Redeemed By Her Innocence

‘Ah, she’s OK. Thanks for asking. She doesn’t know me any more but she seems quite happy, and they look after her well.’

His monthly visits to Sydney were the one fixed item in his calendar. He knew they wouldn’t last for ever...

‘So how’s business?’ he asked, keen to change the subject.

They walked down the stairs, as staff carrying huge displays of flowers and cakes criss-crossed over the black-and-white floor beneath them.

‘I’m getting out soon,’ said Martin, with a mirthless laugh. ‘This is the last sponsorship I’m doing. I want to end on a high. The hotels are doing well, but the wedding industry’s being choked to death by overseas competition.’

‘China?’

Martin nodded. ‘It’s hitting the dress side worst of all. With the volume they can produce overseas, there’s just no profit margin for the little guy. Unless it’s high-end, bespoke, but even then it’s tough.’

‘People will always want to get married,’ said Nikos. People other than himself.

‘Yes, but it’s not what it was. Even the ones that have been on the go for years are feeling it. Another one of them is just about to hit the buffers, and it’s one of my old pals who once owned it. It’s his daughter’s now.’

They rounded the corner of the staircase and fell into step walking on through the lobby. All around, the paraphernalia of an industry built on hormones and fiction—love and marriage. A sham that left Nikos stone cold.

‘It’s a pity, because she is a lovely girl—at least she was last time I saw her. But she’s out of her depth.’

‘As in overinvested, or out of her depth because she doesn’t have the skill?’

‘A bit of both probably. Which makes it awkward. She’ll be here tonight and I’ve got a feeling she’s going to make a pitch. And I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s the problem.’

‘Yes, that’s a tough one,’ said Nikos, who had his own tough message to deliver to Martin, as soon as they got the chance to talk in private.

They turned the corner of the hall and stood on the threshold. Tables, heavy in white linen, spread off in all directions; the band at the side of the stage was tuning up a series of mismatched sounds.

Soon the movers and shakers of the wedding world would all be here to congratulate themselves on their achievements in this phony industry, and he, the man least likely to marry ever again, would be presenting one of them with a cube of etched Perspex that would wind up displayed on a shelf somewhere. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Suddenly screens at either side of the stage flickered to life with images of Titian-haired brides in long flowing dresses running through fields of corn. That was it—he’d had enough.

‘So what’s the schedule?’ he asked, folding his arms and facing Martin. ‘Because we’ve got our own difficult conversation to have. And I want to make sure we’ve got enough time.’

‘As soon as this is over. I promise you.’

‘I’ll wait until ten. We talk from then until this thing is finished. And then I’m leaving, Martin. And I won’t be back.’

A shadow fell across Martin’s face. His eyes darted furtively down and back up.

‘I hear you,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘But it’s not just me who’s trying to get to the bottom of this. There are some people Maria was involved with that are very unhappy, Nikos. People that you know well.’

As if he’d felt a blow, Nikos flinched. Hair stood up on the back of his neck. Someone did a microphone check and a short burst of static screeched through the space.

‘People that you know well.’

He’d thought this was all dead. Buried, with his wife. But it wasn’t. It was still there, always there. Shadows that didn’t fade in the warm afternoon sunshine or fresh summer mornings. Dreadful, dark shadows that never went away, no matter where he went or what he did.

‘OK, Martin,’ he said, dredging up his words, like hauling on armour. He stood tall, he breathed deep, he squared his shoulders. There was no option; there was never any option. But his mother was safe, so nothing else mattered.

He looked at the other man. It wasn’t his fault. There was no one to blame but himself.

‘We’ll talk later,’ he said. ‘We’ll get this sorted. They won’t bother you.’

He patted Martin’s shoulder as he passed, and made his way through the tables, scattered like giant confetti on the ground.

* * *

Two miles east of Maybury Hall, in the pretty market town of Lower Linton, Jacquelyn Jones, owner of Ariana Bridal, was also getting ready to attend the Wedding Awards, and with almost the same mix of dread and trepidation.

As designer-in-chief of the bridalwear boutique that had occupied the same spot on the main street for the past fifty years, she could have been going to collect an award. Her father had managed to do just that, scooping five top awards in the past two decades, but that was before she had taken over from him, and before the business had stopped turning such healthy profits.

No, she was going there tonight to get money. Or she was going to die trying. Because if she didn’t, the whole thing was going to fall apart, one stitch at a time.

But first she had to get rid of Barbara, who had just slipped in through the courtyard garden as Jacquelyn had been closing up for the evening. With five husbands in the bag, she was the boutique’s best, but also nosiest, customer. No doubt she had scented blood, or at least the high anxiety that Jacquelyn was trying to conquer as she arranged a vase of white arum lilies.

‘So you’re definitely going to the Wedding Awards at Maybury Hall tonight? Even though that snake-in-the-grass Tim Brinley will be there? Good for you! You go and show them all. It’s disgraceful. He should be struck off, not getting a blooming award!’

‘You can’t be struck off for being unfaithful, Barbara,’ said Jacquelyn, though goodness knew she would have done a lot worse to her ex-fiancé. ‘And he deserves the award. He’s a good photographer.’

‘Tsk. You say that. But he owes everything to you and your connections. And it’s not going to be easy on you though, no matter how hard you try to put on a brave face. After what he did! The thought of everyone whispering behind your back...’

‘No one will be giving me a second’s thought. Nikos Karellis is going to be there so they’ll all be star-struck and googly-eyed over him.’

‘What? Nikos Karellis, owner of all those House department stores? The billionaire Greek god who is now conveniently unattached?’

‘I believe he’s Greek Australian, actually, though I really don’t see the big attraction. He’s not my cup of tea at all.’

‘Oh, Jacquelyn,’ said Barbara. ‘You mustn’t judge all men badly. Tim was cruel but there are plenty more fish in the sea and it’s time you started looking.’

‘This is an awards dinner, Barbara, not a singles bar.’ She twisted a lily to the side, stood back to examine it.

‘But Nikos Karellis—you might never get another chance! Think of the doors he could open for you! And you could do with some cheering up. You’ve not been yourself at all since Tim jilted you. It’s affecting the business. Everything’s got a bit shabby, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Jacquelyn kept her face fixed on the lilies even though she couldn’t see them, her eyes crushed closed in frustration and anger.

Barbara was right. She was completely right. And that it was so obvious was even worse. There was barely enough money to pay the machinists’ wages let alone invest in a refresh of the boutique. And all avenues to borrow money had closed. The bank wanted the previous loan repaid and capturing the interest of a financier had seemed impossible.

She knew they cast her as a silly girl playing at shops, not as a serious businesswoman. She was caught in a vicious circle of stiff competition, poor profits and higher costs, and she couldn’t seem to break free.

‘I don’t know what your parents were thinking disappearing off to the south of Spain, leaving you in charge here, after what happened. No wonder the place has run into difficulties.’

‘Mum’s rheumatics are what’s taken them to Spain,’ said Jacquelyn, ‘and the last thing they need is worrying that they need to come back here. If you’ll excuse me a moment...’

She stood up, scooped up the debris from the flowers and tossed it into the bin, then kept walking through into her studio, standing in the vale of light that flooded the space, desperate for a moment of calm.

But there was no escape, because right in front of her, spread out on her work desk, were the sketches she’d been poring over for the past two days. She swept them up, bundled them into a pile and bashed them off the top of the desk. They were rubbish. She knew they were, but she had lost all feel for designing fairy-tale dresses. She had lost her feel for fairy tales too. She needed practical things—like money—to hire someone who did.