Chapter Six
I rise from the comfort of my soft bed two hours earlier than usual on Saturday. I need to be prepared for the bride, I’ve been wracked with nerves all week. Everything has to be perfect, this appointment could make or break my new-found career.
A pale pink cardigan wrapped around me tight, I head out into the street to grab a few essentials. I forgo the usual bread from Mr Jenkins’ bakery and instead, pick up a box of coconut macaroons I ordered from The Cosy Little Tearoom especially for the occasion. I thought having something sweet to offer the bride would be a nice touch, after all, who doesn’t love a little treat?
On the way back to the boutique, I make a detour to the local florist and purchase a fragrant bunch of pink freesias, along with a green-tinted glass vase.
‘Ooh, who are these for, then?’ Sarah, the woman behind the counter asks.
‘No one, unless my boutique counts as a person,’ I snicker at my lame little joke. ‘I’ve got a bride coming in later and I want to impress her.’
‘Well, good luck.’ She passes me the bubble-wrapped vase. ‘I’m sure these will do the trick.’
I thank her and speed run back to the boutique, where I switch on the lights and proceed to tidy the already pristine shop floor.
Scented candles flicker around the room, only serving to worsen my headache. I wonder whether the bride will like my designs? I wonder whether she’ll like me? After all, it’s important to foster a good relationship with a client, even more so when you’re creating their dream wedding dress. They have to be able to trust you with their vision, or allow you to help them build one if they have no idea what they want, which is often the case, since there are so many options.
I’m gnawing my thumbnail down to the quick when the door swings open so suddenly, it crashes into the wall. A woman sashays into the store, her ice-blonde curls windswept across a sun-kissed cheek.
‘God, it took forever to find a good parking space!’ She pushes her hair from her face and stares at me, her green eyes wide. A lilting laugh bursts through her lips and a huge false grin breaks out across them. ‘Oh my God, Lottie! It’s you!’
It’s as if I’m frozen to the spot. My heart stops beating, my breath catches in my throat.
Zoe.
I must be dreaming, there’s no way my old friend, my fake friend Zoe Altham is here, in Lily Vale, in my boutique!
I blink once, twice, but she doesn’t disappear. Nope, she stays put, her wolfish glare bearing down upon me.
‘Hi, Zoe,’ I reply through clenched teeth. ‘It’s … well, it’s been a while. W-What are you doing here?’
‘Well, Kit - my fiancé - lives in the village, and his aunt recommended this little …’ She wrinkles her nose, vaguely gesturing around. ‘Shop . So, I thought I’d come down and give it a try. But I had no idea you worked here!’
‘I own it, actually.’ I stifle a small smirk of satisfaction and resolve to put my professional hat on. ‘So, Zoe, I assume you have a good idea of what you like?’
‘Oh, well you know me, Lottie,’ she laughs heartily. ‘Anything with a cathedral train and a floral motif, and I’m in.’
The wink only lasts a second, as does the sneer, yet it cuts me to the core. I know what she’s getting at, trying to remind me of the design she stole from me and took to her bosses at Emiliano Bianchi.
My trembling hands balled into fists, I brave a smile. ‘Well, let’s get started then, shall we?’
Desperate to maintain composure, I open my sketchbook and ask Zoe questions, the sort I’d ask any client. What sort of length do you envision, what colour, buttons or corset, that sort of thing, and she parrots off her answers with the precision you could expect from a practised fashion designer.
This should be the easiest appointment in the world, she’s feeding the answers to me, and yet … I draw a blank. My mind’s eye is blinded and I can’t conjure up anything - nothing that will look good, anyway. I don’t get it, this is my gift, I’ve always been able to imagine the perfect dress for a client, no matter what the occasion. This hasn’t happened since - well, since the last time it happened, backstage at New York Fashion Week when I had to scramble to make changes to the collection. And that last time partially resulted in me losing my job.
Desperate to disguise my anxiety, I place down my pencil and lace my fingers together, if only to keep myself from twiddling them.
‘Tell you what, leave all this with me and I’ll have a preliminary design sketched up within the week, how does that sound?’
A perfectly styled eyebrow lifts toward Zoe’s hairline. ‘Well, I had hoped you’d be able to show me something today. I have to say, I expected better from you, Lottie. You and I both know what beautiful designs you’re capable of.’
I wrestle to keep my cool, which is no easy feat, since my blood is boiling beneath my skin. ‘Trust me, it will be worth it.’
‘I do hope so. God, we have so much catching up to do!’
I gawk at her, incredulous. Does she not recall how she supplied me with cocktails, loosening my tongue so I spilt all of Hélène Laport’s carefully guarded secrets two weeks before the bridal collection was due to show on the runway? Of course she remembers, that wicked gleam in her eyes makes that clear, she’s just banking on me being too polite and awkward to mention anything.
And I don’t.
Finally, she gets up to leave, not before taking the entire box of macaroons with her.
‘What a lovely gesture!’ she comments through a mouthful. ‘Honestly, it’s been so nice seeing you, Lottie. I can’t believe you’ll be making my wedding dress - well, as long as the design is up to scratch, that is.’
I shake my head, the bizarreness of this situation has got me rattled. ‘Nor can I.’
Zoe waggles her fingers at me in a silly little wave as she saunters out of the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts spiralling out of control.
What just happened ?
Did I really agree to make a wedding dress for my mortal enemy, the woman who destroyed my hopes and dreams, all in one drunken night? She sabotaged my career just so she could get ahead in hers, she befriended me so she could steal secrets and designs that had been in the works for months. I should outright refuse her custom, tell her that her money is no good here. No, better than that, I should make her the most hideous dress known to man.
But that would only prove her right, and if I turned her away, she’d know just how much her stunt took from me, because it was so much more than my job that I lost that day. It was my confidence, my passion, my talent.
No. I can’t let her do that. I’ve got to be the bigger person and treat her like I would any other client.
However, something tells me that is going to be much easier said than done …