come round for a fitting four weeks from today?’
‘Fab.’ Cassandra studied the Kabin, sighing wistfully. ‘What a cute little hut this is. It reminds me of a fairy grotto. I wish I could give up my job and play around with crystals and beads.’
Sarah restrained herself only by a great effort of will. ‘So do I.’
Digging her Swarovski-encrusted pearlescent pink iPhone out of her Mulberry bag, Cassandra left the Kabin with a tiny finger wave.
After she’d left, Sarah made herself a ginger tea and sat down. She couldn’t really criticise Cassandra. Who was the deluded one? Cassandra who was determined to make a statement on this one day – and stuff the lifetime afterwards, which was optional anyway? Or Molly who was, despite her protests, patently in love with her ambitious, frigid boss.
Or Sarah herself? Deluding herself that she and Niall were different. Special.
Until now Sarah had been happy that she’d given up a decent job with a bank to pursue the creative hobby she loved. She’d spent enough time helping other people get their businesses up and running in the decade or so that she’d worked at the bank. Although she didn’t begrudge a nanosecond of the time she’d devoted to making sure Molly had a good start in life, she’d been so excited at finally being able to do something for herself that was a bit risky, a bit crazy and a lot wonderful.
So what if some people at the bank had thought and told her she was selling brides a cheesy, sparkly pipe dream? She was doing what she loved best, while trying to make a future for herself and her baby.
Closing her appointments book, she took a few deep breaths and told herself to snap out of her gloom and get on with her work. Cassandra was her only appointment for the day, although she had several workshops to prepare for later in the week.
In fact, she ought to get started on Cassandra’s commission right now, but she simply couldn’t face it. It was far more tempting to curl up in bed and bawl her eyes out again – although even that would mean sleeping in the bed where Niall had been shagging Vanessa.
She locked the garden gate as Cassandra roared off in her BMW and a lump formed in her throat. The early morning drizzle had cleared and the sky was now an unblemished blue. Birds cawed from the cottage chimney, the sun gave the creamy stone a mellow hue and the whole place looked impossibly cute and picturesque. She and Niall had worked their butts off to afford it. She swallowed down her tears as she heard the “beep beep” of the bin lorry reversing up the lane. It wouldn’t do to blub in front of the bin men and anyway, she would never have Niall back again, even if he begged her on his knees in front of the bin men.
She hurried back to the workshop. Anger had replaced the initial shock of finding Niall in bed with Vanessa, combined with worries about what their split meant for her future and that of the baby. She needed to make her business work more than ever if she was going to be a single mum.
Another wave of nausea washed over her but she took a few deep breaths. She had to think of the baby now though it was hard to imagine a life beyond the cottage and the Tiara Kabin. She remembered the days they’d toiled on it in rain, hail and shine the previous autumn. It had a space where she could run her small workshops and entertain clients, with a tiny kitchenette for preparing drinks and snacks. Niall had got a mate to plumb in the sink and Sarah’s electrician cousin had wired it up to the mains. It was hardly the Grand Arcade but she loved it and the investment had finally been starting to pay off.
Closing the door behind her, she took some long, slow breaths. If she had to move out of the cottage, she’d have to find somewhere with room for the Kabin. But where and how could she possibly afford another place near Cambridge with outdoor space on her own?
On the desk, a light flashed on the phone. A message had come in while she’d shown Cassandra to the gate.
It could be Niall again … saying he’d made a massive mistake and begging her to let him back. She wouldn’t, of course … absolutely no way.
Sarah listened then rolled her eyes as she heard heavy breathing then a clatter and a groan and someone muttering, ‘Oh bugger.’ Her finger hovered over the delete key. The last thing she needed was a pervert asking the colour of her knickers.
‘Erm. Really sorry about that. I dropped the phone.’
Sarah listened. It was a man’s voice. Neutral accent, older than her, maybe, but not much? There was more heavy breathing. Sarah’s finger touched the button then he spoke.
‘I was wondering if you er … had any places left on your tiara-making workshop?’
Sarah removed her finger from the button. OK. Probably not a pervert and it wasn’t unheard of for guys to attend a workshop but … She’d had a couple, once, who wanted to make matching Swarovski crystal cravat pins for their civil partnership but, without stereotyping people – actually she was stereotyping people – she was ninety-nine per cent sure this guy must be gay. Or he could be a cross dresser, of course, which was fine, or at a push, the director of a local am dram group.
‘The tiara’s not for me, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Sarah muttered to herself.
‘It’s for my daughter who’s getting married …’
Sarah arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘I know it must sound strange …’
‘Just a little.’
‘But it’s something I want to do.’
Sarah sighed. She really didn’t need to know all this in an answerphone message but this poor guy clearly needed to get it off his chest.
‘So if you can phone me back, I’d appreciate it.’ Brisker now, faster and more confident. He’d obviously got through the worst part and felt on safer ground. ‘And if you could call me back as soon as possible, I’d be grateful. I’m in a bit of a rush, you see.’
‘A rush? Hey, you should meet Cassandra.’
‘Thanks.’
The phone went dead.
Sarah sighed and tidied up the bundle of bridal magazines that Cassandra had flicked through while Sarah had made her a coffee. Behind her the phone started buzzing again. Sarah’s heart beat a little faster. This time it really might be Niall but she was frozen to the spot, not knowing what to say to him if he called.
The answerphone pinged again and the same voice echoed around the workshop.
‘Erm. Sorry for this but it’s Liam Cipriani again. I don’t think I left my number in the last message. Or my name for that matter. But as I said, it’s Liam. Cipriani. Here it is. 0787 …’
‘No shit, Sherlock?’ Sarah’s shoulders slumped as with another apology and a further request to “phone him back as soon as she possibly could”, Liam rang off.
She hovered by the phone a few moments longer, just in case he felt the need to tell her his life story or provide his inside leg measurement, before stacking the magazines in the middle of the table. As she rubbed the lipstick off Cassandra’s
