Authors: Daisy James
‘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 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 Callie-Louise Bridal. I’ve spoken to Callie Henshaw’s assistant, Scarlet Webb. Callie has had a family bereavement and is currently away in Yorkshire, 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 a 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 budget,’ 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 Callie-Louise Bridal boutique.
She turned to look at Tish. The expression in the wedding planner’s eyes reminded Nikki of the hypnotist snake in
The 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 to the 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…’
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 rose into the warming air, lifting Callie’s jagged spirits.
It was Wednesday afternoon and most of the shops in Allthorpe closed for a half-day, another antiquated throwback that didn’t fit the consumerism of the twenty-first century, grumbled Callie. She stood just outside the doorway of Gingerberry Yarns, her eyes focused on its stone façade, which had been blackened by the passing years and the Yorkshire 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 now bleached down on the lettering emblazoned across the huge plate-glass window spelling out the shop’s title, sending golden shards of light glancing around the shadowy interior. 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, Callie battled her rising recollections, battening them down like a game at the fair.
Against the patina of age, the colourful balls of wool crammed the 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 Hannah Garside was like London without Big Ben.
Would a fresh coat of paint be enough to drag the business into the twenty-first century? Was she a fool easily parted from her injection of cash on a few tins of paint, after which she’d sell up and scuttle back to her old life in London?
Pulling back her shoulders, she resumed her critical, professional assessment of the shop’s fittings as she decided which would be painted with the peppermint paint she’d ordered and which would not. She ran her fingertips along the varnished surfaces, disturbing the dust, stroking the smoothness of the ribbons, fingering the intricate lace, and allowing the painful memories to assault her senses.
She couldn’t wait for the delivery of the pure wools, the tweeds, the fibres that Yorkshire was so famous for. The county’s history was steeped in the textile industry. If she could fill these nooks and crannies with natural, instead of man-made, yarns and display sample garments that the trendsetters would give their hard-earned cash for, then maybe, just maybe…
Her stomach hollered its objection to the forfeiture of breakfast so she trudged back up the stairs to flick on the kettle, dragging forward her trusty sketch pad to start planning the renaissance of Gingerberry Yarns. She was determined to keep busy, to focus on menial tasks not the big picture, but disloyal thoughts strained like elastic to return to the melancholy lodged resolutely in her mind. As she sipped on her third cup of Earl Grey and removed a fourth chocolate-coated digestive biscuit from the tube, she pondered on how easily she had succumbed to the oestrogen trio of solace: chocolate, tea and gossip.
She had no idea how long she had been at the kitchen table, mulling over her scribble, when a banging on the door broke through her reverie. She unfurled her legs and slotted the pencil behind her ear, the points of her ebony hair curling beneath her chin. She had made a concerted effort to avoid the bathroom mirror lately, but she knew she needed to arrange her debut visit to Marietta’s.
‘Oh, hello?’ She had expected it to be Marcia or Delia, despite the half-day closing.
‘Erm, hi. I’m Tom. Tom Wallington? From the bakery on the corner? Just thought I’d drop by to offer my condolences. I know I’m a little tardy, but well, what with the shop and visiting Dad…’ He attempted a conciliatory expression, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze focused on a point to the left of Callie’s eyes, his diamond stud earring glinting in the afternoon sunlight.
‘Hi, Tom, I’m Callie. Come in, come in. I’ll make us some coffee.’ She eyed the pale peppermint cardboard box he clasped in his reddened hands and could almost feel the drool beginning to form.
‘I’ve brought you these. Just a few leftovers from this morning.’ He opened the cake box to reveal the most exquisite, hand-made selection of French patisserie Callie had laid eyes on – and that from someone whose best friend had worshipped the world of Betty’s as they grew up.
Tom pointed to a pale pink sugary gem. ‘This is a raspberry
Miroir
– raspberry mousse with pink-and-white biscuit, topped with a raspberry-infused glaze, finished with a pink-and-white-striped chocolate square. This one is a
Paradiso
– alternated mango, passion fruit and coconut-infused mousse topped with a rolled white-and-dark-chocolate cigarillo. And these are pistachio and vanilla macaroons.’
In the concentration of the description and the passion it had produced, Tom had emerged from his timid shell to present his culinary creations with the pride of any accomplished maestro.
Callie had kept her mouth clamped shut to prevent the risk of subconscious drooling. ‘Wow, they look amazing. Why don’t you grab a seat at the table, Tom, and I’ll fetch the cafetière?’
She set the glass coffee pot on the huge mahogany table in the empty shop and sank her teeth into one of the tiny sculptures, allowing the symphony of flavours to melt on her tongue and set her taste buds alight.
‘Delicious, Tom, you really are a genius. Delia says you trained in Paris and then at Betty’s in Harrogate?’ She watched Tom nervously lace his elegant fingers around his coffee mug so that he had something to do with his hands.
‘Yes, I adore French patisserie. I’ve been introducing a new product to the bakery every week since I took over from Dad at Christmas. I’m not sure Allthorpe is ready for blueberry and lemon
millefeuille
with Madagascan vanilla custard and blueberry jam, though! Dad, of course, tells me I’m crazy and that I should stick with the standard fare of barm cakes and loaves of parkin that customers buy every week, but…’ Tom shrugged.
Callie totally got it. If he had to endure banishment to rural North Yorkshire, then he wanted to make an impact on the community’s taste buds, just like she did with her natural textiles and crafting sessions. Maybe there was a great deal to be learnt from this ginger-haired giant crouched over the table in front of her.
‘I was thinking of doing something new here, too. Like repainting the walls and the shelving, upgrading the stock, suggesting a more modern twist to the customers with the sample garments we display in the window.’ She grimaced as her gaze fell on the burnt-orange sweater draped limply over the adjacent chair like a wet flannel. Who could wear orange successfully? ‘Maybe even start with a few crafting sessions to bring in a new, younger clientele.’
‘But what’s the point, Callie? The village is floundering under the onslaught of the hypermarkets. Our high street is in intensive care now. At least you have the option of selling up and moving back to your life in London.’ He flashed his moss-green eyes at Callie in apology, clearly not wanting to seem disrespectful. ‘With the greatest of respect, once your aunt’s probate has been finalised you
can
sell up. Whereas I’m subjected to daily lectures from my increasingly frail father about what I’m doing wrong in the business and how I have three generations of bakers behind me to measure up to.
‘Sorry, Callie, but why bother? Why strive to put all your energy into a dying business when you don’t have to. We’ll all be slaving for the supermarket masters by the end of the year, working for minimum wage, watching the corporate fat cats drain all the creativity from our veins whilst we comply with their demands for homogenous loaves of bread and cream cakes the texture of polystyrene. The church congregation is flagging, youngsters are escaping to the city, small businesses teeter on the cliff of financial oblivion, like Wainwright’s the butcher’s did, like Greenwood’s the grocer’s has. Only the wealthy are beating a return path, buying up renovated weekend homes, bringing their supplies with them. We don’t have a hope of competing with that, so why are we flogging ourselves to death trying?’
Tom ran his chapped fingers over his hair and scratched at his auburn stubble. ‘Every morning except Sunday, I get up before five o’clock to prepare the dough for that day’s bread, to produce the repetitive fare the villagers of Allthorpe have come to expect from Wallington’s. If I had any spare time, which I don’t, I’d love to indulge my passion for hand-made chocolates, but that’s not what our customers want. One of my biggest fears is that I may be losing my culinary edge without the daily stretch of creativity to finely hone my skills.
‘And all this is before I limber up for the battle with the paperwork bureaucrats. I ask you, who needs the morning workout of kneading dough when I can flex my brain muscles in the eternal fight with suppliers, delivery guys, bankers, councillors who profess to have the small businessman in their thoughts, not to mention the spectre of the taxman. The government tells us we need daily exercise to avoid an early grave, but it’s the red tape that they throw at us that’s enough to give anyone a heart attack.’