Chapter Three
I’ve recently discovered that one of the best things about this village is the bread .
In Paris, fresh bread was like running water, you could cycle down to one of the many patisseries and pick up a loaf warm from the oven, along with a couple of pastries, for breakfast. When I moved to Gladeswood to live with Dad, all he had to offer was flimsy pre-sliced white bread and something the local supermarket called a French baguette, but it was seriously lacking.
Although I rented out the shop and adjoining flat in Lily Vale months ago, it’s only this last week that I realised there’s a bakery on the square that bakes bread fresh every day, so I’ve started treating myself to a crusty bun at lunchtime, and I’ll often pop into the deli for cheese and olives to accompany. It’s become a bit of a daily ritual, and on cue, my tummy begins to rumble the moment Jenkins’ Bakery comes into view.
As I stride through the door, I’m instantly greeted by the lush scent of baking bread, as well as Mr Jenkins, who offers me a big, toothy grin.
‘Why, it’s my favourite baguette connoisseur, Lottie!’ That’s another thing that took me by surprise about Lily Vale, the fact that everyone takes the time to learn - and remember - your name. ‘The usual, I presume?’
‘Hi, Mr Jenkins,’ I smile back as I approach the counter. ‘And yes, please!’
He drops a still-warm bun into a brown paper bag and hands it over with a flourish. ‘So, how’s business? I saw that you’ve officially opened this week.’
‘It’s going quite well, thank you. I’ve had a few orders placed already.’
‘Well, I’m sure there’s more to come.’ He winks. ‘If I have any likely-looking customers in need of a dress come in here, I’ll send them your way.’
‘Thanks, Mr Jenkins.’
Clutching my bag of baked loveliness, I dart across the street and amble down the lane back towards my boutique. The soft breeze rustles through the trees, gently twirling my brown hair in its grasp. Before I open the shop door, I drink in a big breath of fresh air, in silent prayer that today will be successful.
I have to make this work. I have nothing else. Gnawing at my lip, I turn the key in the lock until it clicks open. It’s not like Dad can afford to pay my rent for another three months, he’s done so much for me already …
It’s not as if I have anyone else I can call on for help, either. I have no friends here, and I certainly don’t have a man in my life to offer aid. Even the idea of that sets me giggling as I update my laptop’s calendar. To be quite honest, I’ve never really had a boyfriend, I didn’t stick around anywhere long enough to make that kind of a connection. Sure, I’ve been on dates, had fun with a guy for a couple of months, but nothing long-term. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to find love, but I’m forever too busy.
Besides, after what happened during New York Fashion Week nine months ago, I doubt I’ll ever trust anyone ago, friend or potential boyfriend.
Hours crawl by, and I have a grand total of zero customers. Fear swirls around in my gut like sickly water, forcing me to rush to the loo every half an hour, but I will myself not to panic. After all, it’s still early, perhaps someone will pop into the shop after they’ve finished work? Still, that’s a long time to wait, and I’ve nothing to do except work on Joanie’s dress, which is difficult, as the bolt of cerulean silk I need to complete the skirt isn’t due to be delivered until tomorrow.
Restless, I flip my sketchbook open and pick up a freshly sharpened pencil. I don’t give much thought to what I’m drawing, I simply allow my creativity to flow in a stream of consciousness. The pencil dances over the page, and I take solace in the satisfying sound of lead scraping against the grain of the paper.
Once I’m finished, I hold the sketchbook up to appraise my efforts. At first, I’m proud of the design - the soft fishtail skirt fans out in folds of satin, carefully shaded to appear ivory against the cream paper, the bodice adorned with pencilled-in lace. It’s a beautiful gown, the kind any bride might dream of donning on her special day.
But then Hélène’s voice rings in my ears, showering me with imagined scathing criticism.
With gritted teeth, I tear out the page and crumple it into a ball before tossing it into the waste paper bin at my side.
Maybe I really have lost my touch, maybe I truly am a hack, just like Hélène said I was. But if I’m not meant to be a designer, well then, what else am I supposed to do? This is all I’ve ever known, the career I’ve coveted and pursued ever since I was a small girl. And now I’ve got this bloody shop to run, it’s not as if I can give it all up and start again on a brand new path, whatever that might be …
Right in the middle of my crisis, a silver-permed woman rushes into the boutique. Flustered, I tuck my hair behind my ears and fight to regain some composure.
‘Welcome to Belle of the Ball.’ I stand up tall, my grin as bright and wide as I can stand to make it. ‘What can I do for you today?’
The woman doesn’t waste time with niceties and instead, gets straight to the point.
‘My nephew is getting married in September, and I heard that you do bespoke dresses? It’s for his bride, obviously, not him!’
My heart pounds beneath my blouse so insistently, I’m surprised it doesn’t burst through the cotton. My very first bridal client. Or at least, potential client - I have to impress her first.
‘Did - did you say September?’ I stutter. ‘As in, three months away?’
‘Oh dear, is that not enough time?’ Worry creases her brow. ‘It all happened quite quickly, I’m afraid.’
‘No, it’s fine!’ Hands shaking, I push my sketchbook aside and flick through the diary laid out across the desk. ‘Hm … I have an available appointment at ten o’clock tomorrow, if that works for her?’
She glances down at her phone, presumably checking her own calendar. ‘Hm, well the bride won’t be here until Sunday, but could I book that appointment for my niece? She needs a bridesmaid’s dress, you see. Tanya Brooks is her name. And if you could fit the bride in next weekend, that would be wonderful.’
As she leaves, I scribble the appointments down in my diary, feeling relieved that I’ve managed to secure an appointment, a bridal appointment, no less … but also sick with nerves.
It’s been a long time since I’ve worked on any sort of bridal wear - one whole year, in fact, which is an utter lifetime in the designing world. Every dress is important, whether it’s for a teenage girl to wear at her prom, or a bespoke gown to help someone like Joanie feel beautiful on a special cruise, but a wedding dress … that’s something else entirely. It’s the promise of a new chapter, a beginning, a pure white canvas on which to write the rest of your life’s story. Each dress is unique to a bride, and most importantly, it has to be perfect.
A shudder crawls up and down my spine as I repress those memories I’ve tried so hard to forget, but can’t.
It was a fortnight before New York Fashion Week, one of the most vital events in our calendar. Everything was planned down to the very last detail, the models were booked, the hair and make-up people were given the brief, and most importantly, the bridal collection was flawless. The jewel in the crown was the iconic Garden Gown, with its cascade of over two hundred roses sewn by hand onto the billowing skirt, it was to be worn with a huge fascinator crafted in iridescent organza and studded with tiny crystals of gold and silver.
I was the lead designer of the collection, and this was set to be the highlight of my career. Everything had been approved by Hélène Laport herself, she had personally congratulated me on my innovation and adherence to the brand’s meticulous vision. It was going to be the best fashion week yet.
After a long day at the studio, directing interns and making sure everyone who needed one had their itinerary, I headed out to a cocktail bar to catch up with my friend, Zoe Altham. We’d recently met at a networking event in Brooklyn, she was a designer for Emiliano Bianchi and we bonded over our love of couture and resentment for the long, stressful hours we put in for our art.
I spotted her instantly across the bar, perched on a stool at a small round stainless steel table. As I approached, she pushed a colourful cocktail toward me.
‘Thought you might need this.’
‘I certainly do!’ I took a big gulp instantly. ‘I’ve been working my arse off to get this collection finalised, and I think it’s finally perfect.’
‘The bridal one?’ Zoe leaned in, her eyes gleaming. ‘Tell me more.’
No sooner had I finished one cocktail, Zoe bought me another, then another, until my head felt like it was unscrewing. Everything spilled out then, the hair and make-up concepts our team had devised for the show, the floral motifs I’d spent months getting just right, and of course, the pièce de résistance, the Garden Gown. I even showed her my sketches - well, she was my friend , and I valued her opinion. Besides, I was more than a little tipsy, and my usual caginess around work had flown out of the window with my inhibitions.
After we said goodbye, I stumbled home to my hotel room, heels in my hand, the evening’s events washing away in a blur of pornstar martinis and crisp, night air.
Finally, fashion week arrived. It was all go, but I found a spare moment to sneak into the Emiliano Bianchi bridal showcase, wanting to support my friend. Hélène, of course, had a seat on the front row next to all the other fashion greats, but I was content to view from the back in the shadows.
Music blared from the speakers as models sashayed under the spotlight, and the first thing that struck me was how familiar the dresses looked. Too familiar, the cuts and adornments were sickeningly similar to the ones in our collection. My heart hammered beneath my rib cage, my throat grew dry, but it wasn’t until the finale that the true panic really set in.
There, in the middle of the runway, was the Garden Gown. My Garden Gown. Not an exact copy, but close enough, down to the silk roses that embellished the skirt to the puffy fascinator with the gold and silver jewels.
I nearly puked on the spot.
When I dared to glance at Hélène, she was white as the gowns, but then her face turned a queasy shade of purple rage.
It was too late to cancel the show, and how would that have looked in the press? We scrambled to remove and tack-on details that might make the dresses differ from what was just shown, though my mind was utterly void of ideas and I could hardly come up with a single decent addition. The make-up artists had to improvise with a more paired-down look than was planned, and the Garden Gown, the one I was so proud of, the grand finale of Hélène Laport’s bridal showcase, it was pulled from the show entirely.
You can guess what happened next.
Once I confessed that it was me who leaked the designs, I was fired on the spot, my name utterly blacklisted. I could have denied it, I suppose, but lies have a way of coming up to the surface. Besides, the guilt would have eaten me alive.
Sighing, I doodle absentmindedly across the open page in my diary. I knew when I opened this boutique that one day, I’d have to make wedding gowns, of course I did, but I didn’t expect to have to deal with it so soon. Prom dresses, formal attire, that I can handle, but bridalwear … well, I haven’t dared to so much as sketch anything ivory since the day I left Hélène Laport’s studio in disgrace, along with my haute couture dreams.
But now I have something to prove - although, I’m not sure I’m quite ready for the challenge.
It’s only when I glance down at my notes that I realise I forgot to ask the name of the bride.