like thick fur, except that it was pink with a silver thread going through it.
‘What do you make with this type?’ Hal asked, turning to Mimi with the yarn still in his hand.
‘I don’t use that particular fashion yarn for my designs,’ she replied, stroking an identical ball in a basket on the table. ‘But the students love eyelash—the brighter and flashier the better. A bit of fun; it’s great. And makes terrific scarves.’
Hal nodded and carefully replaced the ball very slowly onto the table. ‘Eyelash. Scarves. Right.’ He looked back to see Mimi smiling across at him.
It struck him powerfully that this was the first time he had seen Mimi smile from the heart. His photographer’s sense of vision caught the telltale curvature of her lips and the gentle, warm creases at the corners of her shining eyes. Back in Poppy’s office Mimi had seemed too stunned by the sudden change in management to be herself, but here it was different. Here she was in her own world and the difference was startling.
She should smile more often.
‘This is the first time you’ve been into a shop like this, isn’t it?’ Mimi asked. ‘That’s okay. You don’t have to be scared. The inhabitants are quite friendly most of the time—although I should probably warn you about a few local customs. Take yarn, for example.’
Mimi walked across to the next set of cubes and drew out a ball of a fine, smooth fibre in a deep red colour. As he watched, she unconsciously stroked the fibres as she squeezed the small ball, eyes half-closed, an almost sensual pleasure warming her face in the few seconds it took him to hobble the few steps to stand next to her.
‘Squidging is an essential part of our daily rituals. This is one of my favourites: silk; fine-spun, twisted with viscose to increase the shine. Here, have a try. You’ll soon get the hang it.’ She held out the yarn to him, forcing him to look away from the smooth skin and amazing mouth.
It was not often that he was wrong about women, but he had been wrong to judge Mimi yesterday. The passion she had for these yarns shone out from her in the way she spoke and handled these bundles of thread with such loving care. She meant it. It could be that Mimi Ryan did know the fashion trade after all.
Her enthusiasm swept him along so much that he was taken aback by the tiny ball of soft stuff she held out towards him, and he made a point of rubbing a few strands between his finger and thumb. Her fingers were long with pale neat-polished nails. No rings.
In contrast, his fingers were rough and calloused and furrowed by deep ridges from holding ropes and cables and grappling for tiny hand-holds on rock faces where his life had depended on being able to take his weight on his fingers. His fingers and hands were as important as any other piece of equipment he relied on to keep him alive.
The rough skin instantly snagged on the delicate fibres and he released his grip. He had no business touching balls of the softest silk.
But he could still enjoy the sensation for a moment through what few nerves were left in his fingertips.
‘How am I doing?’
‘Not bad,’ Mimi replied, stepping closer. ‘Try stroking rather than squeezing the life out of it. That’s better.’
‘Nice colour. What can you make with it?’
He looked up into her face and made the mistake of focusing on her eyes. They were mostly green, and in those heels she was not much shorter than he was.
‘Anything you like; that’s the magic. You take this ball of thread and two sticks and out comes a fabric. The cardigan I’m wearing came from a blend just like this one.’
Mimi popped the cherry-coloured ball back into its slot and pointed to the next cube.
‘You made it yourself?’ Hal asked, genuinely impressed as he glanced down at the fitted coral top, which up close he could see had some sort of twisted design down one side.
‘Please don’t sound quite so surprised, Mr
Langdon. I am a textile designer, and this is my work. And my pleasure. Does nobody in your family knit by hand?’ Mimi asked. ‘It’s quite a tradition in mine.’
Hal chuckled out loud at that one, and the sound of his own merriment shocked him more than he cared to admit. It had been a while, months, since he had last felt like laughing. There had to be something in the air in this shop. Was it the colours, or the talented woman who had asked him a question?
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe Poppy made me a scarf once when we were at school, but I don’t remember what happened to it. No; Poppy likes to shop, buy things other people have made—designed—whatever.’ He paused for a few seconds as Mimi rearranged the balls into a neater design. ‘I don’t think a creative gene runs in our family. Not so far, anyway,’ Hal added, well aware that he was babbling now and relieved that Mimi did not seem to mind that he was acting like a loon and probably thought that he was trying to play the idiot.
If the cap fits …
‘Um, well, that might be a problem,’ Mimi murmured, just as a bustle of activity swept into the room on a wave of female laughter and bawdy bellows. ‘I’ll be right back. My
Saturday knitting club has just arrived and the Knitty Chickies are on a mission.’
She gestured to a door at the back of the showroom which had been decorated with pictures of cute kittens playing with balls of yarn. ‘Studio Designs is just through there. Why don’t you have a look around for a few minutes? My college students are getting ready for their end-of-term exhibition but they won’t be in your way. Please feel free to explore. You’ll find a map and compass near the door on your way in.’
And with that Mimi was immediately swallowed up by the group of ladies of all ages who clustered around her like chicks around a mother hen and drew her into their conversation and laughter which echoed around the room.
Just as Hal opened the door to the studio, he took one glance back to see what Mimi was doing. Her head was back and she was laughing out loud with the other ladies at some joke about knitted body parts. Her laughter came from deep inside her body, a resonating, sweet, joyous sound that was strangely distinctive, even though this was the first time he had heard it. Her voice was musical and warm—and something else. Something special. Something genuine. She was the real deal, and as unique a character as he had ever met anywhere in the world.
The Knitty Chickies were clearly enjoying knitting a lot more than he was, and the camaraderie of their group made his throat tighten.
Suddenly he felt very much alone.
This room and these women were all a very long way from the Alps, and the narrow ice-covered ridge where his life had changed for ever.
What was he doing here? Mimi Ryan must think he was totally pathetic—and she would be right!
His world was ice picks, crampons and cold-weather cameras—not knitting yarn or women’s clothing. Not even close.
It was pathetic that he should think working on a fundraising event could in any way lessen the weight of the overwhelming blanket of guilt that hung heavy around his shoulders.
A week; he could give this project a week
