Authors: Daisy James
Theo!
‘Can we talk?’ Theo asked.
Callie nodded, snatched her jacket from the hook by the door and followed Theo out of the shop, leaving Seb and Delia watching them like a pair of gobsmacked goldfish.
It was a mild night for early May. They sauntered down the high street, a soft breeze licking at the eaves and lifting Callie’s overlong fringe from her eyelashes. The moonlight glanced against the shop fronts and lit up their path.
Neither spoke. Callie was relieved as her throat was so tightly constricted that any reply would have come out as a squeak worthy of Tweetie Pie. Theo’s proximity had sent her heart into a frenzy of unfathomable emotions. They reached the churchyard and paused at the lynch gate where the clematis wound its sinewy stems up the wooden posts to the slated roof.
‘Remember when we used to frighten ourselves stupid playing hide-and-seek in the graveyard?’ said Theo.
‘I do.’
‘Remember when Seb dressed up as a ghost and you threw a rock at him? He’s still got that scar in the middle of his forehead.’
‘Served him right,’ Callie smirked, chancing a glance from beneath her fringe at Theo. ‘Have you been pruning the rose bush we planted for Mum and Dad?’
Theo nodded, staring through the darkness towards the plot where Callie’s parents were laid to rest.
‘Thanks.’
‘We loved them, too, Callie. Seb, Dominic, me. It was the least I could do whilst you were… away.’
‘I should have come back more often. I should have spent more time with Aunt Hannah before she…’
Theo lifted Callie up onto the moss-covered stone wall and jumped up next to her, studying his fingernails.
‘I told her it was my fault. If she had to blame anyone then it had to be me.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Theo. If anything it was me who jumped to hasty conclusions. Always reacting before thinking, that’s what Aunt Hannah used to say. She was right. Why do things have to be so difficult?’ Tears slid down her cheeks.
‘They don’t have to be, Cal. You could come back home, run Gingerberry…’
‘I can’t. I love my life in London. I adore the buzz, the nightlife, the people, even the traffic! And I love my boutique. It’s the culmination of all my dreams from as far back as I can remember, you know that, Theo. You were there. But now I’m back here, it feels like this is where my heart truly is.’
Callie couldn’t look at Theo but she knew he was staring at her. It felt like the last three years had slipped into oblivion; that they had simply been apart for the weekend and were now back together. They had so much shared history, so many mutual friends and experiences. ‘A girl can’t have everything, though.’
‘Even when I’m on stage playing to thousands of fans, all screaming my name, asking for one more song, you know what I’m thinking? When can I jump on that plane and fly back home to Allthorpe? Mum and Dad despair of ever getting rid of me. They’ve even taken to leaving estate agents’ sales particulars lying around the house where I can find them. But do you know what? Every one of those glossy brochures is for houses within a ten-mile radius of home.
‘This is where my heart is, Cal, where it will always be. No matter how far I travel, or how successful the band becomes, I will always come back home. And I think you feel the same way. You’ve just been in denial these last three years.’
Callie met Theo’s eyes at last and almost fell from her perch on the wall. Her breath quickened and longing flashed through her veins and sparkled out to her fingertips. This was her Theo, the man she had given her heart to when she was a teenager and who had refused to let her have it back. He was the first boy she’d kissed and, she realised with a smile, his picture was still sellotaped on that ridiculous wedding scrap box she and Nessa had made all those years ago. She still had it, hidden under her bed. She wondered if Nessa had kept hers and whether Robbie Williams’ picture was still pasted on the lid, or whether a new photo had taken its place.
‘Look…’ Theo jumped down from the wall and turned to look Callie in the eyes. He reached into the inside pocket of his black denim jacket and produced a pair of tickets. ‘I’ve brought you these. They’re tickets for a gig The Razorclaws are doing in London. It’s the last one before Finn’s wedding so it’s more of a rehearsal, really. Just a few members of the official fan club, and friends and family members of the band and our management team. Come, please. Bring a friend?’
Theo’s silver eyes held a question but she looked away.
‘We’re expecting about two hundred people. Tickets are like gold dust. I want you there this time, Callie. I want to see your face in the audience. I need to hear your feedback on one of the songs I’ve written. It’s the forerunner of the song I’ve composed for Finn and Lilac’s wedding celebrations and it’ll be the first time it’s been performed in public, even though I wrote it years ago. I think you’ll like it.’
Theo pressed the tickets into her hands and curled his fingers around hers. She looked down at their entwined hands. It felt so easy and natural to be this close to Theo. She knew every contour of his handsome face, every curve of his muscular, slender body. She had to fight the urge to run her fingers through his spiky sandy hair. Her nostrils prickled as a whiff of his citrusy cologne rose up and sent her emotions zooming back to her past.
‘Did you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t run out that night?’
‘I had to get away, Theo,’ she whispered. ‘The image of you with that girl on your lap, her arms wound round your neck like a lioness protecting her cub, has remained branded on my soul ever since.’
Theo looked like he was going to say something straight back but he refrained.
‘You’ve done so well. Callie-Louise is a fabulous success. I’m proud of you, Cal. I’m sorry that this happened to us. If I could turn back the clock…’
‘I know.’
Theo’s mouth was inches away now, his eyes locked on hers.
‘Can’t we…’
He lowered his head, his breath warm on her cheek. Ripples of desire flooded her veins and heat surged through her body as his lips brushed hers and then touched at her ear lobe. She closed her eyes, allowing every one of her senses to sparkle with pleasure. His mouth moved back towards hers and their lips almost joined.
‘No, sorry, Theo, I can’t do this!’
Callie leapt down from the wall, grazing her knuckles on the stone. What the hell was she doing? Nothing had changed. Theo was still the lead singer in one of the most famous bands of the moment and she had a boutique to run in London. Why was she even considering opening up old wounds that had taken so long to heal, if indeed they ever had? Hadn’t she been hurt enough? Did she
want
to put herself through that agony again?
She stepped away but held his eyes, pausing long enough to see the confusion and hurt reflected deep within. Then she ran, ran as if her life depended on it, tears flowing down her cheeks, her heart breaking in two.
Callie sat at the mahogany table practising the new stitch that she would be demonstrating to the Cupcakes & Couture ladies at their next 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 last 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 Callie, who had been dressing her Barbie dolls 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 it
was
only temporarily; and now she found herself skulking in Yorkshire, compelled to manage a high-street 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 was exquisite and she was certain there would be a market for it in her boutique in Pimlico 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 lace-making, 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 a Yorkshire woman, 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 two 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, Callie 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 Allthorpe; the community and their unerring support of her and of Gingerberry Yarns.
The bell jangled and Callie raised her eyes to the door.
Nessa.
It seemed she had arrived early to commence a one-woman crusade to reboot Callie’s love life, conveniently brushing aside Callie’s arguments that she wasn’t interested as she was only back in Allthorpe temporarily.
‘Look, Nessa, stop nagging, will you?’
‘Callie, I’ve spoken to Seb, and Archie confirms it, too. Theo 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 Theo for years until… Well, I’m not in the slightest bit interested in what Theo chooses to do with his life. Stop matchmaking! And anyway’ – Callie 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 ripples around my…’
‘Okay, okay, sorry I asked.’
‘Callie, life is short and there’s a goody bag of guys out there with whom to share the journey. Come on, why not let Dominic set you up with his friend Fraser? He’s single, he lives in Paris. What better place for a fashion designer to call her base?’
‘Nessa…’ Callie paused in her task of laying out the bamboo 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.
Callie 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 neon-pink throw. 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 décor, maybe improve 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 Allthorpe High Street, but Callie 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.