Jane Linfoot - Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop

‘Okay, stand still, I’ll see how the length is. And while we’re here, you can tell me how your collection designs are coming along.’

The question floats upwards through waves of tulle, but it still makes me stiffen so hard that my spine goes ramrod straight. Jess is talking about my ideas for my next collection of dresses.

‘Alright… I s’pose…’ I try to make the lie sound nonchalant and laid-back.

‘Hadn’t you hoped to be finished by this weekend?’ Jess is slipping the questions between tweaks, but, believe me, there’s nothing casual about them. This is the interrogation I’ve been dodging for more weeks than the dress.

We both know that I usually get all my design sketches consolidated easily, in two short weeks while I laze on some exotic beach in the cheap off-peak time before Christmas. And we both know, with Alice’s wedding coming up, I’m here, not there. And somehow Cornwall in winter isn’t doing it for me like Bali does. I’d promised myself and Jess I’d work my butt off, and whatever happened I’d have everything sorted by this weekend. But somehow it hasn’t worked out like that. I’m a beachy girl, and that’s where I do my best work. The designs flow much more easily when I’m flat out on the sand. Add in the crippling worry that I’m never going to be good enough again after designing for a celebrity, and I haven’t been able to draw a thing. Between us, I feel about as creative as a turnip. I’ve got no designs finalised at all, but even worse, I haven’t any ideas either. So where there should be a complete collection of worked-up designs, instead there’s an empty sketch book. Sometime in the next week I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.

‘Realistically, nothing gets going again until after Christmas.’ I’m bluffing here. ‘I decided it’s way more sensible to give myself a New Year deadline.’ I’m staring in the mirror over Jess’s head, exchanging OMG glances with myself. Praying that the word ‘sensible’ will be the one Jess hones in on.

‘I see…’ Jess says, sounding like she really doesn’t.

I’m dragging in a breath so huge it almost makes my eyes pop, waiting to see if I’ve got away with this when there’s a loud squawk at floor level.

‘Sera, what the hell have you got on your feet under here?’

Shit. I’ve been rumbled. Which is really bad luck, considering exactly how many layers of dress there are between Jess and my…

‘Biker boots?’ Jess’s voice rises to a scream that makes my hangover head reverberate horribly. ‘You have to be joking me. Where are the white bridesmaid’s boots Alice sent you, Sera?’

My feet in those pointy toes? It’s not happening. But I might as well come clean. ‘The kitten heels are upstairs in the studio.’ Buried under a week’s worth of completely useless sketches. Along with the white fur jacket and the wedding manual she also sent. ‘They totally kill my feet.’ I can tell excuses are falling flat. ‘The heels on these are pretty much the same height.’

Jess is staring up at me, her arm like a signpost, finger pointing at the door. ‘Go.’

‘Fine,’ I say, with a sniff.

‘And come back wearing the proper boots.’ Her shouting softens. ‘You’ll have to break them in some time. You might as well start now.’

I look down at the skirt the width of the bay and know there’s no way I’ll make it up the narrow stairs to the studio in the dress. There’s only one thing for it. I squirm, undo the zip, let the dress fall to the floor. As I leap across the bunched-up acres of skirt, being careful not to trample it with my biker boots, there’s another howl from Jess.

‘Sera, I don’t believe it! You’ve got all your clothes on under there!’

‘And?’ I stare down at my leopard-print leggings, shorts and shirt. ‘Good thing too, now I’ve had to strip off.’ Honestly, it’s December, there’s no point being colder than I have to be. And if the dress is the size of a snowstorm, no one’s going to notice a bit of underwear. Besides, Jess is the original inventor of the mantra, ‘ No one’s looking at the bridesmaids ’. So I sense she’s being a) a bit of a stickler and b) slightly hypocritical here.

Five minutes later, when we resume, I’m wearing the kitten heels – yes, they’re agony, in case you’re wondering – and I’ve compromised hugely by taking off my shorts. And Jess has gone in to attack the hem with her pins. My toes feeling like they’re dropping off is a small price to pay when the heat’s off my designs. Or the lack of them. Which Jess appears to have completely forgotten about now.

‘You’re lucky Alice hasn’t got you in six-inch stilettos,’ Jess says.

I don’t bother to tell her that’s really not Alice’s look. Instead I lock my knees, settle down to listen to the gentle sound of guys washing up two rooms away, as I stare out of the window. Although, with the explosion of Christmas sparkle on the glass, it’s hard to make out exactly what’s going on in the world beyond, other than a solitary figure pausing to look at the displays.

‘Jess…’ One of the helpers has stopped clattering glasses and is calling through. ‘There’s someone at the shop door, wanting to come in.’

‘Take a break, Sera, I won’t be long.’

In a second Jess pushes herself up, shoves her feet back into her loafers and marches out into the hallway. Although the shop is technically closed, so long as Jess is in the building, there is the potential for trade. She’s never one to let the opportunity of a sale slip by. Sure enough, next thing, I hear her opening the shop door.

‘Come in… it’s horribly cold outside… definitely no snow though… yes, we’re closed, but we always make exceptions…do tell me, what can I do to help?’

Call me cynical, but from the welcome, I already know it’s a guy. Thirty to forty, to judge by Jess’s pitch. A smile spreads across my face, because the supercharge of charm tells me he’s probably good looking too. And just because I’m nosey, and amused, and a little bit bored, I tilt my head to hear better.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry to bother you…’ Male, with a nudge of Scottish in the accent. And the kind of chocolate-fudge undertones that make you shiver. ‘But there’s something I spotted in the window…’

My back goes rigid. You know that thing when you instantly know a voice? Even though it’s from years ago, this particular voice is indelibly logged, deep in my unconscious brain. Five tiny words, from twenty feet away, and my heart is hammering so hard that the sequins on my bodice are jolting.

Shit.

You spend years furtively looking round corners, in case a particular person might be there. Even though you know there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of them being around. And then you go so long without it happening that eventually you relax. Get lazy. You forget to look out. There are even days you forget they ever existed. And then…BANG! They’re there.

The last person in the world I want to see.

I’ll spare you the worst details. Enough to say, his name was Johnny, it was back in uni days, and my humiliation was complete. End of.

Shrinking back against the line of hanging dresses, I try to make myself invisible as I creep forwards to hear better. I’m literally turning my ears inside out, but as the voices move through into The White Room the volume fades. Which is extremely annoying, because they seem to be chatting for ages. And whatever I said about this being the last person in the world I want to see, part of me is aching to catch a glimpse. Just the teensiest peep to see if I’m right. And despite my sensible head screaming ‘no, no, no’ it’s as if my bad-girl feet have a will of their own.