If the Dress Fits (4 page)

Nothing about him had changed. He was still the teenage boy she had given her heart to. He still spoke with his broad Yorkshire accent, unlike her, who’d worked hard at eradicating it. He still wore his sandy-blond hair on the long side and favoured the designer-stubble look. The smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose remained, reminding Callie of the time they had spent one summer lying amongst the wheat in a farmer’s field when she had counted every single one and had declared there to be one hundred and thirty-two. He’d asked for a recount before grabbing her by the wrists and smiling into her eyes to tell her he was joking. It was the first time he’d told her he loved her.

‘Cal, I’m so sorry about your Aunt Hannah. I know how much she meant to you. She was a wonderful lady. When Seb called to tell me about the funeral I grabbed the first flight back to the UK.’ His smile was a peace offering.

‘Thanks, Theo.’

He reached out his fingers and gently touched the back of her hand. ‘If there is anything I can do to help ease your pain, I want you to know that I’m here for you. I will always be your friend.’

Tears amassed on her lower lashes, but she could think of nothing to say. They weren’t the same people they had been three years ago. They led totally different lives. Yet, after all this time she was still unable to view Theo as just a friend. He had ensnared her heart and refused to return it. Now she realised that it would hurt too much to maintain the civility required to sustain even friendly relations.

A lone tear trickled down her cheek and Theo reached over to brush it away with his thumb. His lips parted as he cupped her chin and lifted her face to his.

‘Cal, I want you to know…’

‘Don’t, Theo. I can’t do this. Not today.’

A cloud of regret passed across his handsome features but he respected her request. ‘Okay, but we do need to talk. I’ve got a break in my commitments and I’m home for a few weeks. How long are you home for? That’s if you still call Allthorpe home.’

They had reached the village green opposite Gingerberry Yarns, the haberdashery shop on Allthorpe High Street her aunt had owned and run with the help of Delia. ‘It’s the cosiest little wool shop in Yorkshire,’ Delia was forever quoting as her catchphrase. It had certainly been the place Callie had spent her happiest times and its contents had nurtured her passion for all things woolly and had inspired her to follow her dream of a career in fashion.

‘The will is being read tomorrow. I’ve promised Seb and Dominic to go to the solicitors with them, although I don’t know why they need me there. Then I’m going back to London. The announcement is being made on Monday.’

‘What announcement?’

Callie cursed her lapse in concentration. The last thing she wanted was for Theo to know about her submission to Lilac Verbois’s wedding gown competition. She knew he’d tell her that his band had been booked to perform at the evening reception and she didn’t think she could take any more trauma that day. The Razorclaws and their music would be for ever linked with Theo’s betrayal. She needed to get through tomorrow, then she could leave Allthorpe and eradicate the risk of bumping into Theo again.

‘Oh, just something to do with the boutique. Bye, Theo.’

Before Theo could say anything else, she turned her back on him and strode away, jumping into the back seat of one of the limousines waiting to take the mourners to the wake at her aunt’s house in Harrogate.

Theo was a spectre from her past and she had to make sure he stayed there.

Chapter Five

‘May I start by expressing my sincere condolences and thanking you all for coming today. I’m Gordon Braithwaite, senior partner here at Braithwaite, Cobbs and Fisher. We’re proud to have handled all of John and Hannah Garside’s legal affairs over the years.’

Callie cast her eyes around the room. It wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. She had envisaged the boardroom of her aunt and uncle’s solicitor’s office to be lined with mahogany bookcases crammed with weighty, leather-bound, legalistic tomes and the faint smell of dusty parchment fighting for supremacy with the aroma of wax furniture polish like the venue – straight out of a Dickensian novel – that she had been forced to attend for the reading of her parents’ wills after the car crash. As she had been an only child, the contents of their last will and testament had held no surprises and she’d wondered at the time why the elderly solicitor had bothered with the charade.

Here she was, a scant fifteen years later, being invited to listen once again to the monotone drone of a probate lawyer as he read through the terms of her aunt’s will, but this time she sat, along with Seb and Dominic, in what was essentially a glass cube. The view from the window was spectacular, looking straight out onto The Stray, a large expanse of open parkland in the centre of Harrogate framed by a profusion of pink-flowering cherry trees.

Her aunt and uncle had adored the park so much they’d bought a house which overlooked it. Uncle John had often told her that in Victorian times it had been used as a racecourse, but more recently the area around The Stray had been declared one of the UK’s happiest places to live.

She dragged her attention back to the room, surprised to see that Mr Braithwaite was looking over his tortoiseshell spectacles at her with an expectant expression on his face. Seb and Dominic were smiling.

‘Erm, sorry, I was just admiring the view.’

‘Yes, Miss Henshaw, I have to agree with you, and it’s at its most beautiful this time of the year.’

She smiled back, but the silence continued.

‘What?’ she blurted out.

Seb got up and went to sit next to her. He took both her hands into his. ‘Mum has left her house here in Harrogate to me and Dom.’

Callie nodded, smiling into Seb’s kind brown eyes which reminded her so much of his mother that she had to quash the rising panic in her chest. Mr Braithwaite didn’t look like the type of lawyer who would appreciate females sobbing onto his smoked-glass conference table.

‘And she left Gingerberry Yarns to you, Cal.’

‘She… I beg your pardon?’

‘Dom and I knew she wanted you to have it. It was half your mum’s before she and your dad…well… And you did love the place, didn’t you, before you left to chase your fortune in London? You know, one of my earliest memories is of you designing and sewing your own clothes for your Sindy doll from remnants of fabric and ribbon. You even knitted jumpers for our teddy bears, remember? We’re not interested in the shop. Mum made the right decision.’

Callie knew her jaw had slackened. She flicked her eyes from Seb to Dominic and back again. The brothers nodded in unison.

‘Seb’s right, Cal. You adore that place. Whenever I go there it feels weird not to see you sitting at that huge table doing your homework. You spent every spare second there. Well, when you weren’t out gallivanting with Theo or watching his band crucify some of my favourite rock anthems,’ added Dominic.

‘Gingerberry Yarns is mine now?’

Her cousins nodded. The solicitor shuffled his papers back into the buff file in front of him, tied it with a green ribbon and rose from his chair.

‘I’ll leave you to your discussions. Please take your time and help yourself to coffee. If you need any advice about the disposal of either the property here in Harrogate or the shop on Allthorpe High Street, then my firm’s services are at your disposal.’

The door swung closed behind him.

‘But I can’t run a haberdashery shop in Yorkshire. I live in London. I have a business that devours every second of my time, perhaps even more if my prayers are answered.’

‘Mum was so excited about the wedding gown competition, you know. She told everyone who came into the shop about it.’ Seb’s eyes sparkled but he managed to hang on to his emotions. ‘Dom and I have already decided to sell Mum’s house. If you want to sell Gingerberry, you have our blessing. Lives move on, things change. We know that. Just promise to come and visit us up here in Yorkshire once in a while. We miss you.’

Callie couldn’t hold on any longer. She’d thought she had no tears left to shed yet a deluge burst from within.

‘I promise,’ she managed.

‘Oh, and before you go back down to London, why don’t you make your peace with Theo? Remember what Mum always used to say? Life’s too short to carry grudges. You know, I don’t have a single childhood memory that doesn’t feature you and Theo together in supporting roles.’

‘Seb…’

‘And perhaps, before you make any decisions, you should take a good look around the shop. Maybe take a few photos? It’ll bring back memories you thought you’d forgotten. It did for me and Dom.’

‘I will, yes. Thanks, Seb. Thanks, Dom. But, really, I can’t see any other alternative but to sell up.’

‘Whatever you decide, Cal, you have our full support.’

She would do as Seb had suggested. She’d go back to Allthorpe and spend an afternoon in the shop. It was the least she could do after such a generous gift from her Aunt Hannah. It would also be an ideal opportunity to check out the stock, to box up anything suitable for Callie-Louise.

Seb was right. She had left her life in Yorkshire behind and carved out a new one in the capital, although it was career-orientated with very little social life. She found herself yearning for the anonymity of London where the streets were filled with dull, grey office workers unconcerned about their fellow humans’ difficulties – in fact she had become one of them, a member of that overworked, harried tribe. In Allthorpe, on the other hand, everyone knew their neighbours’ business, happy or sad, and had a ready word of congratulation or solace to offer.

However, she did have a plethora of happy memories wrapped up in Gingerberry Yarns and it would be tough to leave them behind for good. Yet a stab of regret needled her conscience – there was one thing that pained her above all else.

If she did sell Gingerberry, what would happen to Delia?

Chapter Six

Callie paused in Allthorpe High Street to look up at the sign, fashioned from bronze in the shape of a ball of wool stabbed through with a pair of knitting needles. Gingerberry Yarns, it announced. She smiled despite her sadness as she recalled the day it had been delivered; first the shock, then the burst of hilarity her mum and Aunt Hannah had shared.

In a certain light, the signage looked just like a skull and crossbones. Would customers think they were pirates, Hannah had asked. Delia had been summonsed for her valued opinion, but after much deliberation over the big brown teapot, they had all declared they loved it and hung it outside the shop with tongue-in-cheek pride. It would be a talking point if nothing else. They’d christened its erection with a bottle of Prosecco rosé and a Victoria sponge cake filled with oodles of jam and cream from old Tom Wallington’s bakery on the corner.

Gingerberry Yarns had been closed for a week as a mark of respect after the passing of her aunt. Shading her eyes, she peered through the grime-coated window. The little shop still held a hint of magic for Callie – once inside the door, the visitor would be enveloped in a warm comfort blanket, safe, just for a few moments, from all the traumas life tossed in their path. She inserted the key Seb had given her and opened the door. The brass bell above her head reverberated with a jaunty chime of welcome but it jarred against Callie’s ragged nerves.

‘At last dear, it’s perishing out here. What kept you?’ Delia bustled in behind her, a rich aroma of warm baked croissants following in her wake and permeating the shop’s motionless air. ‘I’ll just butter these whilst they’re still warm. Young Tom Wallington really is proving to be a baking maestro. These croissants of his melt in your mouth. You should taste his cherry scones, Callie, but his cheese and rosemary versions are simply delicious, too. If you ask me, his talents are wasted in Allthorpe after all that training he did in Paris and at Betty’s, but, well, his father can’t…’ Delia’s prattling dropped off when she noticed Callie’s expression. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on. See you upstairs when you’re ready for a cuppa.’

Callie’s eyes followed Delia’s plump backside as she disappeared up the stairs to perform the same task she had done every morning for the last fifteen years, only this time for her best friend’s niece. She stepped further into the high-ceilinged room, memories crashing through her thoughts whilst she listened to the cheerful tinkling of cutlery and cups as Delia busied herself in the upstairs kitchen, one that was as familiar as her own.

Callie smoothed her palm over the glass-topped counter, its surface reflecting her pixie-like features and the misery swirling in the far corners of her soul. A wave of desolation rippled over her when she realised Gingerberry Yarns would never again be blessed with the smiling presence of its proprietor. The fact that the world could keep on turning despite this devastating knowledge annoyed her.

She cast her professional eye around the room. Her recent absence afforded her the opportunity to scrutinise its outmoded contents with a fresh perspective. What her eyes met instilled no creative enthusiasm. The place was old-fashioned and shabby at the edges. Why hadn’t she noticed this careworn façade before?

Puffs of dust and sadness hovered amongst the packed wicker baskets. Garlands of twisted yarn nestled in cubbyholes or behind glass doors with tiny brass knobs more befitting a gentleman’s outfitters from the fifties. The shop was well stocked but everything on the shelves depicted a bygone era when communities were tight and pockets tighter. It was a place you would find your granny holding court, not a young mothers’ chinwag or a teenagers’ coterie of gossip. But then, ‘Gran’s Woollen Emporium’ was exactly what Gingerberry Yarns was – an old people’s social club or a place for the knitting circle from the local WI to persuade their deft fingers to twirl yarn into garments for the needy.

Polished teak shelves ran round the remaining two sides of the room, stuffed with lurid, multicoloured acrylics Callie had last seen on Barbie. Where were the natural lamb’s wools, the organic silks, the fair-trade cottons? Even the Aran was synthetic.

Knitting needles had been jammed into spaghetti jars like forests of pasta. Cards of pearl buttons and other assorted fastenings dangled from racks of chipped steel. The sample garments displayed on coat hangers on old mahogany hat stands, clearly knitted by her aunt or Delia, to Callie’s trained eye resembled bed jackets for the terminally ill. There were so many trendy designs coming out of Scandinavia at the moment, inspired by the wave of crime fiction that had been serialised for television, and the art of knitting was now a celebrity-endorsed pastime. She thought of the chunky Danish sweaters Scarlet adored; hers was red and cream, a prized possession that had cost her well over four hundred pounds.