Читать книгу If The Dress Fits: a delightfully uplifting romantic comedy! - Daisy James - Страница 12

Chapter Three

‘Look, come on. The courier will be here any minute now and we can’t risk him leaving empty-handed. I’m going to slide the dress into the wardrobe on the dressmaker’s dummy; less opportunity for it to crease. I’ll never forget that image of Princess Diana’s wedding gown on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral.’ Callie grimaced as she recalled the profusion of crinkles the dress had displayed to the seven hundred and fifty million people who’d been watching around the globe.

‘This is, without a doubt, the most beautiful wedding gown I have ever laid eyes on – you know that, Callie, don’t you? It’s definitely going to win the competition and you’ll see your own design worn by one of the most famous actresses in the world. How exciting is that?’

Despite her natural reluctance to sing her own praises, Callie allowed herself a tiny nod to her ingenuity with a needle, coupled with her God-given talent, which had produced such dazzling results. It was one of her most adventurous creations to date, but every aspect of the gown had merged to form a true work of art. She had slaved through eighteen-hour days over the last three months to get the sample ready for the final judging the next day.

The gown’s pale ivory, organic silk flowed like ripples in a summer breeze. The strapless bodice draped exquisitely to enhance Lilac’s translucent, swan-like neck and pert breasts. The nipped-in waist would amplify her slender measurements, but it was the A-line skirt that drew the appreciative eye, ruched to the right where a darted panel of inlaid crystals and seed pearls shimmered like a sparkling waterfall whenever the bride moved, especially under the neon lights of Callie’s workshop. A fantasy dress for a fairy-tale wedding, putting even Cinderella’s to shame.

Of course, if the design won it would have to be custom-altered and remoulded, but she would do anything, work 24/7, if it meant her dress could be displayed to the fashion world on such a famous model. That kind of exposure could jettison the Callie-Louise name into the order books of every style-conscious celebrity in Britain. It was everything she had been working towards. Every single, painful sacrifice she had made would have been worth it.

Except maybe one.

The two girls gently gathered the gown’s delicate folds and straightened the underskirt and hem. Callie fought a cauldron of emotions not to shed a tear as she and Scarlet manoeuvred the cardboard wardrobe crate towards the dressmaker’s dummy and carefully inserted the textile sculpture.

They draped sheets of acid-free tissue paper around the dress until it was packed as tightly as possible without scrunching the delicate material and stood back to admire their handiwork before they sealed the door, knowing there would be no further tweaking allowed.

As Callie closed the door and sealed the box with the brown tape, both girls let out a sigh of pleasure and of satisfaction.

‘A true masterpiece, Callie. Lilac would be crazy not to pick it.’

Callie couldn’t speak. Her throat had tightened around a lump the size of a golf ball. ‘Oh, God, I nearly forgot! The paperwork for the courier.’

‘Callie? Callie?’ Flora’s voice floated down from the floor above. ‘Call for you in the Tumble Room. Said it was urgent!’

‘Okay, Flora, be right there.’

Callie exchanged a smirk with Scarlet as she slipped on her black ballet pumps, stretched her long, colt-like legs and wiggled out the kinks in her shoulder muscles to her full six-foot height. She flicked the sides of her bob behind each ear and slid the pin cushion from around her wrist.

Every call Flora put through was ‘urgent’. Despite being the salon’s receptionist since its inception three years ago, she invariably fell for the caller’s assertive demands.

Rolling her eyes and experiencing a sweep of relief at the conclusion of the most important project of her career, she took the stairs two at a time to their ‘ideas’ room. It had been nicknamed the ‘Tumble Room’ because it was where Callie hoped their creative juices and ideas would tumble forth from brain to paper. In reality, it was a small conference room they used to receive their clients and listen to their dreams, decorated with wall art ranging from framed photographs of 1950s brassieres to Callie’s prized David Hockney, the celebrated Yorkshire-born artist, which she’d inherited from her father.

‘Thanks, Flora. Hi, Callie-Louise Henshaw speaking.’

‘Callie, at last! It’s Seb,’ announced her cousin with none of his usual comedic preamble.

‘Oh, hi, Seb. What great timing. We’ve just put the finishing touches…’

‘Callie, it’s Mum. Delia’s just rung. She collapsed when she was shutting up the shop. She’s been rushed to Harrogate hospital by ambulance. You’d better get up here. Delia is with her but she’s unconscious. The medics’ early diagnosis is a perforated bowel and she’ll be going straight into surgery. I’m racing across there now.’

‘Oh, my God, Seb, I’m on my way.’ An anvil-heavy weight pressed down on Callie’s chest restricting the flow of air to her lungs. She gulped for breath, her body frozen in alarm.

‘Callie? Callie? What on earth’s happened?’ Scarlet rushed to Callie’s side, rousing her from her shock and sending her stalled brain into motion.

‘It’s Aunt Hannah. She’s collapsed. On her way to the hospital. Having surgery. Got to go. Now!’

‘Oh, Callie, no!’

Callie rushed past Scarlet’s blanched face, back down the wooden treads to her workshop and grabbed her handbag and mac. Fear wrenched at her gut. She couldn’t lose her aunt, she just couldn’t. When her parents had died in a head-on crash when she was only ten years old, Aunt Hannah had surrounded her with a comfort blanket of love and brought her up alongside her two older cousins, Seb and Dominic, in a home filled with chatter and homely warmth. She adored her. She couldn’t envisage life without her.

‘What about the dress, Callie?’ cried Scarlet as she darted in Callie’s wake down the stairs to the workroom. ‘You need to fill out the forms, and sign the seal and the courier’s documentations. It’s part of the requirements, as evidence that the entry hasn’t been tampered with.’

‘Oh, erm, you do it, Scarlet,’ Callie called over her shoulder from the top of the stairs, the helix of panic tightening in her chest and throat, her brain ricocheting off into myriad nightmare scenarios.

Scarlet jogged to keep up with Callie’s beeline for the exit and the car park at the back of the salon with a visibly upset Flora in her wake.

‘Callie…’

‘Scarlet. Just make sure it goes. It’s packed and sealed. It only needs a signature. I have to get to the hospital.’

Tears sprang into Callie’s eyes and trickled down her pale cheeks. Her shallow breathing induced a dizzy spell causing her to pause at the door to draw oxygen into her screaming lungs. An icy drench of panic rose up her arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

‘Look, Callie, you can’t drive all the way up to Yorkshire by yourself – you’re in no fit state. I’ll drive you.’

‘Scarlet…’

‘What use will you be to your aunt if you end up in the same hospital after an RTA? Give me your keys!’ Scarlet brandished her palm and the expression on her face brooked no further argument.

Callie realised that her objections were only serving to delay her journey. Any further refusals would only extend the time until she arrived at her aunt’s bedside.

‘Okay. Flora, if you can’t find Lizzie, will you stay until the courier arrives to collect the gown? All you have to do is fill out the documents and get a receipt.’

‘Sure, Callie. I hope your aunt’s going to be okay.’

Callie could not recall much of the journey up to Harrogate. Scarlet drove swiftly, the car’s headlights tunnelling two piercing beams through the London streets, strangely devoid of their daily bustle on that late March evening, the clientele of the busy bars ignorant of the curling veins of turmoil swirling around Callie’s ragged brain. Raindrops splattered sporadically on the windscreen, the blades flicking them away like irritating flies. The amber glow of the street lamps cast their mellow light into the inky black puddles gathered in the gutters and across the rooftops.

She couldn’t lose Aunt Hannah, she thought, panicking, especially as she’d already lost her parents. God couldn’t be that cruel, surely?

Silence pervaded the vehicle whilst Scarlet concentrated on handling the unfamiliar controls of the Mini Cooper and delivering Callie to the hospital as quickly as possible, her own features pinched and sombre in the half-light. Anyway, what words were there to ease the pain?

At last Scarlet pulled into the deserted hospital car park. Callie glimpsed the stout figure of Hannah’s best friend on the stone steps leading to the entrance hall, clearly keeping an anxious lookout for their arrival. Callie leapt from the car, grateful for Delia’s foresight – it meant she would not have to wander the neon-bleached corridors, going through the rigmarole of repeated questions to locate her aunt.

‘Delia? Where’s…’

‘Oh, Callie, I’m so, so sorry, my love. So very, very sorry.’ Tears streamed down Delia’s powdery, wrinkled face, her pale blue eyes gentle as she hooked her arm threw Callie’s elbow.

‘Delia?’ Callie’s voice trembled.

‘Come on. Seb and Dominic are just in here,’ and she steered Callie into a tiny, fluorescent-bright room just off the entrance-hall corridor.

As soon as the door swung back, Seb leapt out of the brown plastic chair and took Callie into his arms. Over his shoulder, Callie swung her horrified stare from Dominic to Delia as icy fingers of dread curled around her heart and squeezed.

‘No… no… no…’

‘I’m so sorry, Cal. Mum passed away twenty minutes ago during surgery. Heart attack. They did everything they could…’

‘No…’