Chapter Twenty Seven
My long-awaited day off starts with the early rumblings of a migraine and an aching heart.
After discovering the fridge contains nothing but a knob of cheese, a half-eaten bar of chocolate and some questionable milk, I resign myself to the fact that it’s probably time I did some shopping. Every evening for the past fortnight, I’ve been working late, which means dinners have consisted of beans on toast and a couple of takeaways when switching on the microwave seemed just too much effort. I should probably try to eat a vegetable this week.
Sleepily, I splash my face with water, pull on yesterday’s outfit, (which is still crumpled on the bedroom floor), and head out the door, listlessly swinging a canvas shopping bag in my hand.
There’s not much on offer at the local shop and I browse the aisles with little interest. Once I’ve picked out the bare essentials, a bored teenager scans the items through the till and sends me on my way without so much as a hello or so long.
I take the scenic route home and stroll through the park. It’ll add five minutes to the journey, but I could do with the fresh air. Just as I’m passing the duck pond, I notice Victor partaking in his morning constitutional, and he flaps his arms in my direction.
‘Why, if it isn’t Lily Vale’s premier fashion designer!’ He sketches a theatrical bow before me. ‘Hello, Lottie.’
Though my energy levels are dwindling, I manage to titter weakly. ‘Hi, Victor.’
‘Is something the matter?’ His brow furrows and he comes a little closer, as if to examine me. ‘You don’t seem quite yourself today.’
‘I don’t feel myself.’
‘Well, they do say a problem shared is a problem halved.’
Toeing the ground, I mumble an incoherent refusal. I don’t want to burden Victor with my woes, and yet when I look up from the dew-beaded grass, the soft twinkle in his eye and the gentle curve of his commiserative smile encourages me to share.
‘I think I’ve royally messed up, Victor,’ I let it out with a sigh.
He clucks his tongue. ‘Oh, surely it can’t be that bad?’
‘No, it’s worse. I lost a bridal client last week, and I’ve been on a downward spiral ever since.’
‘Oh dear!’ Victor tuts in sympathy. ‘Well, Lucy showed me the dress you made for her, and it was quite incredible. I’m certain you didn’t lose that client due to lack of talent.’
‘Hm, not exactly,’ I admit with a languid rising of my shoulders.
‘Well, there you go!’ he exclaims. ‘You have no reason to feel uncertain in your skills. Sometimes people just don’t gel.’
That’s the understatement of the century.
‘At the end of the day, we all face difficulties, but you’ve got to pick yourself back up and carry on. Even if you have to fake it until you make it, eventually you’ll start believing in yourself again.’ Victor speaks reverently, as if reciting a sacred prayer. ‘That’s what my Marie used to say, anyway.’
I smile at the mention of his late wife. He talks about her often with such fondness, it’s heartwarming to hear. From her many charity efforts to her prize-winning upside-down pineapple cake that was always a staple at the summer fair, it’s clear she was a very special lady.
‘You two must have shared a great love,’ I comment wistfully.
‘Oh, we did! I knew she was the one within minutes of meeting her. But it took me two long years before I worked up the courage to ask if I might court her.’
‘Two years! ’ I gasp. ‘Why so long, Victor?’
‘Well, I wasn’t the confident man you see before you back then. In those days, I was a meek boy, too scared to say boo to a goose, let alone ask a beautiful girl out! Besides that, Marie had a string of admirers, how could I, a bookkeepers apprentice, compete with the calibre of men she had knocking at her door?’
‘So, what happened?’ I bounce on my heels, my voice high with curiosity.
‘Well, I finally realised I could either lose my chance to be with the woman I had come to adore, or I could seize the moment and ask her to be mine. I had nothing to lose, except a little bit of pride. And do you know what she said when I came to her mother’s house and asked her on a date?’
‘What?’
‘She said, “What took you so long?”’
The two of us cackle raucously, causing a flurry of blackbirds to evacuate the tree they were roosting in and fly off toward the clouds.
We walk home together, only parting on the corner of Oak Lane where we head off in our opposite directions.
‘Remember, keep your chin up, Lottie!’ Victor calls over his shoulder. ‘You just have to believe!’
I chuckle and wave him goodbye as I carry on down the street. He’s such a funny man, so sweet and kind and full of unique wisdom. Now all I’ve got to do is put some of his sage advice into action, though I have a feeling that will be easier said than done.
The only way into the flat is through the shop floor, and I have to shield my eyes from Zoe’s unfinished dress that’s still gracing the mannequin, mocking me. I suppose I’ll have to turn it into a display dress now. It’s a shame, though I cannot stand the woman, I have to admit, she would have looked beautiful in it.
A heavy weight upon my shoulders, I enter the flat and cross the open plan space to drop my shopping bags on the kitchen table.
‘Ouch!’
I stagger across the grubby carpet, struggling to regain my balance. The hazard in question is a pile of laundry I left unfolded in the middle of the room. I survey my humble abode, shocked at the mess surrounding me. Wow, I hadn’t realised what a state this place had got into. The carpet is gritty with crumbs, the couch cushions are crumpled and stained with various dinners and most of my belongings are still in boxes, many of which I haven’t even opened.
After shoving the shopping into the fridge and cupboards, I embark on Mission: Clean-Up My Act.
First things first, I tackle the boxes, sifting through all the random knick-knacks and items I’d forgotten existed. Trying to find a place for everything isn’t easy, and some bits get stuffed into the back of my wardrobe, at least until I can figure out a permanent spot. It’s not a perfect solution, but after an hour of sorting, all the boxes are empty, broken down and resting against the wall by the front door, ready for recycling.
Next, I pack my clean laundry away, a surprisingly time-consuming job. Once the floors are clear, I run the vacuum over them, wincing at the audible patter of crumbs being sucked up.
Pausing for a tea break, I rest my back against the kitchen counter to observe the fruits of my labour. The flat is already looking a lot better, more like home.
While I’m tackling the dishes, singing Madonna at full volume, a dull knock, knock, knock interrupts the concert.
That’s the front door. Puzzled, I pull off the washing-up gloves, splattering the floor with soap suds. The shop is closed, I’m not expecting visitors, so who would be knocking? Maybe it’s Lucy just popping over for a chat, she often turns up unannounced.
Warily, I open the window overlooking the street and peer out, craning my neck to see who’s on my doorstep. My heart skips several beats - it’s Kit.
He appears unusually discomposed, his hair sticking up in all directions as if he’s been running his fingers through it constantly.
To my horror, he glances up at the window. It’s too late to hide, he’s already seen me.
‘Lottie!’ His shoulders sag with relief at the sight of me. ‘Let me in.’
‘Go away, Kit!’ I shout back, hugging myself defensively.
‘But I need to speak to you.’
‘Well, I don’t want to speak to you.’
I’m acutely aware that my neighbours are likely being disturbed by this spectacle, but I can’t go down and answer the door. If I do that, my resolve will falter and I’ll let him in. I’m getting too close, too familiar, and Kit is betrothed to another. Every moment I spend in his presence - pleasant and exhilarating though they may be - is a knife in my heart. It’s already bruised by this whole ordeal, I can’t afford to let it take another battering.
‘Lottie, please.’ Even with the distance between us, I can feel the imploring weight of his gaze. ‘It’s about the wedding.’
‘I told you, I’m not making Zoe’s dress. I don’t want anything to do with your wedding, alright?’ I bellow, unexpected tears stinging as they spill down my cheeks. ‘So stop bothering me and just leave me alone!’
Our bizarre Romeo and Juliet act comes to an abrupt end when I slam the window shut and pull the blinds down hard. Shattered like fragile glass, I collapse onto the sofa and sob into a cushion. Why is this happening to me? I’ve never felt this way, not ever, and I don’t want to feel it. They say love hurts, but I couldn’t have imagined the pain would cut so cruelly.
At least Kit will stay away from me now, and I can protect myself from getting hurt any further.
So why do I feel so terrible, as if I’ve reached into my own chest and broken my own heart?