Redeemed By Her Innocence

‘Oh, don’t worry on that account,’ called Barbara from the kitchen. ‘I never mention a word about Ariana when I call. We keep it strictly social now. So much goes on in Lower Linton for such a tiny little town.’

And is regurgitated every Sunday on calls to Mum, thought Jacquelyn. Nothing went unnoticed or unreported. Nothing.

She looked up and saw Barbara position herself at the doorway.

‘Barbara, it was lovely of you to drop by, but don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’ve got loads to do tonight.’

‘Yes, I am rather busy,’ said Barbara, narrowing her critical eyes as she wandered round the studio, like a detective in some third-rate TV show.

Jacquelyn wondered what clues she had left out and too late saw the piles of dirty teacups and balled-up handkerchiefs. Clues that might even find their way muttered into the hors-d’oeuvres of wherever Barbara dined tonight.

‘Well, I hope you show that Tim Brinley what he’s missing.’

Jacquelyn did her best to smile and tidied the scattered sketches into a pile. The inky sharp-limbed figure on top seemed to flinch as she was set down and Jacquelyn cursed the stress that was flowing through her, stress that was making it harder and harder to get these sketches right. And she had to get them right. She absolutely had to.

‘I bet Nikos Karellis would happily help out. He’s definitely got an eye for the ladies. If all else fails...’ Barbara’s voice trailed off as she raised a pencilled eyebrow and stared directly at Jacquelyn’s figure.

‘If “all else fails” what, Barbara? What are you trying to suggest? That I throw myself at a total stranger? Do you really think that’s my style?’

Behind her, the row of mannequins looked on like a jury of headless Greek goddesses. She’d been baited and caught, exposing herself as easily as if she’d taken out an ad in the front page of the Lower Linton Chronicle.

‘Darling, if it was your style you wouldn’t be in this mess,’ said Barbara as she lifted her clutch and re-formed her perfectly engineered face. ‘And if I were you I’d start getting ready now. You’re looking a bit puffy around the eyes. I’ll see myself out.’

And she did, sailing past in a haze of sickly sweet scent, on through the studio to the hallway, heels clicking on the stone steps and then out into the courtyard where they faded and were finally silenced by the dull thud of the wooden door.

Jacquelyn stood tight and tense until she finally heard the car roar off, then she let out a huge sigh and felt her eyes burn—again.

‘Stop it, stop it. Pull yourself together!’ she hissed through the hot self-pitying tears that had formed.

You knew this moment would come. Five years in charge and you let it all trickle through your fingers. Well, now it’s happened. And you’ve got one chance left to stop this before it’s too late.

She’d taken the once thriving family business and run it into the ground and had no one but herself to blame. She’d taken her eye off the ball, worried herself sick about things that turned out not to have been worth worrying about at all. Like a man. Like that stupid, stupid break-up, with that stupid, weak-willed man.

She sat down again, propped her elbows on the table and bowed her head.

Before her, the blank-faced sketches said nothing. She spread them out and stared at them. Any fool could see that there was something missing, something wrong. But she just didn’t seem to know how to get them right. She’d whittled it down from twenty to twelve to this final bundle of six.

When she’d showed them to Victor, the pattern cutter, he’d been gracious and complimentary, but she’d known he’d been faking it. She’d seen the confusion in his eyes. Another dud collection. Again?

Around the studio, light was sinking into a pale mauve sunset. Through the window she could see traffic on the main road out of town that led to London. Just two miles east sat Maybury Hall, where the Wedding Awards were being held tonight.

She was running out of time. She had to get going. Everyone else could gush over Nikos Karellis, but it was Dad’s friend Martin Lopez and his millions that she needed to see. She was going to approach him tonight and ask him to finance the business. She’d offer five per cent. Twenty per cent. Whatever it took.

Outside she heard a car prowl along the lane. Surely Barbara wasn’t back again...?

She jumped up and ran out through the studio and down the stairs, then burst out into the courtyard. She slid the bolt across the wooden door and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh. But there was no knock, no screeching voice, just the quiet sounds and sights of a summer evening: water bubbling over the giggling cherubs in the fountain and the sun-dappled flower beds, sleepy and still.

Peace. If only she could stand still and enjoy it—but that was half her problem. Instead of busying herself out in the world, she had shut herself away, hiding in the familiar silks and satins, and beads and crystals that hung in the boutique.

She looked through the French doors of the shop.

Fairy tales were made real in there. Women were made into princesses. Dreams came true.

Once upon a time she’d believed that. She absolutely had. Happy ever after was the only ever after there was.

How wrong she’d been. Happy ever after didn’t exist.

CHAPTER TWO (#udaee3373-3da6-523c-ac4d-e69eda21c6eb)

JACQUELYN STRETCHED HER SMILE and lifted a glass of champagne. She wouldn’t drink it but it was the perfect accessory, and gave her something to do with her hands.

She might be feeling as if she were dying but she knew how to put on a show. Her dress was a fairy tale. How could it possibly be anything else? Her blonde hair was tousled, in a knot held up with beads of fine crystals, silken and soft and sparkling.

Her gown was cerulean-blue satin. The chiffon bodice crossed over her chest and the skirt billowed out in the signature ‘Jones’ cut that flattered and flowed to the floor. Her long neck and elegant shoulders were shown to perfection with a single pearl droplet on a fine chain. Her make-up was just the perfect blend of colours and tones to hide and highlight, and her lips were glossily, naturally, plump and soft.

All in all she was a walking miracle, she thought to herself. It was amazing what a few tricks of the trade could do. But if she, with her know-how and connections, couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear tonight, who could?

She pulled her lips into a superhappy smile as a camera flashed a photo of the table, and all the while she surreptitiously scanned the crowd. She would not crack an inch in front of anyone, in case it got back to Mum and Dad. She was on show, wearing the most flattering cut and colour of dress.

‘The best model you have is yourself,’ as Dad always said.

‘Don’t you get too big for your boots,’ said Mum.

Jacquelyn tried to straighten her shoulders, but they didn’t need straightening. She twisted her head a tiny bit to the left, to see if Martin was here yet, but not so much as to be too obvious. Not that it mattered. They’d all think she was showing off to Tim Brinley or, worse, pitching for Nikos Karellis. As if.

She had been flippant, blasé, when Dad had phoned her about the awards.

Of course she’d be fine with Tim being there. Life moved on. And she would have a chat with Nikos Karellis if she got the chance, and, yes, she remembered his friend Martin Lopez. She promised she’d make a point of saying hello to him. She could give him a cast-iron guarantee on that front.

She felt the smile slip from her face and tension creep across her brow, and checked herself, taking a tiny sip of champagne and putting the glass down as if she were having the most marvellous evening, chatting and gossiping with the people at her table.

‘I hear Nikos Karellis has arrived.’

‘Made quite a splash already. In the bridal suite but with no bride, of course.’

‘Ha-ha. I wonder who’ll be the second Mrs Karellis.’

‘I only just found out he was married to Maria Lopez. She was old enough to be his mother!’

‘I don’t think he’s looking for a mother now!’

‘I’d never heard of her before...’

‘Where have you been? I thought everyone knew that story!’

Jacquelyn knew. She’d known the story for years, since the morning at breakfast her father had put the newspaper down with a, ‘Good grief, you’ll never guess who’s died,’ and then proceeded to tell them the story of his friend Martin Lopez and his beautiful sister, who’d married a man fifteen years younger. Photographs of him carrying her coffin, grief painted onto such a handsome face, had filled the nation’s need for gossip for a day or so.

‘Poor man,’ her mother sighed, lifting the paper from her father’s hands.