Chapter Lace
Lace
Beanie is squashed between The Owl and the Pussycat pub and a vintage shop called Thread.
It’s everything you expect from a Shoreditch coffee shop.
It’s painted white and has enough plants to save the ozone layer.
The menu is on a peg board, and there’s a display of Polaroid pictures of the baristas.
As a millennial, I am programmed to love these types of places.
So far, nobody here fits Woodstock’s brief of a stunning, tiny brunette who is impossible to miss, which means ‘Lace’ is officially late. Not very professional.
‘Regular latte for Amy,’ the barista yells out. He has one of those long, wiry beards a bird could happily nest in. I take the coffee and squeeze onto a crate between two guys tapping furiously on their laptops.
‘Excuse me. Can I take this seat?’ A pretty woman with brunette hair is in front of me, holding a mug. This must be her.
‘Are you Lace?’ I ask. She looks clueless. Maybe not. ‘Sorry, I’m waiting for someone. I need the chair. Sorry.’ The woman rolls her eyes and leaves. I understand her frustration, finding a seat in this city is no joke. Lace is now 21 minutes late.
‘She’s upstairs,’ says the man on the laptop beside me.
‘Excuse me?’ I ask.
‘Lace. I just heard you say her name. Her door is on the outside to the left, the black one. Make sure to press the buzzer five times. She won’t answer otherwise.’ He reads the confusion on my face. ‘She’s an oddball. Hot, but an oddball.’
With a groan, I leave the crate and go to the black door. The intercom has a single worn button. I hover my finger over it for a moment, and then press it five times. I wait and wait. I go to press it again, but then it clicks.
‘Hello?’ says a childlike voice.
‘It’s Amy. I was waiting for you in Beanie.’
There is a long pause. ‘Amy, did you say?’
‘Yes,’ I say, exasperated. ‘I’m here to have a wedding dress made. I’m Woodstock Brown’s stepsister, Amy Elman. My dad, Robert Elman, paid in full over the phone.’
‘Woodstock . . . Woodstock . . . Oh . . . Woody. Right . . .’
‘Sh-shall I come in then? Hello? Hello?’ I try the door, but it’s still locked. I press the buzzer again and again.
‘Stop pressing that bloody buzzer!’ yells a plummy male voice from the other side.
A second later, the door swings open, and a 30-something man with pokey eyes and thick blond hair that flops up and over his head stands in front of me.
He looks pained. ‘God. Are you trying to torture us with that thing?’ he says, rubbing his ear.
Despite his deep voice, he is very angelic.
I can imagine he would have been chosen as the angel in the school nativity when he was a kid.
‘Um. Sorry. Is Lace . . .?’
‘Yes. Yes. Come in,’ he says, making it clear I’m an inconvenience.
Does he know I’m a paying customer? I step under his arm and wait for further instructions.
He tuts impatiently. ‘Go right to the top. Her room is the one with Lace written on it.’ He walks out the door and lets it slam behind him.
I stomp up the stairs. I need to get this over and done with so I can get back to the comfort of my home.
As promised, on the door, in huge red curly font, is the word ‘Lace’. I shut my eyes and knock.
‘Yes, doll. Come in,’ the dainty voice says.
I put my head around and then step inside.
The first thing I notice is the sweet, artificial rose scent and the opera music playing softly in the background.
The second thing is the mess. The room is packed full of dressed-up mannequins, and fabric scraps are all over the floor.
A tiny brunette is in the corner with her back to me, sticking pins into a pink-tie-dye medieval dress.
‘Can you believe it?’ she says, without turning from the mannequin.
Seventies Robin Hood, you couldn’t write it.
Well, you could. He did, but you shouldn’t.
’ She plays with the netted skirt in her fingers.
‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a real sweetie, but drowning in acid.
So sad. Now . . .’ She turns around, and I step back.
Lace is beautiful. Her mouth and honey-coloured eyes are oversized in an almost cartoon way.
Her thick, dark hair drapes down the back of her tiny frame.
She is chewing on her full lip, and I realise that she is examining me as much as I am examining her.
She suddenly swirls one finger and says, ‘Do a 360, please.’
‘What?’
‘Turn,’ she orders. I turn slowly with all my muscles clenched. She then approaches me, and I see the faint freckles hidden beneath a thin layer of foundation. ‘What’s the costume again?’ I let her lift my arms to a ‘T’ shape.
‘It’s not a costume. It’s my wedding dress.’
‘Oh, doll, a wedding dress is the ultimate costume.’ She slips a measuring tape out of her back pocket. ‘Now, do stand tall.’ She measures me from head to toe, then wraps the tape around my chest. ‘Relax, won’t you?’ I breathe out and she is around my hips with the tape. ‘Who’s the husband-to-be?’
‘Erm, Josh.’
‘Josh . . .?’
‘Butters.’
‘Amy Butters. Amy Butters.’ She repeats it as if she is learning a new word.
‘Amy Butters, you’re as tense as they come.
’ She scans me up and down and smiles. ‘Yes. High neck, fine lace and a long trail. The brightest of white, of course.’ She walks over to the cabinet of drawers and lifts a half-empty bottle of wine from a pile of magazines. ‘Drink?’
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I was going to wear my mum’s wedding dress, but my dad has obviously paid you to make me one, which is great. But I had an idea that we could recreate my mum’s original dress. You know, keep them both happy. I can show you what I mean.’ I take out my phone.
‘Bitterly divorced parents?’ Lace asks.
‘How do you know?’
‘Just a hunch. Here.’ She holds up a huge glass of red for me to take. I’m not a red wine drinker at the best of times, let alone early afternoon on its own without cheese or steak.
‘Sorry, I’m not much of a day drinker.’
‘Please hold it. My hand is tired,’ she moans.
So, I mindlessly do. She sits on the tatty red velvet seat by the window, crossing one sparrow leg over the other.
‘Why don’t you relax, Amy Butters?’ She points to the French daybed.
It has a swirly, rusty frame and is covered in different pieces of denim.
I perch on the edge, and there is a loud screech.
‘What the fu—!’ I shout, jumping up.
A giant grey cat dashes out from underneath me.
‘Oh, poor Pep,’ Lace says. ‘I forgot about Peppy.’
‘You forgot you had a cat?’
‘Technically, he or she is not mine.’ She looks sad. The cat sits under a mannequin and gives me daggers. I check for any more hidden animals before settling back down.
‘Whose cat is it then?’
‘Nobody important,’ Lace says, brushing the question away. ‘Anyway, how long have you been with Josh then?’
‘Erm, like . . . 10 years I think.’
‘Ten years,’ she shrieks. ‘Why ever for?’
‘Because we haven’t broken up.’ She giggles condescendingly, and it grinds on me a tad. ‘Shall I show you the photos of Mum’s dress then?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘You’re going to have your own dress, Amy.’
‘But I want my mum’s.’
‘Perhaps that’s what you want, but not what you need.’
‘But I am paying—’
‘Shh.’ She stands straight to attention.
I then hear that the buzzer is being rung from downstairs.
I can see why the preppy man was so tense with me.
It’s an awful sound from the inside. Lace is counting something on her fingers, and I realise it’s the number of buzzes.
‘3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . 7 . . . 8 . . . 9 . . . 10 . . . 11 . . . 12.’ She closes her eyes. ‘Oh, the bastard.’
‘What’s happening?’ I ask. She scutters towards me and cups her hand over my ear like we’re friends in primary school.
She begins to whisper. ‘You need to tell the gentleman downstairs that I’m not here. Tell him I’m not going to be back for a long time. Tell him I’m in Hawaii or Newfoundland or the North Pole. Wherever. I’m just not here, okay?’ The buzzer stops and then starts again.
‘What? Newfoundland?’
‘It’s in Canada.’
‘I know that. Who is he? What does he want?’ She begins to usher me up from the bed. ‘Is he dangerous?’
Lace giggles. ‘No, poor Ian. No, now, please.’ She looks at me pleadingly.
I open my mouth to say something. ‘Please.’ She clasps her hands in prayer.
The last time I saw someone look so desperate was Linda Butters when she was emotionally blackmailing me to do this wedding.
I breathe out in surrender and go to the studio door.
‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. And, oh, before I forget, you’ve never seen a cat, okay? ’ she says.
‘But I have seen a cat!’ I argue. She clasps her hands in prayer again.
‘Please, Amy. I won’t ask you for any more favours after this.’
As I make my way downstairs, the buzzer carries on in sets of 12.
Am I being set up here? Am I going to be on one of those Candid Camera shows to give the nation a jolly good laugh?
I hope not. But what if this is real? What if this Ian is dangerous?
What happens if he has a knife? The buzzer starts again.
The sound of it by the front door is horrendous.
BUZZ . . . BUZZ . . . BUZZ. Oh, here goes nothing.
I open the door a smidge. On the other side is a balding, 40-something-year-old man with watery, dark eyes.
He’s in a creased grey suit and has ungroomed stubble across his face.
The man is quite obviously having a bad time of it.
‘Is she here?’ he cries. ‘Say she’s here.’
I hesitate and then say, ‘She’s away. Newfoundland.’
‘Newfoundland?’
‘It’s in Canada.’
‘I know where Newfoundland is,’ he huffs. ‘When will she be back? Will she be back soon? I need her. Tell her Ian needs to see her.’