Читать книгу Her Moment in the Spotlight - Нина Харрингтон - Страница 8

‘I TOOK over the family knitting business about a year ago, but I also use the workshop area at the back of the shop for Studio Designs. That way I can move between the two projects any time I like, and so far it has worked extremely well.’

‘A knitting shop. Wow,’ he gushed, cursing himself for being so out of control of his faculties. ‘Not that I have much experience of yarn stuff.’

In desperation, and anxious to find something to do with his hands, he snatched up a loose ball of what looked like thick fur, except that it was pink with a silver thread going through it.

‘What do you make with this type?’ Hal asked, turning to Mimi with the yarn still in his hand.

‘I don’t use that particular fashion yarn for my designs,’ she replied, stroking an identical ball in a basket on the table. ‘But the students love eyelash—the brighter and flashier the better. A bit of fun; it’s great. And makes terrific scarves.’

Hal nodded and carefully replaced the ball very slowly onto the table. ‘Eyelash. Scarves. Right.’ He looked back to see Mimi smiling across at him.

It struck him powerfully that this was the first time he had seen Mimi smile from the heart. His photographer’s sense of vision caught the telltale curvature of her lips and the gentle, warm creases at the corners of her shining eyes. Back in Poppy’s office Mimi had seemed too stunned by the sudden change in management to be herself, but here it was different. Here she was in her own world and the difference was startling.

She should smile more often.

‘This is the first time you’ve been into a shop like this, isn’t it?’ Mimi asked. ‘That’s okay. You don’t have to be scared. The inhabitants are quite friendly most of the time—although I should probably warn you about a few local customs. Take yarn, for example.’

Mimi walked across to the next set of cubes and drew out a ball of a fine, smooth fibre in a deep red colour. As he watched, she unconsciously stroked the fibres as she squeezed the small ball, eyes half-closed, an almost sensual pleasure warming her face in the few seconds it took him to hobble the few steps to stand next to her.

‘Squidging is an essential part of our daily rituals. This is one of my favourites: silk; fine-spun, twisted with viscose to increase the shine. Here, have a try. You’ll soon get the hang it.’ She held out the yarn to him, forcing him to look away from the smooth skin and amazing mouth.

It was not often that he was wrong about women, but he had been wrong to judge Mimi yesterday. The passion she had for these yarns shone out from her in the way she spoke and handled these bundles of thread with such loving care. She meant it. It could be that Mimi Ryan did know the fashion trade after all.

Her enthusiasm swept him along so much that he was taken aback by the tiny ball of soft stuff she held out towards him, and he made a point of rubbing a few strands between his finger and thumb. Her fingers were long with pale neat-polished nails. No rings.

In contrast, his fingers were rough and calloused and furrowed by deep ridges from holding ropes and cables and grappling for tiny hand-holds on rock faces where his life had depended on being able to take his weight on his fingers. His fingers and hands were as important as any other piece of equipment he relied on to keep him alive.

The rough skin instantly snagged on the delicate fibres and he released his grip. He had no business touching balls of the softest silk.

But he could still enjoy the sensation for a moment through what few nerves were left in his fingertips.

‘How am I doing?’

‘Not bad,’ Mimi replied, stepping closer. ‘Try stroking rather than squeezing the life out of it. That’s better.’

‘Nice colour. What can you make with it?’

He looked up into her face and made the mistake of focusing on her eyes. They were mostly green, and in those heels she was not much shorter than he was.

‘Anything you like; that’s the magic. You take this ball of thread and two sticks and out comes a fabric. The cardigan I’m wearing came from a blend just like this one.’

Mimi popped the cherry-coloured ball back into its slot and pointed to the next cube.

‘You made it yourself?’ Hal asked, genuinely impressed as he glanced down at the fitted coral top, which up close he could see had some sort of twisted design down one side.

‘Please don’t sound quite so surprised, Mr

Langdon. I am a textile designer, and this is my work. And my pleasure. Does nobody in your family knit by hand?’ Mimi asked. ‘It’s quite a tradition in mine.’

Hal chuckled out loud at that one, and the sound of his own merriment shocked him more than he cared to admit. It had been a while, months, since he had last felt like laughing. There had to be something in the air in this shop. Was it the colours, or the talented woman who had asked him a question?

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe Poppy made me a scarf once when we were at school, but I don’t remember what happened to it. No; Poppy likes to shop, buy things other people have made—designed—whatever.’ He paused for a few seconds as Mimi rearranged the balls into a neater design. ‘I don’t think a creative gene runs in our family. Not so far, anyway,’ Hal added, well aware that he was babbling now and relieved that Mimi did not seem to mind that he was acting like a loon and probably thought that he was trying to play the idiot.

If the cap fits …

‘Um, well, that might be a problem,’ Mimi murmured, just as a bustle of activity swept into the room on a wave of female laughter and bawdy bellows. ‘I’ll be right back. My

Saturday knitting club has just arrived and the Knitty Chickies are on a mission.’

She gestured to a door at the back of the showroom which had been decorated with pictures of cute kittens playing with balls of yarn. ‘Studio Designs is just through there. Why don’t you have a look around for a few minutes? My college students are getting ready for their end-of-term exhibition but they won’t be in your way. Please feel free to explore. You’ll find a map and compass near the door on your way in.’

And with that Mimi was immediately swallowed up by the group of ladies of all ages who clustered around her like chicks around a mother hen and drew her into their conversation and laughter which echoed around the room.

Just as Hal opened the door to the studio, he took one glance back to see what Mimi was doing. Her head was back and she was laughing out loud with the other ladies at some joke about knitted body parts. Her laughter came from deep inside her body, a resonating, sweet, joyous sound that was strangely distinctive, even though this was the first time he had heard it. Her voice was musical and warm—and something else. Something special. Something genuine. She was the real deal, and as unique a character as he had ever met anywhere in the world.

The Knitty Chickies were clearly enjoying knitting a lot more than he was, and the camaraderie of their group made his throat tighten.

Suddenly he felt very much alone.

This room and these women were all a very long way from the Alps, and the narrow ice-covered ridge where his life had changed for ever.

What was he doing here? Mimi Ryan must think he was totally pathetic—and she would be right!

His world was ice picks, crampons and cold-weather cameras—not knitting yarn or women’s clothing. Not even close.

It was pathetic that he should think working on a fundraising event could in any way lessen the weight of the overwhelming blanket of guilt that hung heavy around his shoulders.

A week; he could give this project a week of his life. He owed it to Tom.

Then he would work on the small matter of what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

Suddenly Hal was not so sure he could handle any more surprises in one day. Turning reluctantly away from the life, energy and joy in the knitting shop, he hobbled into Mimi’s studio and closed the door behind him.

He stood in silence for a few seconds to take in the room.

In contrast to the kaleidoscope-shock of textures and colours in the shop area, the studio walls and woodwork had been painted in a pale cream which seemed to absorb the overhead light and reflect it back onto four large worktables which took up over half the floor space.

This was quite an achievement. The studio was the width of the entire shop building, and at least thirty feet long.

The overall effect was stunning and professional.

One thing was clear: this was a work room, not a hobby store.

From the hard-sealed flooring to the false ceiling-panels, it was the kind of spotless clean space which made Hal want to whisper and take off his boots—then run riot with a paint-ball gun just for the fun of it. As it was, his crutch hammered out his presence with every step.

A group of teenage girls were busy at the far end of the room, which was flooded with natural light from what looked like patio doors, so he strolled up to the nearest long white table.

It seemed to be covered with all shapes, sizes and colours of amazing objects.

He bent over slightly and squinted at the printed labels on cards folded in front of each object: ‘knitted installations’.

On the far left was a cheerful and completely realistic tea set: knitted cups with handles, knitted saucers, plates, sugar bowl and even a milk jug. On the plate were knitted cakes with knitted coils of white toppings made from a thicker white yarn. Everything was in bright primary colours—perfect for kids. The label on the solid maple-wood tea tray said: ‘soft tea’.

The next table was ‘wearable art’ and there was only one exhibit—but it was certainly different. A short sleeveless tube of knitted mesh shaped like a dress was hanging on a tailor’s-model form. It seemed to be made of coated electrical cable, and two wires were hanging from the dress, one on each side. The left was attached to what looked like a normal old-style cassette player. The other was wired into the back of a large amplifier.

Okay. He took a breath before checking the label a little more carefully this time: ‘because your clothing says something about you. Press Play on the tape to hear about who’s wearing the dress. Rewind when you leave. Thanks’.

‘Hello again. Found anything you like?’

Hal turned around so that he could face Mimi as she walked up next to him and scanned the studio, turning his head from side to side.

‘You weren’t kidding about the student work. Is this the last group of exhibits?’

Mimi nodded. ‘Yep. The college transportsystem is a little slow today. In the meantime, feel free to wander around and take a look. You are welcome to come with me to the gallery if you like. I only need to be there for a few hours this morning and we can talk on the way.’

‘Okay. That sounds like a plan.’ Hal nodded and glanced around. ‘This is actually a very impressive studio. Has this always been a knitting shop?’ he asked as Mimi stood next to him, gently packing away loose hanks of chocolate-and-cream yarn into long, transparent plastic boxes.

‘A gentleman’s tailor. My father trained with Mr Bloom for years before he decided to go into the wholesale business, but he loved working here. So, when the house and workshop came onto the market, my mother made the old maestro an offer he couldn’t refuse. He’s retired now, but he only lives a couple of streets away and comes in now and again.

The skylights and patio were his idea, and they still work. You need natural light for colour matching.’

Mimi stopped packing and looked at Hal with a shrug. ‘Sorry; I was forgetting you are a photographer. You probably know a lot more about light than I do. Please carry on.’

‘What do you use the tables for?’ Hal asked, blushing slightly at her compliment, and gestured at the huge long smooth surfaces stretching the width of the room.

Mimi paused for a second and took a breath. ‘I am a designer, Mr Langdon,’ she sighed, then looked at him in surprise. ‘This is where I assemble the finished garments, collate together the knitting kits I sell on the Internet and cut out fabric patterns. Oh, and I run workshops for college students three days a week. I am so lucky to have this space. Good studios are very hard to find in this part of London.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Hal replied with a snort of exasperation. ‘I am going to have to find somewhere to work and set up a centre of operations for the show before Monday or I am toast.’

‘What about Poppy’s office in Covent Garden?’ Mimi asked, her brows coming together in concern. ‘Or the hotel where we are staging the event? Don’t they have spare rooms you could use?’

‘Poppy’s office is already cramped enough without trying to pack technical equipment into it. Besides, I don’t do well in cramped offices.’ Hal pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders as he frowned. ‘As for the hotel? I called in to introduce myself this morning. They did have two reception rooms we could have used, but the plans have changed. They are renovating the upper floors ahead of schedule and they need those rooms for storage. Poppy persuaded the manager to give us the ballroom, but I think we are lucky to have it—all of which leaves me looking for some space to rent in a hurry.’