by Lucy Diamond
‘I’m . . . I’m okay. Listen, I was wondering. Can we talk?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I just . . . ’ Eloise sighed. ‘Oh, I can’t do this over the phone. Can I come over sometime?’
‘Here? To the flat?’ Whenever Eloise had visited in the past, she’d spent almost the entire time checking out the window that her car wasn’t being stolen or vandalized. ‘I mean – sure, yeah. Of course. When were you thinking?’
‘Saturday would be good for me, if you’re not too busy.’
‘Saturday it is then. Do you want to come for lunch?’
‘Great. Thank you. I’ll see you then.’
Saffron said goodbye and put the phone in her bag, an odd sense of foreboding stealing over her. Then she shook herself and began searching for her door keys again. She was being fanciful, that was all. Tired, fanciful and silly. The sooner she and her sister were back on proper speaking terms, the better.
Letting herself into the dark hallway, she took a deep, weary breath, then climbed the stairs up to her flat.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Working with Caitlin at White Gables was so companionable and fun that Gemma felt a pang of loss when she had finished both the dresses Bunty had commissioned. The hefty wallop of money going into the joint account was amazing – right off the satisfaction scale – but all the same, Gemma couldn’t help wishing the experience had lasted a little longer.
But then Bunty appeared in Metro wearing the gorgeous green dress that Gemma had made her, and life suddenly accelerated up a whole new gear. When Saffron’s call came, she was hurrying through the drizzle to get Darcey into school on time, but as she heard the magic words cascading down the line, she could have sworn that the sun came out and a choir of angels began to sing ‘Hallelujah’.
Fizzing with such unbelievable news, Gemma kissed all the breath out of her daughter (‘Euurggh! Mum, stop it, you weirdo’) and pelted straight round to Caitlin’s house.
Caitlin answered the door with a half-eaten piece of toast in her hand. ‘I was just having my b— What’s going on?’ she asked, as Gemma bustled past and hung up her coat.
‘You’ll never guess what,’ she burst out breathlessly. ‘Something amazing has happened. And I’m begging you like I’ve never begged anyone before: will you help me? Please?’
‘Of course,’ Caitlin said, startled. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m better than all right,’ Gemma told her, and the story bubbled out of her: the newspaper, the phone call, how she just couldn’t believe it (several times) and wasn’t it just the most amazing thing ever? (ditto). Caitlin wasted no time in switching on her laptop, pulling up the Metro website and finding the article about the TV awards. Then they both squealed at top volume as they saw the glorious picture of Bunty in her full splendour.
‘No way,’ Gemma cried, clapping her hands. ‘I bloody love that woman. Look at her working the dress. Look! At! Her!’
‘She actually looks . . . stunning. She really does,’ Caitlin said, open-mouthed. She high-fived Gemma and pulled her in for a hug. ‘Bloody hell. And you made that. Hourglass Designs goes national, dude!’
‘I know, that’s what Saffron reckons. She said if we could finish the website, put up some way to register email addresses of potential clients . . . ’
‘I’m on it,’ Caitlin said at once. ‘No problem at all. I can easily add a registration widget and all the prices; plus we could even put up a little video interview with you . . . ’
Gemma threw her arms around her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re the business. Did I mention that I’m actually a bit in love with you?’
Caitlin laughed and clicked open another screen. ‘Let me show you what I’ve done so far . . . ’
The Hourglass Designs website wasn’t yet fully live, but there was already a decent number of pages ready to go. Caitlin had gone with her original idea to have the home page framed by a twisting pink tape-measure design, and she’d used the silhouette of a curvy woman as the logo. She’d added three of Gemma’s designs to a ‘Dresses’ page – Valentine: the cap-sleeved, cleavage-enhancing scarlet dress she’d made for Valentine’s Day (but ended up wearing to work in the pub); Midnight, the dark, shimmering blue, off-the-shoulder velour dress she’d worn on New Year’s Eve, which had three-quarter-length sleeves and a panelled bodice; and Olivia, a shorter, vampier cocktail dress in jet-black sateen that she’d made to wear for her sister-in-law’s fortieth birthday party. ‘I’ve been matching up colour and fabric samples to each page, so that prospective customers could order direct,’ she explained. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Absolutely,’ Gemma said. ‘Good idea.’
‘We’ll need a page about you and your vision,’ Caitlin went on. ‘Hey, and I’ll tell you what would be really cool: some kind of gizmo that would let customers upload a webcam image of themselves, type in their measurements and see what they’d look like in each dress. What do you reckon?’
‘That would be awesome,’ Gemma said excitedly, leaning over her shoulder. ‘Can you really do that? Oh God, and you must tell me how much I need to pay you for all this, by the way.’
‘Leave it to me,’ Caitlin said, and started typing. ‘Team Hourglass – let’s do this!’
They could tell, almost to the minute, when Saffron’s press release went out to the journalists. Gemma’s phone immediately started pinging dementedly with forwarded email enquiries, the laptop chirruped like a flock of hysterical birds as people signed up, one after another, for news alerts from the website, and there were even requests for bookings and fittings. ‘Already? This is insane,’ Gemma marvelled, trying to keep track. ‘They don’t even know how much I’m going to charge yet, and they still want to buy my dresses. Who are all these mad people?’
‘Ah, you’re the new hot ticket,’ Caitlin said with a grin. ‘I’d better get my order in quick, before you get so rich and famous you don’t want to know me any more.’
Gemma gave her a look. ‘As if,’ she said, then gaped at her computer screen, which was positively rippling with new emails. ‘Help,’ she cried, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. ‘What have we started? I’m not sure I can do this.’
‘Of course you can,’ Caitlin told her. ‘You totally can. Buy yourself a big business diary and book in your first few fittings. And get some champagne on ice, while you’re at it. You’re in business, lady. The empire starts here.’
‘We’re in business, you mean,’ Gemma said, clicking open the first email. It was from a fashion blogger who wanted to interview her. Her! She pulled herself together and took a deep breath. ‘You, me and Saffron – this is all of us. I couldn’t have got this far without either of you. Oh God, I’m going to cry in a minute.’
‘No crying allowed,’ Caitlin ordered. ‘We’re too busy to cry. Smile!’
Many, many emails later, with six people booked in for fittings and another thirty or so requesting fabric swatches, it came as something of a wrench to leave White Gables that afternoon for the school run. They had been so busy with the sudden crazy wave of media and customer interest that Gemma hadn’t once thought about Spencer or the rest of her family, she realized with a pang of guilt. Boy, was he going to be grumpy about that. Still on crutches and finding it difficult to get around on his own, he hated being left alone for hours on end, like a dog abandoned to howl and pine. Bad wife. Negligent wife. But also wife who felt as if she’d scored a glorious hat-trick in the game of life, and was now running round the pitch high-fiving all her mates.
She somehow managed to restrain herself from dancing and singing all the way home like the heroine from a musical, although she did cave in instantly to Darcey’s requests for chocolate brownies from the bakery as they passed. Hell, yes. It was definitely a chocolate-brownie sort of day.
But then they arrived home to find Spencer sitting in his sports car, parked in the dingy garage, and the vibrancy of her wonderful mood immediately dimmed like a low-watt bulb. ‘Are you all right, l
ove?’ she asked anxiously, peering into the window. He was sitting there motionless, his hands on the steering wheel. ‘Sorry I’ve been out so long. Do you want a cup of tea?’
He blinked, as if only just registering their presence. ‘Please,’ he said quietly, making no movement to get out.
‘What’s he doing?’ Darcey asked in a too-loud whisper as they trooped back into the kitchen, with Spencer still in the car.
Gemma sighed. ‘I think he just feels sad,’ she replied.
She made him a tea and got in the car next to him, but he made no effort to speak. All you could hear was the slow, sliding tick of the electricity meter on the wall as it notched up the watts. ‘Spence,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Come on. It’ll be all right.’
‘I’m just trying to remember what it felt like to drive her,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘What it felt like to rev the engine and go. Remember that weekend in Walberswick?’
Did she ever. His parents had agreed to look after the children while she and Spencer zipped off in the Mazda to Walberswick for a surprise treat. It had been a cloudless blue-sky June day, and they’d put the roof down and let rip. Stretched out around them were the green-and-yellow fields of Suffolk, the old flint churches and brick barns, hedgerows bustling with birds and butterflies. The world had never seemed more beautiful. ‘Course I do,’ she said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. ‘And just as soon as you’re better, we’ll go back there.’
He sighed. ‘I can’t imagine it, though. I feel as if that’s never going to happen.’
‘It will. I promise it will. Your ankle’s nearly better, you’ll be able to start physio soon . . . You’ll get there. And . . . ’ She hesitated over her news. Could he handle it? Not now, she decided. Not when he was so vulnerable. ‘We’re a team, remember. Let me pick up the slack for a while, just until you’re better.’ She reached out and took his hand. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Oh,’ Gemma said at teatime that evening, as if it had just occurred to her, ‘by the way, I’m giving up the job at the pub.’
Will muttered something that might have been ‘Thank God for that’, although Darcey at least was more enthusiastic.
‘YAY!’ she cried. ‘So you’ll be here at bedtime again?’
‘Every night,’ Gemma smiled. ‘And we can start a new story together now, can’t we?’
‘How come?’ Spencer asked.
‘I’ve got some other work,’ Gemma said. And then she couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘One of my dresses was in the newspaper today. Wait, I’ll show you.’
Abandoning her food, she got up and switched on the iPad and opened the Metro website. ‘Look,’ she said, showing them the image of Bunty. She’d never get tired of seeing that picture, she thought to herself proudly. ‘And basically everything’s gone a bit mad. Lots of people want me to make dresses for them and . . . Well, I’ve kind of started a little business.’
Darcey’s eyes were big and round. ‘Whoa. Are you, like, famous, Mum?’
She ruffled her daughter’s hair. Darcey’s ambition was to be famous, although the finer details changed on a weekly basis. Last week she wanted to be a famous vet (‘a telly vet with nice hair’), but the week before, when she’d started an Instagram account for Waffle – the cat over the road that was always finding his way into their house (sample posting: ‘Sleeping on Darcey’s bed, yo!’) – she’d announced that she now planned to be a wildlife photographer (an extremely famous one).
‘I’m not quite famous,’ Gemma said now. ‘But I think you’ll be able to start pony lessons again soon. And, Will, if it’s not too late, we can see about getting you back on the school trip for France. And we’ll be able to pay off our bills a bit quicker now. Best of all . . . ’ She grinned. ‘I can stop making horrible soup, for a change.’
‘No more soup! No more soup!’ Darcey cheered, punching the air.
‘Great,’ said Will, which was pretty much the teenage equivalent of him whooping and punching the air. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
She turned warily to Spencer, not quite sure what to expect. He wouldn’t object to her moment of glory, would he? ‘Spence?’ she said, trying to read his expression. ‘I mean . . . It’s too good an opportunity to turn down. Don’t you think?’
There was a long agonizing moment, then he forked up another mouthful of food. ‘It’s brilliant, love,’ he said gruffly. ‘Well done, Gem.’
That would do. That was enough for her. ‘Thanks, guys,’ she said, trying not to show just how relieved and exhilarated she felt. Her heart was beating a tattoo inside. ‘I’m really pleased. Anyway, enough about that. How was everyone else’s day? How did you get on in football, Will?’
After tea, Gemma texted her dad, her brothers and everyone else she could think of about the image from Metro, then went along to the pub to explain the situation to Bernie. His face sagged in dismay when she said she was going to have to leave her job, but she was able to cheer him up pretty quickly by getting out her phone and showing him a photo of Bunty in all her glory. ‘Fine figure of a woman there,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Bloody marvellous lady she is, too.’
‘Better get your skates on then, Bern,’ Gemma said with a wink. ‘I reckon she’ll have all sorts of new admirers after her now, you know.’
Walking back through the dark village, her mind whirled with dresses and designs. What to do first? Well, she needed to clear the decks of all her outstanding work before she could even think about her new customers, that was a definite. There wasn’t too much to do, thankfully: Helen Bradley’s curtains just needed the webbing attaching and a final press, and one of the bridesmaid dresses needed altering where the bridesmaid in question, ten-year-old Lottie Mayes, had had a sudden growth-spurt.
Once she’d done all of that, she could go through her first orders and work out how much fabric she’d need, then make a dash tomorrow to the wholesaler to pick everything up. She had someone coming for a fitting next Monday, another lady the Thursday after and . . . Her head swam. She was never going to manage this. It was too much for one person to cope with alone.
Her phone buzzed with another text from Saffron. It was as if her new friend could read her mind, all the way from London. And maybe rope in an assistant! Get that husband of yours on the case, all right?!
She snorted to herself. Yeah, that would be the day. But he’d taken the news well, at least. He’d actually congratulated her, hadn’t he?
Maybe, just maybe, things were taking a turn for the better at last.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Of all the hiding places in the world, surely only Jane Fraser would pick a shoebox with a picture of stiletto heels as the safest spot to stash her secrets. She must have guessed it was the last place her clod-hopping, trainer-wearing daughter would be interested in noseying around while she was alive.
And how right she’d been. Caitlin had never fathomed why some people – her mother included – became so shrieky and excitable about something as silly as a pair of shoes, especially when they looked about as comfortable as torture implements. When it came to clearing Jane’s wardrobe, Caitlin had painstakingly sorted through all the clothes, belts and handbags, but had left the shoe collection still boxed in piles on the bedroom floor, meaning to take the lot to the charity shop just as soon as she had an hour to spare. She hadn’t so much as lifted any of the lids to peep in at them. She could so easily never have known.
But then, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, she rushed in there, having decided to bring her mum’s antique dressing-screen down to the living room. Over the next few weeks there was a whole rash of new customers booked in for appointments with Gemma, all of whom would be disrobing and having the cold tape-measure held expertly around various parts of their bodies. It would be far nicer for them to have a proper space in one corner to undress, instead of being sent up to the bathroom, as they’d done with Bunty. Maybe she should buy a pretty silk dressing gown too, she thought, hurrying across the bedroom, so that—
&nb
sp; ‘Ow! Bollocks!’
All long limbs and awkwardness, Caitlin had been born clumsy and, in her haste, she’d skidded on the polished floorboards and stumbled right into the shoeboxes. Down they toppled like dominoes, lids bouncing off and disgorging sequinned slingbacks, black patent courts, silver sandals . . .
She rubbed her knee where she’d banged it on the floor and began stuffing the shoes back in their boxes with a huff of impatience. The sooner she got rid of this lot, the better. But then she noticed that a box near the back had tipped on its side, revealing a heap of folded papers inside. Stupidly her eye went to the description on the cardboard box – Jacquetta, size 6 – and then back to the papers. Uh-oh. What were these, then?
Her hand closed around the documents and her heart bucked violently as she saw the logo on the top letter: Aberdeenshire Council Children’s Services: Adoption and Fostering Unit, it said.
Her breathing was rapid and shallow. ‘Adoption and Fostering Unit’, right there in black-and-white. Oh no. Oh no.
So it was true, she thought dully. I guessed right.
But it was little consolation when her world was falling apart.
Five minutes was all it took to recalibrate her entire ancestry. Five short minutes to realize that everything had been a lie. According to the certificate she’d just discovered, she’d been born Josephine Wendell, to Alison Mary Wendell, no mention of any father. So she wasn’t even called Caitlin Fraser. She was Josephine frigging Wendell, who sounded like a repressed Victorian aunt straight out of a black-and-white photograph.
She put a hand to her mouth, trembling, unsure whether she dared read any more. Josephine. That was her. She didn’t feel like a Josephine, though. Not even slightly. As for Alison Wendell . . . that was her mother. Her real mother. Oh, Alison, she thought, with a stab of sadness. Didn’t you want me? Why did you give me away?
