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.
‘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
