All Dressed Up

by Lucy Hepburn

  “Nonsense! Family, Molly.” A pause. Then: “That’s what matters.” To Molly’s horror, it sounded like her mother was crying. “Sorry, but really…you have to get there in time! She’s your only sister. Sod the stupid dress!”

  “Mum!” Molly was horrified. Sod the stupid dress? Had Mum completely lost it? “I… Are you okay?”

  “Fine! I’m just fine! But…you and Caitlin are all I’ve got…”

  “I’m sorry mum, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’ve got to go and…blow my nose. Call me later, okay? Promise? Bye love.”

  “Mum?”

  She had gone. Molly threw herself back onto the lounge sofa, burying her face in her hands. She should have guessed how her mother would react if she mentioned the dress after their last conversation. Her mum just didn’t get the importance of getting a dress just right. She probably never would.

  “Great,” she said aloud. I still have no idea what to do.

  The receptionist, who Molly suspected had been listening, called over to her. “I will call the airport again, okay?”

  “Thanks,” Molly muttered. “That would be very kind.”

  She wondered whether it might be too early to try and get hold of Pascal. But just then she became aware of a voice round the corner at the foot of the stairs talking in English on a mobile phone. A newly familiar voice. The little hairs on the back of her neck seemed to stand on end as she peered round from the depths of her sofa, only to be confronted with the back view of the most recognizable, most hideous hand-knitted monstrosity of a jumper ever seen outside the Harry Potter films. It couldn’t be…

  “Simon?”

  He whirled round, looking astonished when he caught sight of her.

  “Molly!”

  “You should be in Venice!”

  “Don’t I know it!”

  “What happened?” She stood up and walked shyly over to him, running her hand through her still-damp hair and trying not to think about how wrecked she must look.

  “Couldn’t get out last night,” he replied. “No planes, trains, or automobiles. Nightmare!”

  “So how did you end up here?”

  “Remember Sasha, the steward? He recommended it, drove me over.”

  “Right.” Molly smiled. “He took me here, too.” Surely Sasha hadn’t been trying his hand at a bit of matchmaking, had he? But she kept the thought to herself. “I’m a mess,” she muttered.

  “No you’re not,” Simon said quietly, then looked away, his face reddening.

  An awkward silence ensued, which Molly filled. “Are you booked on this morning’s flight? Can you believe there’s only one seat left!”

  “You’re kidding—just one?” He interrupted her before she got any further. “I’d better grab it!”

  And before she could say anything else, he’d whipped his phone out and set off at a jog toward the doorway.

  “I’ve got the airline on speed-dial now, after all this mess!”

  “Wait!” Molly called, “I’m trying to get hold of Pascal because we’re not booked on yet either…”

  But he didn’t hear. He was already out of earshot, speaking into his phone, nabbing the precious final seat.

  Molly was left with her mouth hanging open, watching him. The cheek!

  “Good morning Miss Molly Wright.”

  Pascal stood behind her, adjusting the knot on his silk tie, checking his flawless reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. He wore a fresh white shirt, expensively faded jeans, and his gorgeous navy blazer was so immaculate it looked like it was being worn for the first time.

  It was impossible to tell that this was the same man as the day before.

  “Morning Pascal, how are you feeling?”

  “A great deal better than I deserve, I think. I had a very good night.”

  “Good,” Molly forced a smile.

  He grimaced. “I will be braver today.”

  Molly couldn’t help but wonder whether he had spent the night with Sasha, but Pascal gave nothing else away, and Sasha was nowhere to be seen.

  “When must we be at the airport?”

  “That’s the thing,” Molly replied, “there’s only one flight and I think it’s full…”

  Pascal’s face lit up. “It’s full? That is very good news. Can you see the weather outside? Nobody with a brain would risk going in an airplane in this—it would be suicide!”

  Even though Pascal had a point—swirling snow and screeching winds were making visibility almost impossible outside—Molly couldn’t help but think that Pascal might just have lost sight of the bigger picture.

  “But we still need to get to Venice by tomorrow, Pascal.”

  “Indeed,” he said tersely.

  The receptionist, who had been listening to their conversation, peered at her computer screen. “Yes, the seat has gone, you have just missed it.”

  Molly looked toward the door where Simon was still talking on the phone.

  “Excuse me.” Pascal strode up to the reception desk, where he took the receptionist’s hand and, as though it was the most precious thing he’d ever encountered, raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Madame, may I compliment you on your beautiful hotel? I have spent the most perfect night.” The receptionist looked as though she might faint from bliss. Pascal had morphed back into the suave charmer that Molly had first encountered in Delametri Chevalier’s Paris atelier. His whole demeanour had altered; he stood taller, his aura of authority once more in place—something good definitely happened to him last night, Molly thought to herself.

  “A pleasure, monsieur,” the receptionist fluttered. “Is there anything I can assist you with today?”

  Pascal waved the question away with a sweep of his hand. “Madame, I could not possibly think what you might do, which would add to the perfection of what you have already provided. No!”

  He turned to Molly and inclined his head respectfully. “My associate and I will endeavour to secure a means of traveling to Venice for her sister’s wedding however long it takes us and however difficult it proves to be. Please, please, do not concern yourself.”

  Intentional or not—Molly couldn’t tell—the receptionist took the bait. “Perhaps I there is something I could do…”

  Pascal looked outraged. “Madame! You are so very busy; it would be unthinkable to put you to such inconvenience!”

  “But I insist!” she fluttered. “You must get to Venice today, is that correct?”

  Pascal, still feigning outrage that she should expend a moment’s effort concerning himself with his problem, nodded reluctantly.

  “Then you must get to Domodossola without delay to catch a train. And I can get you there!”

  Molly leaned back against the fireplace and folded her arms, lost in admiration for Pascal in full flow.

  “Domo…” Pascal screwed his face up in confusion.

  “Domodossola—it is on the other side of the Simplon Pass.”

  “Is it a great distance?”

  The receptionist paused. “No.” She gestured outside. “But the weather is not good, so you should go as soon as possible. I insist that you let our driver take you there in the hotel minibus.”

  “Oh, madame!” Pascal whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “Your kindness is too much!”

  She grinned like a schoolgirl being praised for good grades. “No, no, it will be a pleasure. Our driver is out at the moment collecting the chambermaids from the village, but he will be here quite soon—why don’t you and your…associate have breakfast while you wait?”

  “Madame, I will never forget this,” Pascal grasped her hand a second time and kissed it again.

  “You are welcome,” the receptionist smiled.

  Molly smiled too. Pascal, you player!

  “There is, I am afraid, just one more thing I must do,” Pascal confided, leaning across the desk.

  “Yes?” Molly could see
the receptionist biting her top lip in anticipation. “Flowers,” Pascal said. “I must buy flowers.”

  “Monsieur, there is no need. This is all part of the service.”

  “Ah, but there is,” Pascal explained. “I must send flowers to a lady I…encountered yesterday. Her name is Consuela and she works for the airline.”

  Five minutes later, Molly was enjoying hot chocolate, fruit, and croissants, as Pascal joined her at her table.

  He was shaking his head. “The nice lady was not so nice about the flowers, but we got there in the end.”

  Molly decided not to suggest that it could have been because he’d slipped up on the charm offensive by offering flowers to another woman. “Good. Go and grab yourself some breakfast; it’s going to be a long day. I’ll nip out and see if the minibus is here yet.”

  The minibus was nowhere to be seen, but there on the sofa she had left a few minutes before, sat Simon, his brow furrowed, sending a text.

  He looked up as she approached.

  “Shouldn’t you be on your way to the airport?” Molly asked. “Flight leaves in under two hours.”

  He exhaled loudly. “I should ask you the same thing. I didn’t get the ticket.”

  “What?”

  “It seems to have sold about fifteen seconds before I got there. I’m going to have to find some other way of getting to Venice.” He smiled and stood up. “So, I’ll say it once again. It was very nice meeting you. I hope your next flight isn’t as bad as yesterday’s!”

  He held out his hand.

  Molly took it, realizing. “You thought Pascal and I already had tickets!”

  He looked blank.

  “That’s why you waltzed off to nab the last one from under my nose like a rude git!”

  Simon froze. “Whoa, you mean you guys don’t have tickets either?”

  Molly shook her head.

  “No!” He slapped his forehead. “You must have thought I was a total bastard doing that!”

  “Err… No comment.” Molly grinned. “But Pascal’s sweet-talked the receptionist into getting us a lift on the hotel minibus to somewhere called Domodossola or something like that—there’s a railway station there.”

  He leaned closer. “Minibus, did you say?”

  She nodded smugly.

  “And how many seats do you think you’ll need for that wedding dress and enormous designer suitcase?”

  “Oh, I daresay we could scooch up to let you aboard, or strap you to the roof, if you promise not to start any sing-songs?” Molly felt herself fizzing with unexpected happiness at the thought of spending more time with him, even though the spectre of the wonderful Yvonne seemed to loom large around him at all times.

  “Scout’s honour,” he replied solemnly. “No singing. I’ll just clear it with the receptionist. Oh, and thank you.”

  He bounded off.

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” Molly whispered to herself.

  Chapter Nine

  Hours until wedding: 30

  Kilometers to wedding: 434

  It was like a scene from a Bond movie. As the little minibus slithered and skidded its way around the steep hairpin bends of the Simplon Pass, Molly felt at times as though the only thing keeping them from plunging down the mountainside was the force of the gale blowing them away from the edge.

  “Are we nearly there yet?” she squeaked.

  “No, is very bad,” the driver called over his shoulder.

  Only Pascal was in a good mood. “Better than being ten thousand meters up in the air in a plane,” Pascal said brightly. “At least if there is a terrible accident here then we stand a chance of survival. I mean, we will have terrible injuries but still, a chance is a chance, no?”

  Molly caught Simon’s eye and they both stifled a smile.

  “Pascal?” Simon said.

  “Yes?”

  “You see those door handles?”

  “I do.”

  “Could you stay away from them, please? Consuela isn’t here to take you down if you kick off.”

  “Oh, very funny.” But he took the jibe on the chin and laughed.

  The scene outside the minibus was exactly how the Alps ought to look in Molly’s opinion. The white, steep-sided mountains with their terrifying rocky outcrops were sprinkled with snow-laden fir trees, and every now and again a wooden chalet, like a gingerbread house, would appear impossibly high up, clinging precariously to the mountainside, yet with twinkling lights which managed to make them look friendly and inviting.

  The incredible views were continually being obscured by the swirling mass of falling snow, which appeared to be getting thicker and heavier the higher the minibus climbed. The road ahead was completely white; at times it seemed as though the driver was navigating from memory.

  “Do you ski?” Molly asked Simon.

  He shook his head. “I never really got the point of it. Getting trussed up in technicolor romper suits that look like they’re made out of loft insulation, just to slide down a hill on two planks—nah, not for me. How about you?”

  Molly giggled. “I never caught the bug. You’re wrong about the clothes, though.”

  “Should’ve guessed you’d think that.”

  “The technology that goes into winter apparel is unbelievable these days.”

  He rolled his eyes. “If you say so.”

  “It’s true! And the styling’s improving all the time, it’s sleeker but warmer. Easier to move around in.”

  “I still think skiers look like big babies on days out.”

  Molly laughed. “I’m not going to win you round on this one, am I?”

  “It is unlikely, I’m afraid.”

  Pascal turned to Molly. “My Chevalier ski collection for next season will feature accents of faux ermine,” Pascal added, not helping Molly’s cause one bit. “Eco-luxe, I shall call it.”

  “Your collection?” Molly teased.

  Pascal made a face and said nothing.

  “Uh-oh, look,” Molly said, pointing out of the window at a car that had gone off the road and was facing the wrong way down the hill.

  “Hope the driver’s okay,” Simon said, frowning as he searched the hillside for any sign of him. “This is a bit hairy, isn’t—whoa!”

  The minibus suddenly veered off to one side, heading for the edge of the road and a steep precipice.

  “Watch out!” Molly shrieked. Terrified, she clutched Simon’s arm.

  The driver, wrestling furiously with the wheel, somehow managed to steer the minibus back onto the road, without touching the brakes and sending them into an uncontrollable spin.

  “Careful!” Simon called out. White-knuckled, he was sitting forward in his seat, staring intently ahead.

  And then with a roar from the engine and a round of applause from Molly and Pascal, the driver righted the minibus and accelerated gently forward again.

  “Phew, nice work,” Simon said, leaning forward and patting him on the shoulder.

  The driver shook his head. “This is no good,” he muttered, squinting intently ahead to attempt to see his route.

  Just then several cars passed them, travelling in the other direction. “See,” Pascal pointed out, “the road must be okay further up; the traffic is getting through!”

  It didn’t take long before they realized where those cars traveling in the opposite direction had come from. They had inched and slithered a further hundred meters or so, when the road opened out on one side into a lay-by and turning area. Beyond, a thick snowdrift looked as though it might mark the end of the road for them; there was no way their creaking minibus would get through it. And even if it had, Molly could see from the gradient when the snow occasionally eased off to give glimpses up ahead, that they hadn’t even reached the top of the Pass yet. Circular tire tracks showed that this was the point where the adventure was officially over for everyone, not just them.

  Simon and Molly looked at one another, grim-faced.
Pascal looked at the driver, whose face was unreadable, then shrugged and shook his head. Simon made a thumbs-down sign,

  The snowdrift was insurmountable—literally. Over a meter high, it stretched right across the road and continuous clouds of powdery snow were blowing hard over its pristine surface. It seemed to be getting bigger by the minute. There was no way even a four-wheel drive vehicle would have gotten through it. It was time to make a U-turn and follow the rest of the defeated traffic back the way they had come.

  The driver looked over his shoulder at them. “I am sorry,” he said, “I stop here.”

  Molly’s heart sank. But she didn’t bother to try and convince him to push on. She knew it was hopeless. Even if they got out and dug through the drift, there was bound to be more to come higher up.

  “Fair enough.” Simon sighed. “I wouldn’t drive in this.”

  Pascal was sitting bolt upright. Prim, Parisian, and completely out of his comfort zone. Molly knew that it was unlikely he’d have any ideas about what they ought to do.

  “We’ll have to go back to the hotel and sort something else out,” Molly said, her stomach churning. “Caitlin will completely understand.” Not.

  Then, as if to prove the point, the snow began falling harder than ever. Molly had seen some impressive snow in her time back home in Yorkshire, but these flakes were in a whole new league. Bigger than the cotton wool balls in the glass jar on her mother’s dressing table—the one she smashed when she was six, trying to take off the mascara she’d stolen from Caitlin’s make up bag…

  “Well, I’m not giving up just yet,” Simon suddenly declared. “We’ve come this far, and I need to get to Venice. And so do you.”

  “Simon, the road’s blocked,” Molly reasoned. “Unless you’ve brought teleporting equipment, there’s not much we can do…Simon? Where are you going?”

  He had opened the door and was clambering out. He looked back at her and grinned cheekily. “I’m going out. I may be some time…”

  “Simon!”

  “There’s a house just over there, see it?”

  Molly climbed out after him. The fresh snow creaked under her boots. She was glad she’d dressed warmly but still, the biting wind stung her cheeks as snowflakes flew into her eyes.