Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (7 page)

‘They want to what?’

‘I know, I know,’ I say. ‘I should have been more careful.’

‘Dear, you have well and truly fucked up, haven’t you?’

I cringe. I’ve
never
heard Felicity swear. For her to drop an f-bomb... this is
bad
.

After a wonderful show yesterday with Tabitha, I’ve come to Bransgore today to talk to Felicity about Tabitha’s idea, and then I’m meeting Mum and Dad to talk about the wedding. The Eley Kishimoto show yesterday was divine, but the best show came from Erro Upton.

We piled out of the Darwin Centre and headed to the museum’s Earth Hall, which has an escalator that comes out of a giant suspended metallic globe. We all lined up by the slate walls to watch the models strut down the escalator to display their wares. The designs borrowed heavily from a space theme, without using silver aluminium cloaks or little green men. I’ve never seen anything so cool, and the atmosphere was
incredible
.

I spent some time researching pop-ups last night, and it seems as simple as Tabitha outlined, though it depends on the logistics. Will Tabitha charge us rent? Where would we set-up shop? Would we be open in the day or in the evening? What happens if drunk people spill alcohol over the clothes? Are there any health and safety issues or red tape we need to cut through?

There’s a lot I’ll need to figure out with Tabitha if Felicity is on board with the idea. First though, I have to make Felicity get over my momentous cock-up, which she hasn’t taken too well.
Obviously
.

‘Arielle, Arielle.’ She squints at me and sighs, tapping her hand against the table. ‘I expected better from you.’

And there it is: not anger, but disappointment. The worst thing, especially coming from Felicity. She took a chance on me and my fashion aspirations when no one else would, when I was at my bleakest, and her faith and trust really buoyed me up.

Look how I’ve repaid her. I took her money – OK, Piers’ money to start with – and I’ve locked us into a hideous and costly situation. I should have gone on that business course like Dad suggested but, no, I knew best.
I’m a bloody idiot.

‘I’m really sorry.’ My voice cracks. ‘I was just–’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Arielle,’ Felicity interrupts coldly. ‘Now, you said you were dealing with Davidson Properties?’

I blink back tears. ‘Yeah, a guy called Steve.’ I feel like such a child.

‘Do you have their number?’

I pick up my phone and flick through my contacts list until I find it. ‘Here it is.’

She squints at the number and picks up her cordless phone. ‘Type the number in, would you?’ 

‘You’re going to call them?’

‘Of course I’m going to bloody call them. You’ve clearly not tried hard enough.’

Ouch
.

‘From what you’ve told me, this is fixable,’ Felicity continues. ‘Now type in the number, and let me have that contract of yours.’

I do as she asks. Felicity takes the handset and contract from me and leaves the kitchen. I hear her ask to speak to the manager, then a door closes and I hear no more.

I feel awful. I really thought I had turned a corner with my behaviour but I’m acting as spoilt and careless as I did before my bust-up with Piers last year. Felicity has worked hard for her money – the splendour of this house is testimony to that – and I’ve carelessly blown it away. I should have just quit the shop, never mentioned London to her. I shouldn’t have got her involved in a new venture, especially one she’s too far away from to oversee, and I should have left Felicity to retire in peace. I should have, I should have, I should have...

Born in 1931 in London to a well-to-do family, a ballet-mad Felicity Farrell was packed off to a great aunt who lived in the New Forest when World War II broke out. Both her parents decided to stay behind to help with the war effort. Her father went overseas as part of the British Expeditionary Force 1st Infantry Division. He was killed at the Battle of Kasserine Pass in February 1943; just a week earlier her mother had been killed whilst flying in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Her father probably never even learnt of his wife’s demise but, by all accounts, Felicity’s parents were plucky sorts and stood for something. Felicity has those values, too.

A rather shell-shocked teenage Felicity returned to London with her great aunt in 1945, debuted the next year at Queen Charlotte’s Ball, and eventually went to work for Serafina Paoletti after shunning three marriage proposals, Serafina being the one who taught the debutantes how to curtsey and what not. She also taught ballet and Felicity spent the next twenty years teaching it with her until the death of Serafina.

After that she moved to San Francisco and became a bit of a hippy – it was the sixties, after all – before returning to London in the eighties to open an art gallery with a friend. I’m not sure what happened to the gallery, she’s always very vague about those years, but she turned her attention to fashion when she was bequeathed the shop in Bournemouth at the turn of the millennium.

She’s never married, has no children, and always has the most extraordinary tales to tell whenever I get her tipsy. I’m a terrible person for disappointing her. I’d probably still be living with my parents if she hadn’t taken a chance on me, and Piers would be married to an amazing career woman. My life, effectively, would be over.

I have to fix this and make it up to her; I should have fixed this myself, not come running to Bransgore with my tail between my legs.

Looking around Felicity’s kitchen I’m struck by how homely it is, even though she lives here on her own. This kitchen would be perfect to fill with grandchildren, ones helping Felicity to bake scones and cakes. It has a real warmth to it.

Felicity’s kitchen is shaker style. The front of the cabinets are painted in a warm forget-me-not blue, whilst the back of her two dressers are a contrasting stone grey. Wooden worktops and tarnished brass handles lend a rustic charm to the kitchen, and Felicity has filled her dresser with dainty floral teacups and solid-looking pewter and brass teapots. It would work wonderfully as a tearoom, the sort of place where it would always be busy, but never chaotic. I’d like our kitchen to feel more homely. Saying that, with the shop and wedding plans, I’d better leave the grand redesign until next year. Ooh, though maybe we could...

No,
stop it, Arielle
. Concentrate on the pop-up, and why you’re here today to talk to Felicity and make amends. You do not need
another
project. You need to demonstrate to Felicity that you’re a serious businesswoman, not start grilling her about paint charts, the best material to use for kitchen worktops, and discovering where she sourced her chintzy teacups.

I heave myself off Felicity’s bar stool and switch the kettle on just as Felicity walks back through into the kitchen. Weirdly, there’s a new sign by the hob which says: “Remember to turn the gas off.” I wonder what that is about.

‘Well?’ I ask, apprehensively, as she stares at me for what feels like an eternity.

‘Arielle?’ I detect a slight nervous note to her tone.

I nod. ‘Are you all right, Felicity?’

Since Felicity went to the doctor about her recurring forgetfulness and they put her on medication, she’s mostly seemed OK. There are still moments though when she worries me. This is one of them.

To look at her, you would think she’s fifteen years younger than her actual age. Even though she’s only pottering around at home, she’s dressed elegantly in an original 1952 Christian Dior New Look full skirt in black and a bright topaz blue Pucci-esque blouse. I feel like a scruff in comparison dressed in my 7 For all Mankind jeans and a thick cream fisherman’s jumper.

There’s a glow to Felicity that you’d associate with a much younger woman, except when this blank look comes across her face then she ages instantly and seems much more like a frail old lady. Seventy-six isn’t that old, is it, not by today’s life expectancies?

‘Felicity?’ I repeat.

She shakes her head slowly, and then her face brightens. ‘Ah yes, Arielle. Sit down, sit down.’

‘I’ll just make a cup of tea,’ I say. ‘Do you want one?’

‘Sit down,’ she orders me.

Crap. This doesn’t sound great, not unless it’s a ruse and she’s trying to make me forget her blank moment just now. Still, I do as she asks.

‘You owe me, young lady,’ she says sternly. ‘I have spoken to Davidson Properties, explained a few things to them, and the agreement is null and void.’

‘Oh, thank goodness!’ I cry out.

‘But, we need to have a serious chat.’

I deserve whatever is coming to me.

‘What you did Arielle was stupid, and I think you know this. You let yourself get carried away, and you didn’t have your business head on. That was reckless, and I don’t need a reckless partner.’

I stare at the solid oak floor.

‘Arielle.’

I sneak a look up at Felicity. I have gone bright red, and I feel hideous. I’ve really let Felicity down. Admittedly, I’ve let myself down, but letting Felicity down is even worse.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say in a small voice. ‘I’m
really
sorry. You’ve given me an amazing chance and I was an idiot doing what I did.’

‘Yes, you were.’ I completely deserve that. ‘Now, what are you going to do to make it right?’

OK, this is my chance.

I quickly fill her in on Tabitha’s idea, pulling out my research and showing her the idea that I’ve come up with.

‘So,’ I finish. ‘I know we could find ourselves a permanent home now that we’re not stuck with the Camden lease, but I like it this way. Being a pop-up feels fresh and modern, and I think we could really make a name for ourselves, more so than if we had a normal shop. Sort of the next step up from the “dream-maker” idea I had when we launched in Bournemouth.’

My dream-maker idea was a moment of both pure genius and pure insanity. Put on the spot by the local press when I was renovating Flick’s, Felicity’s Bournemouth boutique that she kindly, and unnecessarily, renamed Arielle’s, I may have suggested that I was a dream-maker, someone who would revolutionise women’s lives by empowering them through fashion. Amazingly, the concept caught on and Arielle’s was booked up weeks in advance with women, and some men, desperate for an appointment with me. I oddly became something of a local celebrity, and business boomed for a while.

Felicity slowly nods her head. ‘I like it,’ she says. ‘I think it needs some polishing once you’ve spoken to Jean but, overall, I think it could work.’

‘Jean?’ I question.

Felicity looks at me blankly for a moment. ‘Sorry, dear?’

‘You just said Jean. Do you mean Tabitha?’

‘Ah, yes, dear.’ She laughs. ‘Sorry, I’m forgetting myself. I used to know a Jean who had the most marvellous little art gallery near the King’s Road,’ she explains.

‘Cool, well I’ll speak to Tabitha and see what we come up with.’

I’m grinning at this point, but her next words soon fizzle that out.

‘Don’t sign anything until you’ve talked it over with me, OK?’

I nod. I’m going to be kept on a very tight leash from now on, but I deserve no less.

‘What are all these?’ I flop down on the sofa and tug off my boots, unable to miss the stack on the coffee table. ‘Are these... are these all wedding brochures?’

Dad grins at Mum. ‘We know you’ve been busy so we started researching venues for you.’

I throw up my hands. ‘What do you mean researching venues?’

‘There are so many options,’ Mum says. ‘It’s very different from when we got married!’

They both laugh, but I get that point: I’ve seen their wedding photos. Mum has a perm and is wearing blue eye shadow; Dad is wearing a top hat and flared trousers. It’s quite disturbing.

That was over forty years ago, and they look really good for their ages now. OK, Dad is getting more grey each time I see him, but Mum still has her shiny hair and glowing skin with only a few wrinkles on her face. Their dress sense has also improved but, then again, that’s not difficult. 

That’s not the point, the point is I don’t get why they are researching wedding venues. For all they know, Piers and I might have decided to slope off to Las Vegas and elope. This is
our
wedding, I tried to make that clear from the start by being very firm in turning down their offer of money.

‘How do you even know what sort of wedding I want?’ I snap.

Felicity’s lecture about how I should and should not conduct myself business-wise continued for another solid sixty minutes. I totally deserved it, but it has put me in a filthy mood.

‘We don’t, but we’re only trying to help.’

I lean over and pick up the top brochure. ‘I mean,’ I say, throwing the brochure back down on the pile in disgust. ‘This is for Rhinefield House. We don’t even want to get married in a house.’

Mum looks hurt at that one.

‘We don’t even want to get married around here,’ I continue spitefully.

Now she looks
really
hurt.

‘What do you mean?’ Dad says sharply. ‘It’s traditional to get married where your family are from.’

I snort at that one. I know I should be a grown-up, but I can see the meltdown with my parents approaching and instead of doing everything in my power to stop it, I’m continuing all guns blazing.

I completely blame this house, as lovely as it is inside. Tastefully decorated throughout, my parents have a gorgeous and comfortable home. All the rooms that face towards the New Forest, for example, have comfy cushioned window seats from which you can watch the world go by. But, homely as it is, as soon as I walk through the door of my childhood home, I regress into a child and act ungrateful. I only survived Christmas because Piers was with me.

‘Like you guys did, you mean?’ I snidely say.

Mum and Dad met and went to university at Southampton, but they aren’t from these parts. Mum hails from Warwickshire, Dad from Leicestershire; they didn’t get married in either of those counties.

‘Well–’

‘She has a point, Gilly,’ Dad interrupts.

‘But there are some lovely places around here, perfect for you and Piers. Very much your style. Tell her, Quentin.’

‘Mum! Come on, that’s not fair. We’ve decided we want a castle wedding–’

‘There are plenty of castles here,’ she interrupts quickly. ‘If that’s what you want. Sandra Bell’s daughter got married at Lulworth Castle last year, and everyone is always raving about Highcliffe as a venue. Remember, we used to take you to Highcliffe all the time as a child. You loved it there! In fact, I have a brochure–’

‘I do not want to get married in Highcliffe Castle,’ I interrupt through gritted teeth.

Though she has a point, it really is quite pretty there, but it’s not what Piers and I talked about.

‘Piers and I have decided on London, though we’re struggling to find a castle so it might have to be a hall or some other historical–’

‘Well, there’s–’

‘Mum! Can you let me finish, please?’

Today is not turning out to be a fun day. I can’t wait to meet Ob at the pub later; the last thing he will want to talk about is weddings, or business, or how I’m a failure and disappoint the people I love. I could never fail or disappoint Ob, not unless I took him to an alcohol-free pub.

Dad places a warning hand on her arm.

‘It’s just that you know how hard Piers works,’ I continue. ‘And I’m trying to set up shop, so we don’t want to keep going back and forth to venues. If we did book a venue here, we’d have to come back lots to sort everything else out.’

I tick them off on my hand as I go along: ‘There’s the caterers, the florist, the lighting people and sorting out the entertainment, not to mention the dress and everything that goes with that.’

I can see them nodding at what I’m saying, thank goodness, even though I’ve missed out so many things you have to sort out for a wedding. I never realised how much effort goes into just one day, plus the prices... Ouch!

‘We just want a simple nice wedding that’s close to home so that we can both get involved. It will be easier for Piers to take a couple of hours out of the office to do cake tasting or whatever, whereas he’d have to take a day off if we had to come back here.’

Now cake tasting I can get on board with. I’m planning on having some lengthy tasting sessions in London’s top bakeries before I make up my mind. I may even have to go back for a deciding visit. Ditto for the wedding breakfast.

Piers is equally excited about the food planning. He pulled a face when I tried to talk to him about the flowers, and he has zero interest in wedding favours, but delicious food is what he likes.

‘But–’

‘You guys are perfectly welcome to stay at ours, you know that, if you want to get involved,’ I quickly say. ‘And I’d love for you to do that, of course I would. I’d also love it if you could help me pick out my dress, Mum.’

At this one, Mum bursts into tears. ‘My little girl.’ She sniffles as Dad passes her a tissue.

I shoot a look at Dad but he’s welling up, too. Crikey, I didn’t realise this was so important to them.

‘It’s just a wedding,’ I say. ‘It’s no different to me and Piers throwing a party for my birthday or something like that. It’s just a bit more elaborate, and a bit more legally binding.’

‘Our little girl,’ Dad cries, pulling me in for a hug.

This sets Mum off even more. I daren’t open my mouth for fear of making the situation worse, but I think I’m off the hook for not wanting a New Forest wedding. At least one conversation has gone my way today.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Ob, it’s true. They were crying for nearly thirty minutes.’

‘Fatty, it’s just a wedding.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m with you on this one.’

I twiddle my engagement ring. I’m thrilled that Piers and I are getting married, especially with everything that happened last year, but we’ve lived together for so long that it just affirms that.

‘They got so sentimental though, Ob,’ I continue. ‘I’ve never really thought about how much I mean to my parents.’

Ob sniggers. ‘Full of yourself, as always.’

I pull him a look. ‘I’m their only child,’ I clarify. ‘Same as you are for your parents. I guess to them their only daughter’s wedding is a momentous occasion, though I think it’s just an excuse for Mum to crank up the hints for grandchildren.’

Ob rubs his hands together in glee. They look pretty clean for once. ‘The olds encouraging you to have sex, now that’s a topic I can talk about.’

I hit Ob for this remark. Why is he like this? Scratch that, it’s always the same answer. The boy is starved for it and is in need of a) a good shag and b) an actual girlfriend, someone to talk to who isn’t one of his animals, his mother, my mother or me.

‘Yes, well, I know how much you hate wedding chat and what’s associated with it, so let’s talk about something else.’

I take a sip of my sparkling water. I’m getting a train back to London tonight as Piers will be stuck in the office until late – I’ll likely beat him home, which is saying something as my train gets into Waterloo after eleven and then I have twenty minutes in a cab – but I want a clear head for my journey. Ob, of course, is on his third pint of some disgusting artisan cider.

Our local traditional pub has become a bit more trendy since I last visited, that’s for sure. Gone are the squishy faded cushions and the church pews that used to line the back wall; they’ve been replaced by trendy, pop-art cushions and a new “upcycled” bench. I have no idea why they have committed this monstrous change, but The Guinea Inn has severely lost some of its charm.

‘Like what?’

‘Like, I don’t know, how about you? Is there any chance I’ll be meeting a lovely plus one of yours anytime soon?’

‘That’s–’

‘It’s not wedding talk,’ I interrupt. ‘Come on, you must have more than vet life to update me on, as heart-warming as it was to hear that FooFoo the cow is on the mend after her bout of mastitis.’

That’s an inflamed mammary gland or udder tissue to the likes of you and me.
Gross
.

‘Well...’

‘Spill!’

Obélix goes bright red, which is never a good look for him. With his reddish hair and silly choice of a burgundy jumper, he looks like a glowing traffic light.

‘Oooooooooooh,’ I tease him. ‘Ob has a girlfriend!’

Reverting to my teenage self will not get Ob to spill any further, but I can’t stop myself. Like I said, there’s something about being back in the New Forest that turns me into a moody teenager, which is another reason I don’t want to get married here. Getting married is a grown-up thing: I have never been a grown-up here.

‘She’s called Jade,’ Ob rushes out.

‘Are you seeing her?’

He splutters at this, and nervously pushes a hand through his hair. ‘No.’ He squirms. ‘She doesn’t even know I exist.’

‘Oh, Ob!’ I squeeze his arm affectionately. How can someone so confident (and cocky) with me be so nervous around any other female that’s not a member of his family? I wish he’d have more belief in himself.

‘How do you know her?’

‘She rides at the Partridge’s stables. Damn fine mare,’ he says wistfully. 

‘Is that her or the horse?’ I tease, dodging out of the way before he can thump me. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Please just say hello to her the next time you see her. Ask her about her horse, talk about the weather, but please just talk to her, OK? Let her realise that you exist, at the very least, then take it from there.’

He mutters something into his pint, and I know he won’t, but I have a plan. I went to school with Amelia Partridge, and I know she pretty much runs the family stables now. One quick message to her via Facebook, which is a new website that connects you to people from yesteryear – I very quickly turned down Peter Penrose’s  “friend request” – and hopefully Ob might get a date! It’s about time he got a girlfriend.