Chapter Thirty-Six
Rosie had a lump in her throat as she began her last day at Pennewicks Clothing Emporium.
It had been her decision to leave, and she recognised she needed to move on, but as the last few hours sped past, she was assailed by doubts.
Was this really sensible? She had given up her college course to go back home.
Now, she was giving up a long-standing job to do exactly the same thing.
Did she always give up when things got difficult?
And would she be doing this now if it wasn’t for Connor?
Despite all her new resolutions embodied in her Magna Carta, which was firmly blu-tacked to the back of her bedroom door, she still thought about him.
Sometimes, when she woke in the middle of the night, the old Rosie would creep back, and then she would remember the Saturday cups of tea, the kiss that tasted of strawberry sweets, and the feel of his hands as they unzipped her dress and tenderly explored her body.
That dress held too many dangerous memories, but for some reason her new-found ruthlessness didn’t reach quite that far.
Not yet anyway. Very occasionally, she even allowed herself to imagine what her life might have been like if Connor had stayed, but come the morning, it was left to the new Rosie to remember that he had left her feeling foolish, unwanted and humiliated.
And no one was ever going to do that again.
Rosie smiled at all the customers, said her farewells to those whom she had come to know over the years, and after closing time, there was a brief gathering of the ladieswear department. A speech, a card, a gift token and a bouquet of flowers, and it was all over.
Emma was right. She did feel weird and strangely disjointed.
She was glad they were going out this evening to somewhere ordinary that had no associations, no connections with the past. Emma picked her up so she could have a drink, and as they sat in the Merry Horseman, perusing the paper menu with the unimaginative title of Pub Grub, Rosie was glad not to be alone.
Even at six o’clock, the pub was filling up fast with people celebrating the end of the working week, and they were lucky to find a table tucked in the corner away from the games machines and the noisy group at the bar.
‘So which of these culinary delights do you fancy?’ Emma asked. ‘I haven’t had a fish finger sandwich for years, but I quite fancy one now.’ She laughed. ‘I must be easily pleased. I’ll take up the orders and then I want to hear all about your last day as a retailer.’
There wasn’t much to tell really and as they ate, Rosie related the events of the day.
‘No going back now then,’ said Emma. ‘On with step three: Do something more creative. How’s that coming along, by the way? Did you get any responses to your advert?’
Rosie wrinkled her nose. ‘One person wanted a pair of trousers shortened last week, and I had a phone call enquiring about a price for taking in a skirt, but they obviously thought I was too expensive.’
It seemed somehow fitting that she had put her card in the same shop window in which she’d seen Connor’s advert, but the responses had been disappointing.
She pushed a chip around the plate with her fork.
‘I’m probably advertising in the wrong place, and people don’t want to pay for my time.
Am I mad, do you think? Chucking in a perfectly good job for’—she waved her fork around—‘goodness knows what.’
‘You didn’t feel fulfilled. And when you count it up, there’s an awful lot of life to fill.’
Rosie smiled. ‘That sounds like another of your mum’s sayings.’ She popped the last chip in her mouth. ‘So, I’m dying to know what it is you have to show me.’
Emma had messaged earlier in the day with a pick-up time and added a cryptic note about finding something interesting.
‘I’m still in two minds about this, okay? I don’t really want to show you, but I don’t want you to hear about it from someone else.’ Emma reached into her large handbag and pulled out a several sheets that looked like folded pages torn from a magazine.
‘I was tidying up, you see, last night at the salon, and a customer had brought in a few magazines for us. You know, those celebrity gossip mags. They were a couple of weeks old, but I thought I’d have a quick flick through them before I put them out on the table.
Anyway, then I saw it. Well, it was a big shock and my first thought was to throw it away, but then I thought someone else might see it and tell you, or show you—’
‘Show me what?’ asked Rosie impatiently.
‘—and then you’ll think I’m a heartless cow because I didn’t tell you about it, but I don’t want you to be upset.’
‘Emma, is this something to do with Connor?’ Without waiting for an answer, Rosie leaned across the table and grabbed the pages. It had to be him; she didn’t know anyone else who was remotely eligible to feature in a celebrity gossip magazine.
If she thought she would feel emotional seeing a photo of Connor, she was totally unprepared to see her own image smiling back at her.
And in that peacock tail dress, with her hair swept up, she looked quite unlike her normal, ordinary self.
In fact she looked…well, she looked glamorous, standing side by side with Connor Forbes at his photogenic best. For a brief second, it felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs and she couldn’t breathe.
She pressed her hand against her chest and closed her eyes.
‘Rosie, please don’t be angry with me, I didn’t know what to do. I was worried that someone else would tell you, or you’d find out some other way.’
‘I’m not angry.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know what I feel, but it’s not angry.’ She opened her eyes and looked again at the photo. She remembered it being taken, but had assumed it was a friend taking photos for Henrietta, not a photo journalist.
There were plenty of other pictures from Henrietta’s party, and she recognised several of the guests. She quickly scanned the article for more information:
…thirtieth birthday of The Honourable Henrietta Malbury…fiancé George Blakemore, city financier… Eclectic mix of guests reflecting her many interests… Connor Forbes, formerly partner to celebrity chef Bonnie Appleton…unknown dress designer…
Rosie looked up at Emma. ‘Did you read all of this?’
She grinned and nodded. ‘I’m so relieved you’re not cross. Actually, I’m dead jealous now. When you said he was taking you to a posh party, I didn’t think you meant like with real aristos and toffs.’
‘I didn’t realise she was a hon,’ said Rosie. ‘She seemed very down-to-earth really.’ She looked back at the pictures. ‘Look at all those gorgeous dresses.’
‘Gorgeous expensive dresses,’ added Emma. ‘And you do realise who this is referring to, don’t you?’ She tapped the page with a manicured fingernail. ‘This “unknown dress designer”?’
Rosie stared at her. ‘One of the guests, I assume.’
‘Rosie Steadman, that drink has gone to your head. It’s referring to you!’
‘Rubbish! Only one person asked what I did, and I said I worked at Pennewicks. I sell dresses, not design them. Well, I did until today; now I don’t do either.’ She folded up the paper. ‘Can I keep this?’
Emma smiled. ‘Course you can. Hey, you’re famous now. I’ll have to queue up for your autograph.’
‘Or you could just keep my birthday cards?’
Despite the fact Rosie tried to make light of the situation, seeing that photo of her and Connor together brought back a flurry of painful memories.
Later that evening in the privacy of her bedroom, she studied each of the photos again, allowing her gaze to linger on that one perfect photo, encapsulating one perfect evening.
She had seen many pictures of lavish parties in magazines before, but it felt different now she’d actually been to one.
Emma was right about all those expensive dresses.
They probably wouldn’t get worn again in case, heaven forfend, someone noticed it was the same dress and had been worn before.
This was her target market; people with large disposable incomes and large disposable wardrobes of clothes.
She simply needed to find someone with a social conscience and a correspondence address.