Chapter Two
At half past six, I flip the sign on the door over to indicate that Belle of the Ball is closed for the day. With a sigh of relief, I languidly sweep the floor and smooth down the dresses on display as I ruminate over the last eight hours. I’ve had several window shoppers, five inquiries and one commission. All in all, I’d say that’s not bad going for day one.
I still can’t quite believe I’m here. A year ago, my life looked very different - I was working for a Parisian fashion house, designing red carpet-worthy gowns for some of the biggest stars in the world. Then one little mistake cost me everything. How did I mess it up so badly?
Groaning, I leave the mop resting against the wall and trudge up the stairs to my flat, where I shoulder open the creaky door. Pale brown waves tumble down my back as I shake my hair out of its topknot and stand by the large, misted-up window in the living room. Despite the fact it’s almost summer, the sky has turned depressingly grey and those clouds off in the distance seem to beckon the promise of rain.
‘Bloody English weather.’ I press my nose against the cool glass. ‘Let me add that to the long list of reasons why I cannot stand it here!’
Well, that’s not true, not really , and it’s not as if I wasn’t prepared for the dreariness, after all, England is a second home to me. I was actually born here, but I’ve been hopping between the two countries my entire life. After my parents split when I was five, Mama whisked me away to her homeland faster than I could click my fingers. What ensued next was a lengthy, bitter custody battle that I was too young to understand, but it ended in me living with Mama in our central Paris flat, only seeing Dad on the sparse weekends he could afford to visit.
It was agony being so far from my father, but part of the custody agreement meant I got to enjoy rainy British summers with him, the entire summer holiday. Although the weather was hit and miss, I adored those precious six weeks together, just Dad and I. When September came around and I had to return to France for school in the autumn, I’d cry like a baby. Leaving Dad was the worst, and it never got easier.
When I turned eighteen, I hopped aboard the Eurostar to the UK, all set to study at the prestigious London College of Fashion. My uni years were great, I made a ton of friends and partied as hard as I worked. Living in a smelly, rundown student house was quite an experience, to say the least, but one I cherish looking back.
These days, I only see those friends through my phone screen, smiling in perfectly curated pictures for social media. Even so, I remember those times fondly.
After graduating, I stayed in London for a couple more years, gaining all the industry experience I could before I felt brave enough to return home and tackle the fashion capital of the world. Fast forward two more years, and I was interviewed by Hélène Laport herself for the position of Senior Designer in Womenswear.
It was my dream job, and though it was hard graft and long hours, I relished every second of it. I sacrificed everything, my social life, my money, even my mental and physical health, to get where I got, and now it’s gone.
Sighing, I search through the freezer and dig out a ready meal for one. Tonight’s fare is a rather sorry-looking four-cheese ravioli - yum . After peeling off the film, I stuff the dish into the microwave and set it to heat for seven minutes, while I ponder my current state of affairs. I suppose I shouldn’t moan, I mean, I’m a business owner now, that’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Sure, Belle of the Ball is no Chanel , nor is it Haus of Hélène, but it’s mine, and that’s what matters.
Thank goodness for Dad, if he hadn’t offered me my old room in his cosy terraced house in Gladeswood, who knows where I’d have ended up. It hurt catching that flight back to Blighty, after I got the job at Haus of Hélène, I vowed never to return - well, bar visiting my dad, of course. But I needed comfort, somewhere safe to lick my wounds and allow me a break from the rising cost of rent.
A loud, buzz coming from the kitchen countertop has me leaping straight out of my skin and scanning the flat for intruders- until I realise it’s just my mobile vibrating. My mood brightens as I pick it up and check the screen to see who the call is from.
Speak of the devil!
Grinning, I press the button to answer the call. ‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Lottie-Lou!’ My dad's cheerful voice on the other end of the line lifts my heart. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m doing okay, it’s been quite a tiring day, but other than that, I’m fine.’
‘So, how’s everything going?’ Dad asks eagerly, getting straight to the point. ‘Is the shop doing well?’
‘It really is,’ I tell him earnestly. ‘I was worried that I wouldn’t get many customers out here in the sticks, but I’ve had loads of interest already, and I’ve only been open a day! I’ve even had someone place an order.’
‘That’s wonderful news, pet! I’m so proud of you. We all are.’
I grimace at the phone, and yet, I hold my tongue on a scathing comment. I doubt Mama is singing my praises, she’ll be far too busy complaining to whoever will listen about me ‘leaving her’, never mind that she never popped round when I lived just a twenty-minute drive from her in Paris. Our relationship is rocky, always has been, but at least I have Dad’s support. It’s strange, although he lived in a different country during most of my childhood, I’ve always had a deeper connection to him than the mother I shared a two-bedroom flat with.
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’ I can’t help but let a little poison escape from my lips, and I have to wrestle to keep the rest of it inside. Tapping my fingers against the countertops, I swiftly change the subject. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to come down to Lily Vale? I’d love to show you what I’ve done with the shop.’
‘Well, work is quite busy at the moment, but when the summer holiday comes around, I’ll be free as a bird! I can’t wait to see your new flat, too. You’ll invite me to stay, I presume?’
‘Erm, yeah of course,’ I mumble into the receiver as I look around said flat.
I’ve spent all my efforts - and money - on renovating the dress shop and studio, so the pokey little flat above it still looks just as naff as it was when I first turned the key in the lock. The popcorn walls are still painted a sad dirty magnolia, the carpets are worn and discoloured, and there’s a musty smell wafting throughout that I just haven’t had time to get rid of yet. As for the spare bedroom, well, it doesn’t even have a bed yet, so poor Dad will be crashing on the sofa at this rate, and I’m not sure his back could take that.
Still, I have at least a month to get everything sorted, as a secondary school teacher, my dad enjoys the privilege of school holidays, though he often spends them creating lesson plans and going through his students’ homework.
‘And … you don’t miss Paris at all?’ There’s a wary tone to his query, as if he’s worried about setting me off.
Of course I miss it. The effortless street style of fashionable passersby, the perpetual excitement in the air, the feeling that you were part of something bigger than yourself. No matter what day of the week, there was always something going on - some party, some art opening, some event that might just be life-changing to attend, it was never dull in Paris.
But I couldn’t stay there. Not after everything that happened. After I left Haus of Hélène in disgrace, I couldn’t afford my rent any longer, and jobs for a seamstress were scarce, especially for one who’d been essentially blacklisted. My only option was to flee the country - or at least, it felt that way - and stay with Dad in the small town of Gladeswood for a while, just while I figured out my next step. Then, of course, I came across the newspaper listing for a commercial property for rent in a little-known village called Lily Vale, and nine months later, here I am.
‘No.’ I tell him firmly. ‘In fact, I think I’m really going to like the village life.’
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. I’m a city girl through and through, even the times I’ve visited Dad and the British side of my family, we’d shop around Gladeswood or take the train to London to see a show. This sleepy little village is a world away from everything I’ve ever known, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to it.
Beep-beep-beep!
The microwave’s ear-piercing interruption alerts me that my sumptuous repast is ready to be served.
‘Oh, I’ve got to go Dad, I’m about to eat dinner.’
‘No problem, sweetheart. What are you having?’
I open the microwave and frown as a wet puff of steam reveals the sloppy mess. ‘Erm, ravioli.’
‘Sounds delicious!’ I know he’s thinking of the tasty, wholesome meals he cooked from scratch while I lived with him. I could go for his famous spaghetti bolognese right about now! ‘Well, let’s speak soon, Lottie-Lou, yeah? Bye for now!’
‘Speak soon, Dad.’
The flat is terribly quiet once I’ve put the phone down. Gingerly, I pick up my dinner and head toward the second-hand sofa in the small area that is supposedly my living room.
I stuff a forkful of ravioli into my mouth and end up burning my tongue. Grumbling, I drop the bowl on the coffee table and reach into the handbag at my feet. I have to rifle through receipts and empty sweet wrappers before I unearth my sketchbook, and then I start working on Joanie’s holiday dress. Carefully, I shade in soft blues and add silver highlights, embellishing the bodice with pencilled diamantés.
I was afraid my skills might have been washed away after everything that happened with Haus of Hélène, but to my great relief, it seems as though I’ve still got it.
Still, it’s going to be hard to forget Hélène’s furious face, the words she spat at me like poison.
In all my years, I’ve never had an employee do something so dreadful! The devastating critique rings in my ears, as loud and cutting as it was all those months ago. You’ll never work in this town again!
Well, she was right about that, I’m now working in a little village, the sort you might find in a child’s storybook. For some, this would be a fairy tale come to life, running a business in a beautiful little British hamlet.
But … is it my dream? I don’t think it is.
I suppose that sounds ungrateful, doesn’t it? So many people would kill to be in my position, but still, my heart is heavy in my chest. The thing is, once you’ve had a taste of a dream, the tantalizing, fleeting promise of your every wish coming true, it’s nigh on impossible for anything else to compare. I had it all in my grasp, and it slipped through my careless fingers like sand.
I’m lucky, I know I am, how many other fashion graduates can say they own a dress shop? And yet, as I look around my dull little flat and glance down at the sketchbook in my lap, I don’t feel lucky at all.