3. Briar
Briar
“ B riar?”
I glance back at my father. He’s leaning out of the car, the weather thankfully dry today. We’ve barely spoken since our argument – if you could even call it that – yesterday morning. He picked me up from work with silent disapproval that he kept up throughout dinner, until I excused myself for an early night whilst he went back to the office.
It’s becoming a habit.
There’s a hesitant smile on his face – a pacifying, small smile. “I don’t like being at odds with you.”
Then listen to me.
But I don’t like it either. My father is all I have. And I’m all that he has – a fact I have to keep reminding myself of when it feels like the walls are closing in on me.
He lost my mother. He doesn’t want to lose me too.
Papa glances past me, to the doorway. He sighs. “Everything will work out for the best.”
It’s the closest to an olive branch that he’ll get. Nodding, I step back, away from the open door. “Have a good day.”
He raises his hand. “I have court today. I might be late home. Henri will come for you at four.”
Henri will come when I call him. We’ve worked out our own arrangement over the years for when my father isn’t around. Not responding to my father’s words, I turn, hearing the Jag pull away as I search my pocket for the shop keys.
As soon as I’m inside, I can breathe .
The familiar scent of fabric fills my lungs, offering its own form of oxygen as I move around, flicking on the lights. The deep green walls are a far cry from the perfect white glitz of our townhouse. Mannequins line the wall to my right, each wearing one of my own designs.
I nod at some of them. “Hey, Flo. Merri.”
You really need to stop talking to the inanimate objects, Briar. It’s weird.
I also need to stop talking to myself, but I think I’d lose my mind in the silence. After hanging up my coat, I flick on the radio and the coffee machine in the corner – my one true love after my father gifted it to me as a not-so-obvious bribe to go to dinner with Philip – and get to work clearing out my tables. Scraps of fabric are collected and stored, needles carefully placed back in the cushions I keep for that purpose, a variety of shears, chalk and cutters all moved into their correct places.
Busy, busy, very busy.
Until I’m not.
Pursing my lips, I sink down into the comfortable pink chintz armchair, taking a deep gulp of my cooling coffee that hurts my throat and would definitely have my father and Philip frowning for unladylike behavior.
I have no appointments today. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Haven’t for a while, in fact.
Nobody wants handmade clothes anymore. Not when the internet offers quicker, cheaper options, delivered to their doorstep ready to wear instead of requiring appointments to get the fit just right. Even my regular clients have started slowly vanishing, leaving me reliant on ad-hoc seamstress work to keep the lights on.
It doesn’t help that this street is looking more run-down than it ever has.
In the silence, other thoughts begin to creep in. Thoughts that sound just like my father, and Philip, and their indulgent, patronising words.
It’s just a hobby. A lovely hobby, but hardly a career, darling.
You can’t possibly think this is enough to sustain a living, sweetheart.
Are you ever going to live in the real world, Briar?
Biting down on my lip, I squeeze my eyes closed and try to push them out.
This is all I have. My only opportunity to live my own life. Without this, I’ll be completely dependent on my father. And my savings are already depleting faster than I can top them up. My emergency fund – the fund I need to get out on my own - is slipping away.
If the store closes, I have no doubts that I’ll be married within months.
I have to find a way to make this work.
I have to.