Rachel Dove - The Wedding Shop on Wexley Street

‘Cass,’ Maria said, concerned now. ‘What’s the matter? Bad day at work?’

Cassie grabbed her arm, pulling her slowly into the guest room. Maria followed, wondering what had happened to make her friend so uncharacte‌ristically anxious. She sat down at the foot of the bed, her pal sitting next to her, putting an arm around her, oblivious to the wet hair that trailed down it.

‘I take it you didn’t listen to the answerphone message then,’ she said softly. Maria shook her head, concern now clouding her own features.

‘No, why? Cass, you’re seriously worrying me now. Please – just tell me what’s wrong!’

Cassie took a breath. ‘My secretary was reading one of those celeb mags at work this afternoon, and she came across a piece on Darcy.’

Maria felt suddenly woozy, her breath taken in a sharp gasp. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘Go on.’

Cassie reached into her pocket and pulled out a ripped piece of paper on which Darcy’s face could be seen smiling out from above the crease. Maria grabbed it from her, unfolding it. The headline read HARROGATE BACHELOR LICKS HIS WOUNDS IN THE SUN. Underneath were three pictures: one of Darcy in a pair of shorts, looking out to the horizon from a tropical beach, tanned and pensive. Another was of him driving down a beach road in a flash open-top car. His hair was being blown by the wind, making him look sultry, and his lips were contorted in a sad pout. I mean, the man looked depressed, albeit in sunny weather and behind the wheel of a posh car.

The third picture was of him lying on a sunlounger, caught in mid laugh, cocktail in hand. Scanning the pictures, she stopped dead. It wasn’t the hand holding the cocktail she was focused on, but the other one. The one held by a slender set of fingers, a woman’s, her thumb bearing a fleur-de-lys ring. The person was obscured by a wall of loungers, so only the hand showed, but it was unmistakable. Darcy had gone on honeymoon, their honeymoon , and was holding hands with another woman. The article was brief, just a few lines about how Darcy Burgess, heir to the Harrogate tea empire, was ‘consoling’ himself with an ‘unknown female companion’ after his aborted wedding to Westfield girl Maria Mallory.

Cassie took the piece of paper back from her. Maria allowed it to slip through her fingers. It felt like it was on fire anyway, her fingertips tingling from the contact.

‘How can it say that? It makes it sound as though I left him at the altar. He broke my heart, and he went on holiday! We were supposed to be married now!’

Cassie said nothing, thrusting the article back into her pocket. She strode over to the wardrobe, throwing the doors open, and started thumbing through the hangers. Maria looked across at her.

‘What are you doing?’

Cassie grabbed a red dress and thrust it at Maria. ‘Put this on.’

Maria looked at the dress, which had been a daring purchase, never worn. The tag scraped at her arm as she laid it on the bed. ‘I can’t wear that, I should never have bought it!’ Trust Cassie to have rescued that from her old place, Darcy’s home. She should have left it there. She pushed the thought from her head. She shouldn’t be ungrateful; after all, she had got all her belongings back without even having to put a toe near Darcy. Which was good, since the toe was attached to her foot, and if she had seen him, she would have used that foot to give him a good kicking. If Cassie hadn’t got there first and ripped him limb from limb like she’d threatened to, that was.

Cassie glared at her, oblivious to the violent thoughts swirling round in her friend’s head. ‘Why buy it then? Come on, get your hair dried. We are going out… NO ARGUMENTS,’ she boomed as Maria opened her mouth to protest. Maria felt her foot itch but ignored it. Not tonight, angry toe.

Two hours later, Maria found herself in Harrogate, squeezed into the red dress, shoes pinching her feet, wondering why the hell she wasn’t sitting on Cassie’s couch eating ice cream, sloshing wine down and crying. She said the same to Cassie as they walked on tottering heels to the nearest trendy bar, Ice, in the wine-bar-and-posh-eatery part of Harrogate’s city centre, which, coincidentally, butted up against the legal quarter of Harrogate, and no doubt the two sides kept each other in business quite well too. Walking into Ice with Cassie, it was hard to ignore the stares her friend attracted. Cassie Welburn was, she had to face it, sex on a twenty-nine-year-old stick. She was always tanned thanks to her meticulous salon treatments, plucked and shaped to perfection, and tonight, as usual, she was dressed to kill. Even Maria’s daring red slinky number looked tame in light of Cassie’s black and silver dress, slashed to the thigh, combined with sparkly silver heels that made her even taller than her just-under-six-foot frame. Maria blushed and nudged Cassie’s elbow with her own.

‘People are staring, Cass.’ Cassie shrugged, propelling them both forward into the bar with a determined swagger.

‘Let them stare, girl. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.’ Maria belatedly realised that tonight, thanks to that ridiculous article, the stares might indeed be for her and not her glamorous friend. She cringed inwardly and planted a smile on her face. She took her friend by the arm and, pushing her boobs out and her chin up, headed to the bar. ‘Let’s get smashed,’ she declared.

Four bars later, the two friends were knocking out shapes on a dancefloor. They were now in a place called Fresh! which had a large dancefloor in the back, complete with strobe lighting and a large DJ booth that overlooked the whole area. It was all neon lights, tacky road signs, and club kitsch, but it went well with the Eighties pop they were currently playing. Maria was laughing at Cassie, who was singing her head off to a Wham! hit while several suitors flanked her, unseen, ready to make their move, like big cats on a gazelle. If only they’d known Cass was the biggest cat of them all. No man could take her down; just ask her clients. Cassie illustrated the point by wiggling gracefully away from a man who dared to wrap his arms around her, shooting him a look that could curdle milk. As the song merged into another, Maria licked at her lips. The remnants of the last shot were sticky on her mouth and she needed something to rehydrate. Motioning to Cass over the loud music that she was heading to get something to drink, Maria took a rare empty stool at the surprisingly quiet bar. It seemed everyone was writhing and thrashing on the dancefloor, all the stools occupied but hers and another next to it. The bartender, a bored-looking youth in a uniform consisting of a black T-shirt and the tightest jeans known to mankind, gave her an enquiring nod as she sat.

‘Bottle of water, please, thanks,’ she said, getting only an eye roll in return. ‘Jesus, who died?’ she said under her breath.

‘No one yet,’ came the answer from her left. She looked across, surprised anyone had heard over the music, and met the brown eyes of a man who made the barman look positively cheerful. He looked wretched; bloodshot eyes under hooded lids, a near-vacant expression, all topped by a head of very unruly brown hair. He had a look of Droopy the cartoon dog. Cute, though – what Maria would call a fixer-upper. Good bones, just needed a bit of renovation. The cut of his rather creased but obviously expensive clothes did him no favours either. He looked like he needed to be steam-cleaned from head to foot.