he didn’t date. Nicole’s reaction to his mother’s stroke had left him wary of getting involved. He was better off sticking with casual hook-ups, rather than searching for ‘the one’.
Which was a shame, since he’d recently met someone who’d ignited his interest. The woman at the florist’s was just his type – a cute brunette with a curvy bum. He’d been mesmerised. Not just in a sexual way, but in a ‘I’d like to date you’ kind of way, which was not what he wanted, or could offer, so it was lucky she didn’t feel the same way.
Why was he thinking about a woman he’d only met once? Especially one who’d been less than enamoured with him. It was probably Ben’s talk of his ‘big date’, reminding him what he was missing out on. As if he needed any kind of reminder.
When social services knocked on the door shortly after eleven, all Scott’s insecurities resurfaced. The two women were nice enough, asking him how he was coping and making suitably sympathetic noises as they were shown around the adapted apartment, but Scott still felt like he was being interviewed, tested in some way, as though they didn’t quite think he was up to the task. This feeling was compounded when they walked into the lounge to find Ben re-enacting a scene from The Bourne Identity where Matt Damon rolls around the floor trying to disarm a rival agent with a bread knife. Add in Billie still wearing her nightclothes and a sink full of dirty dishes and Scott felt like the worst carer in the universe.
But they didn’t appear perturbed. Thankfully, they refused the offer of tea and made tracks to leave, but not before handing Scott another form to complete.
His heart sank. He hated forms.
He barely listened as the woman rattled on about his mum being transitioned from Disability Living Allowance to the new Personal Independence Payment. All he could see was a multi-page document with big empty squares requiring completion. It was bleeding obvious his mum needed help, anyone could see that. Why did he need to justify it to a bunch of red-tapers?
‘You have one month to complete the paperwork,’ the woman said, stepping into the communal corridor. ‘Unfortunately, there’s a backlog on claims at the moment, so you might find there’s a gap between DLA ending and PIP starting.’
Great. Just what he needed. ‘How much of a delay?’
The woman was already walking away, distancing herself from potential abuse over the inadequacies of the country’s welfare benefit system. ‘Anything up to nine months, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, any award will be backdated to the start of the claim.’
Well, that’s all right then, he thought, his sarcasm morphing into annoyance. Jesus, at this rate he might have to ask Ben for his twenty quid back.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_5f1864a6-aa79-5b31-b02e-95b4592188c6)
Wednesday, 26 February (#ulink_5f1864a6-aa79-5b31-b02e-95b4592188c6)
Evie braked sharply as she pulled into the tight parking space at Peacock Court, narrowly avoiding an elderly resident wobbling on his walking stick. The last thing she wanted was to knock the poor man over. Having never owned a car, she was woefully lacking in experience since passing her test a few months earlier. But, as travelling by bus with an armful of flowers wasn’t an option, she’d overcome her aversion and leased a small Transit.
Climbing out of the van, she checked that the man was okay. He waved away her polite enquiries, seemingly unaffected by his instability. Most days one of her casual drivers made the deliveries so Evie could fulfil orders back at the shop. But Cordelia Harrison-Walker required a more personal service, one Evie was happy to provide.
Pushing the bell on the intercom, Evie was buzzed in. She carried her bag and tray of flowers along the corridor. Peacock Court was a generic collection of one-storey apartments, the communal areas decorated in uninspiring muted greys, until you reached the bright red door of number seventeen. When Evie had received a call from Cordelia Harrison-Walker a few weeks earlier, asking if The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop were able to offer a home visiting service, Evie had formed a prim mental picture of the ninety-four-year-old woman. She’d assumed simplicity and moderation would be the key to fulfilling her client’s brief. How wrong she’d been.
Moderation wasn’t a word that described Cordelia in any shape or form. Her small apartment was painted dusky blue with matching carpets and curtains. Grand pieces of furniture were crammed into the limited space, the sofa and chairs upholstered in expensive gold brocade. The walls housed large and dominant pieces of artwork, but it was the baby grand piano filling the living space that had really caused Evie’s sharp intake of breath. Seventeen Peacock Court was an opulent and extravagant gem nestled inside a soulless box of bland local authority housing. Evie loved it.
With her hands full, Evie waited for the door to open. As per her previous visits, she was greeted by a strong waft of perfume and the tiny yet indomitable form of Cordelia Harrison-Walker, dressed in a red velvet wrap dress, her hair coiffed into a chignon.
‘Darling girl, do come in.’ Cordelia ushered her inside, her agility defying her ninety-four years. As always, she was heavily made up and her home spotless, not a sequined cushion out of place. ‘Can I assist you with your wares?’
Evie lowered the tray of flowers onto the sideboard. ‘I’m good, thanks, Mrs Harrison-Walker.’ Evie was treated to a double-cheeked kiss, as though she were a treasured relative, rather than a visiting tradeswoman.
