Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (8 page)

Of course my notion of it being “just a wedding” changes when I see the dress. Or, rather:
The
.
Dress
. Wedding dresses were not on my radar today, but here I am in it: The dress I’ll walk towards Piers in. The dress I’ll say my vows in. The dress I’ll start my life in as Mrs Bramley.

‘You... you look stunning, Arielle,’ Tabitha chokes out. ‘So, so beautiful. Thank you for sharing this with me.’

She looks close to tears, which is more restrained that I’m currently being. I’ve never felt this emotion before, but I now get it. I get how women are taken over by wedding madness and can spend months agonising over the tiniest of details. That’s because when you’re wearing a dress like this, well, it’s quite frankly
magical
. Not having every other wedding detail perfect is just an insult to the dress.

I had come over to the King’s Road today to meet Tabitha to discuss the potential pop-up but when I saw this dress in the bridal shop window, I knew I had to try it on.

With a fitted ivory-coloured bodice that is intricately covered in tiny hand-sewn beads and crystals, the embellishment continues on the cap sleeves, which somehow makes my collarbones look really dignified. Who knew
that
was even possible?

The sweetheart neckline looks tasteful with the cap sleeves, which are made from a delicate lace that continues round to the back of the dress, where the dress elegantly, and subtly, laces up.

A grosgrain ribbon sash nips in my waist, making my waist looks tinier than it possibly can be, all because of how the tulle skirt flows down to the ground.

It sits perfectly on me, even if that’s because I have been attacked at the front and side with safety pins to show me how it would look if I have it made to my measurements.

There is
no way
I am not having this dress made to my measurements. I don’t care if it blows the entire wedding budget. I’ll have a quick service in Chelsea Old Town Hall and a wedding breakfast for ten people at McDonald’s if I have to. Sod the flowers, reception and honeymoon, if it comes to that.

‘Ramone will be devastated, of course,’ Tabitha remarks.

I really don’t know how to answer that diplomatically but then she winks at me.
Thank goodness
. Each time I meet up with Tabitha I am reminded that there is more to this woman than meets the eye, and I feel ashamed.

When I rang the doorbell of the bridal boutique and was told that I needed an appointment – the next available one being in seven weeks’ time – I cheekily dropped in Tabitha’s name which got them to open up. I quickly sent her a pleading text asking her if she wouldn’t mind discussing the pop-up over champagne and wedding dresses, and luckily she agreed. The bridal boutique is only a few minutes away from her place. 

For a place that claims to be fully booked for the next seven weeks, there weren’t many people about when I was permitted into this hallowed space. No one has shown up in the past hour. The champagne has been flowing, which seems a little extreme for eleven o’clock in the morning, but you only get married once! (I hope.)

‘He’ll understand,’ she continues. ‘Arielle, you look amazing, truly beautiful. Piers is going to be so overwhelmed when he sees you.’

I grin at that, tears still spilling down my face, and I twirl around once more.

‘I’m so happy,’ I sniffle. ‘I can’t believe I’ve found my dress!’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to try on any others, Miss Lockley?’ That’s Fleur, the manager, who took over from her assistant pretty sharply when Tabitha did indeed rock up ten minutes after they finally let me in.

Fleur looks plain intimidating in her black skirt suit. Her dark brown hair is pulled back from her face in a severe bun, and she looks like the scary bank manager I’d want to avoid, not like someone I’d want to help me choose my wedding dress.

Tabitha, on the other hand, looks nothing like I’ve ever seen her before. I always got the impression she considers herself to be the queen of the King’s Road as she always looks so on trend, not to mention that she employs menacing but tuxedo-clad door staff to keep the badly dressed out of her place.

Tabitha looks fresh-faced, with only a touch of mascara applied to frame her green eyes. She’s dressed simply in white cords, a buttery soft yellow alpaca jumper, and an oversized red body warmer with an Alexander McQueen skull scarf draped loosely around her neck. Her hair hangs over it in a fishtail braid.

I feel severely over-dressed in my smart, bottle green knitted knee-length dress and navy suede winklepicker ankle boots. What was I thinking when I picked this outfit this morning?

Her jewellery is also simple, yet tasteful – a plain rose gold necklace with a skull pendant, also in rose gold, and a pair of small ruby studs.

I definitely do feel ashamed for judging her in the past based solely on what I’ve read in the papers – she’s been nothing but friendly and helpful to me, especially sharing her pop-up idea. I realise that I’ve behaved towards her in a similar way to how Nigel treats me. That is, I’ve always felt superior to her whenever Piers and I have been in Tabi’s because she’s “Tabitha Tits”, but I’ve felt inferior, too, as she comes from a ridiculously aristocratic family. That isn’t who she is though; it’s only what people
say
she is, and that’s something entirely different.

We’ve not actually got round to discussing the pop-up yet, but when I can finally tear myself out of this dress we’ll head back to Tabi’s to firm up the details. I’m dying for some food to soak up the three flutes of champagne I’ve quaffed so far. I know that I don’t have the self-restraint to keep my mind focused on business chat when I’m wearing The Dress or, let’s face it, the clear head. If I mess up again, Felicity will lose
all
trust in me.

‘No, this is it,’ I state rather forcefully.

Part of me thinks I should try on other dresses because I can hear my mum’s voice telling me that I might find another dress that I love even more, but I know that even if I do look at more dresses, I’ll still pick this one.

‘This is definitely the one.’ I twirl around again like a love-struck teenager.

I am sad that Mum isn’t with me to share this moment but it was completely by chance that I crossed the road where I did today. I could easily have walked on and crossed later, completely oblivious to The Dress waiting for me on the other side of the road.

She smiles, quite falsely. ‘Right, well let’s get you measured up and talk dates. Will this be needed in more or less than six months’ time? We need to know whether it’s a rush job or not,’ she clarifies when she sees my puzzled look.

‘More,’ I answer. ‘We don’t even have a date yet, let alone a venue!’

I see her casually glance towards my ring finger, no doubt wondering if she’s just sold a wedding dress to someone who isn’t even engaged, but she breaks into a broad genuine smile when she clocks my ring.

‘How much is the dress anyway?’ I ask nervously.

‘With various fittings and alterations, you’re looking at about £14,000.’

I gasp. I know I used to spend a fortune on clothes, but I am trying to be careful with money. I don’t want Piers to think I’m taking advantage again. Can I really spend £14,000 on a dress that I’ll only wear once, even if it is an amazing, beautiful, heart-singing, marvellous dress? No, no I can’t. That’s a preposterous amount of money.

‘No way,’ Tabitha states, which confuses me as I’m pretty sure I didn’t air that thought out loud. ‘The–’

‘It’s designer and limited edition.’ Fleur cuts across her. ‘The–’

‘Did you just interrupt me to lie to our faces even more?’

I’ve never seen Tabitha look this angry in all the time I’ve known her. She’s not yelling, but she’s raised her voice in such a way that it feels like ice is being pumped into the room. I can imagine her Aunt Gabrielle, who is an utterly glamorous Lady – an actual titled one – speaking like this to wrongdoers, not that anyone would dare to try and hoodwink Lady Gabrielle Cuthbert-Monrose. It seems Tabitha has picked up a thing or two from her formidable aunt.

‘I saw the tag,’ Tabitha continues, ‘and that dress is £4,000. If you’re saying that it costs £10,000 to fit and alter a wedding dress then we’ll take the dress as it is and I’ll have Ramone fit Arielle. For free,’ she adds. ‘And with a lot of publicity that will name and shame your boutique for trying to take advantage of a girl who is in love with a dress and can’t wait to marry the man of her dreams.’

Fleur has turned puce.

‘How much will it be then?’ Tabitha smiles sweetly.

‘It will be £4,000,’ she squeaks, ‘and it will include as many alterations and fittings as you need, Miss Lockley. My apologies.’

Tabitha nods whilst I stand there in shock.

‘Now, if you could bring back that other girl, Dawn I believe it was, and get her to deal with Miss Lockley’s order, you can go and tell the press outside that you were mistaken when you called them. Tell them that I’m
not
here. That would also be appreciated.’

Fleur goes bright red and nods furiously, before dashing out of the dressing area. I am
seriously
impressed. Go, Tabitha!

‘You are an absolute star. Thank you SO much. I can’t believe I didn’t even clock the tag.’

I am full-on gushing as we head towards Tabitha’s King’s Road café, though calling it that is a little odd as it’s not like any other café I’ve been in.

At one end, away from the street, it’s full of luxurious dark brown leather booths that boast an intimate feel to them; moody overhanging green lampshades light them up.

Towards the front, by the large window that overlooks the King’s Road, it’s full of rustic pastel-coloured tables and chairs, the perfect place to enjoy a coffee and croissant on a morning and watch the world go by.

A stainless steel bar lined with plush black leather bar stools bridges the gap between the two. Beige and red dragonfly lampshades hang over each individual stool, leaving the space behind it as an unofficial dance floor.

The lampshades all look like Tiffany ones – they probably are – and the weird mix of everything thrown together works. Piers and I quite often come here on a Saturday evening for a light supper and drinks in one of the booths, but I don’t think I’ve ever been here during the day... apart from the day Piers threw me out and I met Lydia here, that is.

I shudder at that memory, relieved that it wasn’t the end of Piers and I. The fact I have just bought my wedding dress is thankfully testimony that we are very much together.

I am super grateful that Tabitha had the sense not to lose her head in the boutique because I would have been £10,000 poorer if she had. Well, I wouldn’t have been because I would never pay £14,000 for a wedding dress, though there’s a little mad part of me that would have been tempted. £4,000 is a
lot
by typical wedding budget standards, but if I have to cook the wedding breakfast myself, I’ll do it to justify the expense. I’ll take a London bus rather than a private car, and pick my bridal boutique from supermarket flowers – whatever I need to do.  

‘I’m so excited!’ I continue as we walk down the road. ‘I have to confess, I’ve been the most reluctant bride, but seeing my dress today...’

I sigh wistfully. Finding my dress has made me want to rush home and crack on with the rest of the wedding planning, but we need to talk about the pop-up. I wonder if she’s earmarked the dance floor as where the pop-up will be – it’s the only space big enough unless she removes the pastel tables and chairs. Those booths look pretty fixed down.

Tabitha laughs. ‘It’s my pleasure, darling.’

Memo to self: make sure I put Tabitha on the guest list since I have her to thank for my beautiful wedding dress.

Dawn, the much more honest and lovely assistant at the boutique, revealed I have bought an Evie Roo wedding dress. Evie Roo dresses are limited edition. Once ten people in the UK have ordered a particular design, it’s pulled from the stockists. I was number ten for that design; if I’d waited seven weeks for an appointment, I’d have been heartbroken.

‘Good afternoon, Tabitha.’

We’re at Tabi’s now, and one of her gorgeous doormen is holding the door open for us. With his chiselled jaw and deep brown eyes, he could be a model. There are no bomber jackets for Tabitha’s staff. He’s wearing a tuxedo, and he looks like James Bond.

‘Miss Lockley.’ He nods at me. I’m impressed!

‘Hi Ryan,’ Tabitha chirps, seemingly oblivious to this handsome man. I’m engaged, but even the sound of his gravelly Scottish lilt makes me go a little weak at the knees. ‘Any messages?’

‘Doctor Hamilton called.’ Tabitha blushes. He can’t be a regular doctor to get that sort of response. ‘And you’ve–’

‘If I’d have known that a meeting at eleven o’clock actually meant one o’clock, then I could have stayed in fucking bed a few hours longer rather than trek all the way over to Yah-ville, especially at the price you charge for this shitty coffee.’

A deep and raspy voice booms this across from the tables, and both Tabitha and I turn in surprise to see a girl walking away from her table that’s overflowing with coffee cups and magazines.

Ryan immediately steps forward protectively. ‘How can Tabitha help you?’

‘I want to talk to the organ grinders, not the monkey, yah?’ she mocks.

She guffaws, then breaks into a hacking cough. The voice and the cough both suggest she has a serious smoking habit; her look suggests a wild lifestyle, one which probably isn’t suited to getting up for an eleven o’clock meeting. Not that she has a meeting with either of us, but I can get why she’d be pissed off if she did.

There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t quite figure out what. Saying that though, in London it’s quite easy to misplace people and think they must be an old school chum or someone you met at a party, when in actual fact they are a TV presenter or a model who must get that “do I know you from somewhere” question from random people all the annoying time. 

Ryan steps forward, no doubt to kick her out, but Tabitha places a warning hand on his arm. She smiles politely at the girl. ‘How can I help you, Miss...?’

‘Millhouse. Etta Millhouse.’

She smirks at this announcement, pushing up the sleeves on her holey monochrome striped jumper to reveal colourful roses tattooed up her forearms; at a second glance I see that worms are crawling out of some of the roses.
Gross
. Wild curly red hair spills down over her jumper, and dark kohl-rimmed eyes glare coolly at us. There is something very familiar about her.

‘Do I know you?’ I ask.

‘Ding, ding, ding! Give Arielle a gold star.’

Bugger, I do know her. Well, this is embarrassing, but I can only think I must have known her pre-tattoos and wild transformation. I don’t think I went to school or university with an Etta...
Who is she?

‘A golden star for Felicity’s golden girl,’ she drawls.

‘Felicity?’ I question. Does she mean
my
Felicity? 

She sticks her hand out at this. Her nails are all pointy and stained yellow. ‘Hi, I’m Etta. Felicity’s goddaughter. I’m here to represent her.’