Chapter Eighteen
The boutique is usually closed on Sundays, but this morning, I’m up at eight to fling open the windows and let the warm summer air in. The breeze whispers through the shop floor, ruffling the skirts of the display dresses and gracing my cheek with its gentle kiss.
Needing my daily dose of caffeine, I brew a pot of tea in the studio as I mentally prepare for Lucy’s final fitting. I could have waited until tomorrow, I suppose, but I’m so eager for her to see what I’ve done with her regency-esque gown, I told her to come round as soon as she could to try it on.
It’s funny, months ago - even weeks ago - I’d have never opened up on my day off for a friend, mostly because I didn’t have any. Sure, I had mates from my uni days who I’d meet up with sporadically for a night out when I was in the UK, or colleagues at Hélène Laport who I’d grab lunch with, but no one like Lucy. She’s caring and sweet and ever such fun, and though I’ve known her little under a month, it’s as if we’ve been besties for life.
Speak of the devil, here she comes!
At precisely ten o’clock, Lucy swans in, balancing an intriguing-looking box from The Cosy Little Tearoom and two take-out cups in her arms.
‘Hiya! Bought us coffees and a couple of raspberry-vanilla macaroons each.’ She clumsily drops the goodies onto my desk, and amazingly, doesn’t spill a drop.
‘Ah, you read my mind!’ Savouring the soothing warmth of the polystyrene in my palm, I get down to business. ‘So, ready for the final fitting?’
‘Ready and willing!’
The moment we step behind the curtain, Lucy doffs her clothes and with deft fingers, I fasten the gown, taking extra care with the fragile buttons. Once she’s in, I stand back to appraise the finished piece. It fits like a second skin, the empire waistline beautifully accentuating her svelte figure.
‘Oh Lottie,’ her breath catches as she runs her hands up and down the bodice. ‘It’s gorgeous!’
I have to agree, I’d even go as far as to say it’s some of my best work. The rounded neck is edged with ivory lace and the empire waistline, a hallmark of the era’s fashion, sits just below the bust, allowing the champagne skirt to pool effortlessly to the floor. The puffed sleeves, trimmed with the same delicate lace at the neck, add a charming youthful touch, as though Lucy is a debutante coming out into Regency society for the first time.
‘I’m so pleased you love it,’ I grin at my mate. ‘It looks stunning on you. If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed you’d walked straight out of one of your romance books.’
Pink with delight, Lucy looks over her shoulder and beams at me. ‘Aw, I don’t want to take it off, I wish I could wear this every day!’
‘Well, just think of how much better it will look when you have your hair and make-up done for the ball.’
‘You’re right,’ Lucy says, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Go on, then, let’s take it off and get it safely wrapped away.’
With a brisk nod, I step forward to assist her in undressing.
‘Well, at least that’s one satisfied customer for the books. I’m not having much luck with some of the others recently.’
‘Ah, let me guess - Zoe, or whatever her name is, is stirring up trouble once again?’
Fiddling with the fabric-covered buttons of the gown, I sigh. ‘I thought I was making good progress until her latest appointment came along. She didn’t like anything about the design I came up with, despite it matching the description she gave me exactly.’
‘Ugh, how annoying!’ Lucy moans on my behalf. ‘From what you’ve told me about her, she seems the sort to be difficult on purpose.’
‘I’m beginning to get that vibe, too.’
‘Woe betide her betrothed!’ Lucy giggles. ‘She’s marrying a local, isn’t she?’
I nod. ‘Kit Brooks.’
Lucy spins from the mirror to look at me. ‘That guy from the pie eating contest?’
Once again, I nod.
She almost looks impressed as she pivots back to her reflection. ‘Hm, lucky Zoe, he’s a fitty for sure.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
As the smirk blooms across Lucy’s lips, it dawns on me that I should have just kept my mouth shut.
‘Is that so?’
‘Mm-hm.’
Voice rife with suspicion, she peers at me in the mirror. ‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘What? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Don’t try and deny it! It’s written all over your face.’
‘Well, I guess you’re not as good at reading as you are writing, because I do not like Kit Brooks. If anything, I can’t stand him. He … irritates me.’
‘Oh, ho ho! That’s how it always starts.’ Lucy claps gleefully. ‘When Alex and I first met, he used to drive me bonkers. But I couldn’t hide how I felt forever, and sooner or later, you’ll find out you won’t be able to, either.’
‘Kit is getting married , Lucy!’ I throw my arms out fiercely, almost punching an unsuspecting mannequin in it’s blank face. ‘I’m not about to try and steal another woman’s fiancé, even if she is someone I hate, I’d never do that.’
‘I’m not suggesting that, either! Believe me, I have no time for homewreckers.’ Lucy shudders, as though the notion itself makes her come over all queasy. ‘I’m just saying it’s a shame he’s ended up with such a witch.’
‘Well, she may be a witch, but it’s none of my business.’ I falter. ‘Except of course, when it comes to the dress. That literally is my business.’
Once Lucy is back in her t-shirt and leggings, she wastes no time trying to get me to leave the boutique, grasping both my hands and tugging me after her.
‘Oh come on, you were supposed to be closed today anyway, right?’ Without waiting for an answer, she skitters over to the door and turns the Open sign to Closed . ‘Let’s go grab another coffee.’
Arm in arm, we stroll abreast down the street, chatting happily as we make our way to The Cosy Little Tearoom. I’ve never had the sort of friend I could link arms with and simply indulge in mindless gossip, not even as far back as school. In those days, I was neither popular nor unpopular, I was just Lottie - unremarkable, quiet, forgettable.
However, my reputation skyrocketed when I enrolled in university, I was the ‘French girl in London’ - exotic, effortlessly cool, though if they’d actually got to know me, they’d have discovered I’m the furthest thing from. It didn’t matter to my cohort though, I had a French accent, and that was enough to make me chic. It also helped that I was studying fashion design, and often hit the top of class.
But now, with Lucy and Victor and sweet young Tanya, it’s different, more authentic, somehow. For the first time, I feel as though my friends like me for me, warts and all.
Before too long, we’re stepping into The Cosy Little Tea Room, where we’re accosted by a friendly (and slightly slobbery) Puddles. Behind the counter, Rachel lifts an amused eyebrow in our direction.
‘You two need another caffeine fix already?’ she snorts as she picks up the silver cafetiere. ‘It’s only been an hour since you grabbed the last ones, Luce!’
‘Hey, less of the lip, more grinding of the beans.’ Lucy chuckles. ‘Two lavender lattes this time, Rach. And give us another plateful of macaroons, please!’
‘You got it.’
The two of us sit at the corner table that’s become our regular spot, and shortly after, Bill brings over our drinks and macaroons.
‘Here you are, ladies,’ he says as he carefully places the tray between us. ‘Enjoy!’
Clasping the blue-speckled mug in both hands, I lift it to my lips. The taste of earthy coffee and lavender mingled is a unique one, but I like it.
‘So, do you think Zoe will finally allow you to start making her dress next weekend?’ Lucy asks, inadvertently spraying macaroon crumbs everywhere.
‘I don’t know.’ Uncomfortable, I shift in my chair. ‘Honestly, I’m sick of talking about wedding dresses and brides. Tell me about what’s going on with you.’
Now it’s Lucy’s turn to shuffle awkwardly in her seat. ‘Hm, I’ve got nothing to report.’
‘Oh, come on! Your publishers are hosting a ball in your honour, Lucy. A ball! That’s not nothing.’
Her eyes settle uneasily on the mug before her, then flit to the window and back again. She doesn’t need to say a word, her anxious expression tells me that she wishes it were nothing.
‘You’re worried about it?’ I venture.
She hesitates a moment before confirming my theory with a nod of resignation.
‘It’s all moving so fast.’ She takes a shaky sip of her coffee before continuing. ‘I feel as though it’s all spiralling out of my control, and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down.’
‘But why would you want to?’ I stare at her, incredulous. ‘This is such a huge step in your career, you’re going to start getting real recognition. Why wouldn’t you want that?’
‘I do, and I don’t, all at the same time. It’s just … when I started making this a full-time career, I was happy with my lot. I loved what I wrote, I had a respectable pay package and a loyal readership and that was enough. But now …’
‘Now?’
‘Well, I’m kind of scared.’ She pushes her coffee mug aside. ‘Last year, a famous author came to Lily Vale, like really famous, and you should have seen the entourage he brought with him - security, PR people, assistants, the works. Not to mention the attention he got. It was very eye-opening, and it made me consider what I want out of my career, and I’m not sure I want all that. It’s too much for someone like me!’
‘But Lucy, this means your books are getting more popular, reaching a wider audience. That’s a good thing!’
‘I know, and I should be grateful - in many ways, I am. It’s just I’m afraid of what the future will hold once my books are pushed out even further. What if I get some awful reviews? What if I’m not good enough for the fame? What if -’
‘Hey, hey.’ I clasp her wringing hands in mine, and it works to hush her woes, at least temporarily. ‘You can spend days worrying about all the what-ifs, or you can just embrace what lies ahead and go with the flow. And as for not being good enough, well your publishers have faith in you, or they wouldn’t be organising this event. You should trust them, and trust in your skill.’
Lucy disentangles her hands and chases the crumbs on her plate with a finger, eyes cast thoughtfully toward the ceiling. Then, with a wane smile, she brings them to me.
‘Thanks Lottie. I really needed the pep talk.’
Satisfied, I lean back in my chair, and yet, there’s a niggle of uncertainty down in the depths of my stomach.
Now if only I could give myself a much-needed bolstering, too.