The Wedding Shop on Wexley Street. Rachel Dove
She had sunk all her money from the house into the shop, saving what furniture she could fit in and selling the rest. She had lived upstairs among the stock till Darcy had asked her to move in with him. Now she was back to being here, her safe haven, and she wouldn’t let anything or anyone take it from her.
Flicking the trusty kettle on, she shook off her fleecy coat and bobble hat, placing them on the old coat rack. Father’s hat still hung there, just as it had at home, perched on top, and she smiled at it fondly. It was on the far wall, near the double-windowed doors of the back room, next to the photo of her mother.
‘Morning, Mum,’ she said absently. ‘You don’t have to say a word,’ she muttered, opening the back doors to let light into the rooms. It seemed so much darker today. She looked into the back room at her inbox of projects and alterations. Not much there, she mused. Lynn had struck again. She knew her assistant had taken care of everything for her, not wanting her to be stressed with work, but in truth, with the huge blanks in the diary, Maria could have used the distraction. She shook her head to chase away the blues and headed to the counter. Filling her favourite mug with some sweetener, she reached for the kettle and flicked it on again. She mustn’t have done it properly the last time, as it was cold. Nothing happened.
Flicking the button impatiently, she waited for the red light to flick on. Nothing. Moving to the light switch, she flicked it on. Still nothing. She sighed and, going into the back room, flicked light switches on and off, tried the sewing machine, the over locker. Nothing, and the phone was off too. Damn it. Heading through to the back, she opened the door to the back pantry and pulled down the cover to the fuse box. Something had tripped, obviously. The electrics had been pretty much untouched since she bought the shop, and probably for years before that. She was amazed they’d passed the survey, looking at them now. She switched one of the switches, which was flipped down, back up, but it tripped again.
She growled and flicked the switch again. The same thing happened. ‘What?’
She tried again but got nothing. ‘Damn it, I don’t need this today. What the hell is going on?’
The shop was due to open soon. She couldn’t very well open up with no power! She went to her handbag to get her phone but remembered she had left it at home switched off. Perfect, and the desktop wouldn’t work without power. She looked under the wooden countertop, hunting around among catalogues and sample books till her fingers touched what she was looking for.
She used to laugh at her mother and her old-school ways, hoarding things that didn’t have a place in the modern world. Now she did it too, and thank God she had. Thumbing through the Westfield phone book, she felt close to her, and her heart squeezed in pain at the fresh wave of loss she felt. Thank goodness for Cassie and Lynn. The thought of being alone was never far from her thoughts these days. She thought of Darcy, what he would think of her if he knew she had spent the night with a stranger. Would he even care? She had studied the pictures from the press so many times now, she felt as if she could draw them from memory.
She was glad her mother wasn’t here, in a way. The thought of her sitting in the church watching her only child get jilted was too much to bear. She wondered what kind of person could do that to another person. The Darcy she knew would never have done something so callous. Except he had. He’d done it and never looked back. The photos proved it. She could understand him wanting to get away. God knew she had wanted to escape herself. She could just about forgive him for going on their honeymoon, if she really willed herself to. The honeymoon she had booked, planned and helped pay for, given that he and his family had paid for the wedding. The honeymoon had been her contribution, her small way of exerting her independence. But it was fine. He needed to get away, escape the flak for what he’d done.
Fair enough. She could swallow that, in time. It was the arm in the photo that bothered her. What did it mean? Had he used her ticket to take someone else? Had he met someone there? Was it all for the press? They didn’t seem to know who she was, and as it was just an arm, they didn’t have much to go on. If it had been staged for the press, wouldn’t Darcy have made sure they could actually see her? At least with a face, a body, there would be more context. Maybe she was wearing a resort uniform? Perhaps she was just a member of staff, passing him a cocktail to cheer him up. Maybe she was minging. She could be a moose for all Maria knew. Anyone could have attractive-looking arms. Look at Madonna. Her arms were epic, but looking at them disembodied in a photo, you couldn’t tell whether it was the Queen of Pop or Iggy Pop. The crazy thought cheered her no end. The owner of the arm could indeed be no one, just a passing holidaymaker. The thought that Darcy could be that cruel didn’t bear thinking about. She’d loved the man he was. It felt like he had died too, in a way. The thought of him being out there, kissing another person with his lips, cradling someone in the arms that used to encircle her, was damn near killing her.
She felt the physical pain of her loss, and took a moment to will her body to breathe again. Grief and a hangover. Never great. She lowered herself to the floor, pulling the phone book onto her lap. Thumbing through, she looked for an electrician who wouldn’t charge the earth for a Saturday-morning callout. They didn’t have one in Westfield, tending to fix what they could themselves, but this was out of her league. She could call one of the villagers, but given that everyone seemed to be giving her a wide berth, she didn’t relish playing the jilted bride and damsel in distress. That would be one step too far in terms of feeling pathetic. She needed to prove to everyone, and herself for that matter, that she could still stand on her own two feet. She’d done it before, and she would again. She had to. And it was then that she saw it. The little box advert, staring out at her from the paper. Chance Electrics. Chance. It spoke to her. That’s what she needed. Hope. A chance to solve this problem, get her business back up and running and the home lights burning so she could at least keep the wolves from the door while she recovered.
This is it, Maria. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head, spurring her on. You can do this, my girl. You don’t need anything else. Use what you already hold. She nodded at her mother’s photo and picked herself up off the floor. Thank goodness there were still phone boxes in the village, she thought to herself as she headed to the nearest one. Pressing in the number, she smiled to herself. No weekend callout fee either. It really was a sign.
Cassie was hiding in her bathroom, pretending to get ready. She had applied her liquid eyeliner three times already. Any more and she was going to end up looking like Marilyn Manson. She could still hear Tucker in the kitchen, humming along to the radio and banging things around. Why was he still here? Robbers made less noise. She half-hoped he was robbing her, because then at least he would go and she could avoid the awkward conversation she knew was coming. This was precisely the reason why she never brought people home. Sanctuary Cottage was just that to her, a sanctuary from her parents at first, and then her job, and now she had a rogue Australian running around, rummaging in her cupboards. She couldn’t even ring Maria because her phone was on charge in the living room. She needed to fake a work emergency or something, but what would she say? A carrier pigeon had flown in through the bathroom window? Hogwarts owl? She couldn’t hide in here all day, that was certain. She needed to woman up, go out there and face him. Say ‘thanks for the hot sex, don’t forget to wipe me from your memory on your way out of the door’. What kind of weirdo hung around in the morning anyway, let alone made breakfast? It was definitely bad man code, she was sure of it.
A polite knock came at the door, making her jump.
‘Cassie, you okay in there?’ His Aussie twang reverberated through the wood.
‘Er, yeah, I’m fine. Do you need something?’ She tiptoed to the door, listening for sounds of movement.
‘Well, I thought we could maybe get lunch, if you like? I don’t have to work till later. Do you fancy it?’
‘Lunch?’ Cassie said, incredulous. ‘Why?’
An amused chuckle came back. ‘It’s what people do, eat at certain times of day. Sometimes they even do it together, have a conversation or two.’
Cassie cringed. She couldn’t think of anything more toe curling, aside from turning up to court dressed as a pirate.
What have you