RACHEL GOT BACK TO BRIGHTON AT LUNCHTIME on Thursday, her neck stiff from sleeping hunched awkwardly on the overnight flight. Her flat looked tiny and cluttered compared to Richard’s loft, but she preferred her decor: the gilt-framed turquoise-velvet chairs and sofa, the chaise longue at the foot of her canopied bed, the chandelier and the groupings of sepia photographs in mother-of-pearl frames. She felt energised by the trip: at least now she could tell her regular customers there was new stock on the way. Maybe this would mark a change in her fortunes. Good old Richard: they didn’t see each other often because of the amount of travelling he did, but he had proved a true friend in her time of need.
The answer machine was blinking so she played the messages: her mum’s cheerful voice told her that the registry office was booked for 5 p.m. on 18 December, a Thursday; it was the only time they had available in December, she said. The next message was from Nicola, who sounded upset that the shop was shut and hoped it wasn’t closing down because of her. And then there was a call from Alex in Paris and she could hear from his tone that he was stressed so she called him on his mobile, wondering if he was still cross with her.
‘I’m back,’ she said. ‘How did your awards ceremony go?’
‘Brilliant!’ he exclaimed. ‘I won an award for “rising star”. Ironic that I’m only “rising” now when I’ve had my company for eight years, but it’s good to feel appreciated.’
Rachel gasped. ‘Alex, that’s wonderful news. I’m so proud of you. But I feel awful I wasn’t there to see you collect the award.’
‘I thanked you in my speech anyway. You weren’t forgotten.’
‘Now I feel even worse. You’ll have to tell me how I can make it up to you.’
He continued, his tone becoming subdued: ‘But meanwhile, the Diana programme is turning into a fiasco. Remember I told you about the witness who saw the motorbike pillion passenger flashing a light in Henri Paul’s eyes? Well, it seems his wife, who was sitting beside him, has a completely different story. Every lead I uncover turns to dust when I look more closely . . .’
‘That’s frustrating.’ She wished she was there to give him a hug; she felt guilty about missing his awards ceremony, guilty about her lack of enthusiasm for his Diana documentary. ‘Can’t you present the contradictions and leave the viewer to draw their own conclusions?’
He sighed. ‘It would be nice if at least some of the witness stories were corroborated. Beats me how twenty people can watch the same event and all give a different account of it.’
‘You sound knackered,’ she soothed.
‘That’s an understatement.’ He laughed half-heartedly. ‘How about you? How was New York?’
‘Good. I picked up some wonderful pieces. Mum’s booked the registry office for the eighteenth of December, by the way, so stick that in your diary.’
There was a pause and she heard the tapping of his fingernail as he checked his Psion organiser. ‘Yeah, that’s fine for me. I’ll take the day off.’
‘Just a day?’ she laughed. ‘Actually, I can’t afford to take any more than that right before Christmas. We can honeymoon in the spring.’
‘Got to go,’ he said, and she heard another voice in the background. ‘See you tomorrow night.’
Alex never stayed on the phone long when he called from overseas because the charges on his mobile were prohibitive, even for receiving calls.
Rachel called her mum next and ran through her list of requests for the wedding. It felt awkward since she was not paying, and she tried to think of ways of cutting costs. ‘One of Alex’s production team can make the video,’ she suggested. ‘And I’ll ask Wendy to make the cake. She said she wanted to help.’
‘I’ll call this morning and see if I can book the Bonne Auberge,’ her mum said. ‘Fingers crossed.’
Next Rachel sat down to open some post that had arrived. There was a notification about an increase in business rates for the shop, a credit card bill and a letter from the bank confirming her revised overdraft facility. Her stomach clenched. The business was still in a deep black hole. Once she had paid the rent, the VAT and the costs of the New York trip, she would have spent up to the new overdraft limit and there would be nothing left in either her personal or her business account. Meanwhile she would not be able to start selling her Van der Heyden stock until mid November. Something else was needed to get her through the next eight weeks, and at that precise moment she couldn’t think what.
After changing and grabbing an apple, Rachel headed to Forgotten Dreams. As she walked past the modern shops of Churchill Square, she saw ‘Sale’ signs in several windows and that gave her an idea: she had never held a sale at the shop before, but perhaps she could have a limited one, just offering twenty per cent off the old stock. She stopped at a print shop and asked them to make her a banner.
On entering Forgotten Dreams, she paused and surveyed her empire. It was heartbreaking to think of all she had lost. The interior no longer had that cluttered ‘flapper’s boudoir’ look, and the shop window still looked sparse, even with her own dresses and jewellery. A note had been pushed under the door: a local craftsman whom she had asked to repair the art deco lamp said it was ready for collection. That was good news at least.
The holdall of charity-shop goods she’d bought in London was at the back of the shop. The clothes were being dry-cleaned, but she had also picked up a range of accessories and trinkets and Rachel brought them to the counter to sort through. A 1920s black-sequinned evening bag was shedding its sequins, so she threaded a needle and began reattaching them.
Nicola’s head popped round the door. ‘Thank goodness you’re open. I was beginning to think . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
‘I’ve been away. How are you?’
‘I still feel awful about the robbery and wish there was something I could do. Can I help you today? No charge, just so we can spend time together?’
‘There’s an offer I can’t refuse,’ Rachel said with a smile. She reached into the holdall. ‘Fancy polishing these silver photo frames? There’s some liquid polish in the cupboard.’
Nicola pulled up a chair and before long the shop had the sweet chemical scent of a well-kept stately home. Rachel told her about the New York trip, then mentioned the date of the wedding.
‘Are you bringing Tony?’ she asked. He was Nicola’s latest. ‘I’ve got you down on the list as a plus-one.’
Nicola lowered her head. ‘What a creep Tony turned out to be. The band are going on tour for a couple of months and he said I’m not allowed to contact him. What happens on tour stays on tour.’
‘Oh no, I’m sorry.’ Rachel wasn’t surprised. Whenever they’d met, Tony had given her lecherous looks and too-intimate hugs of greeting, and had clearly not seen Nicola as any more than a pit stop.
‘I need to stop picking musicians. I’ve always been a sucker for a man who sings to me in bed.’
Nicola was a year older than Rachel, but her love life was a series of disastrous flings with musicians she met in pubs and clubs round Brighton, none of whom had any intention of settling down.
‘Why not get an Eric Clapton CD,’ Rachel suggested, ‘and date grown-ups instead of perennial teenagers?’
‘Good idea,’ Nicola agreed. ‘Alex says I need to retune my antennae because I have an unerring knack for picking the bastard in the room.’
‘Did he suggest how you should do that? Aversion therapy? Maybe listening to your friends for a change?’ She rubbed Nicola’s shoulder in sympathy.
Nicola concentrated on her polishing, rubbing so hard Rachel worried she might wear away the silver. ‘I hear you and Alex aren’t going to manage a honeymoon until spring. He says he’ll have to work through Christmas Day now the programme is airing in January.’
Rachel frowned. ‘Is it January? I didn’t know that.’
‘He mentioned it when he rang the other day, and I thought that would make timing tight for a Christmas wedding because he’ll be in the middle of editing.’
‘I wonder why he didn’t mention January to me?’ Rachel mused. ‘Maybe he did and I wasn’t listening properly.’
‘Must have been while you were away. He got a call from the channel a couple of days ago.’
The bell rang as a customer came in looking for a necklace to match a gown she had bought a few weeks earlier. Rachel only had a few necklaces in stock – her own ones, brought from home. She helped the customer to try them on, fastening the catches as she lifted her long hair out of the way, but none were quite right. There had been dozens of necklaces before the break-in, and Rachel could picture one that would have been perfect.
All afternoon she watched browsers, noticed what they picked up and willed them to buy, but she only sold one angora cardigan. It felt as if her luck had changed, like the wind blowing from the north instead of the south. The thought crossed her mind that it might be something to do with that broken mirror, and she murmured, ‘Idiot!’
‘What was that?’ Nicola looked up.
‘Oh, nothing. I stabbed my finger with a needle.’ She couldn’t tell Nicola how stressed she was about the shop because it was clear she was already consumed with guilt. She couldn’t tell Alex because he had his own stress. It was something she would deal with on her own.
As she cashed up and prepared to close for the night, her thoughts returned to the earlier conversation with Nicola and she realised that Alex must have rung her from Paris. Why would he do that when he was careful about his phone bill?
She was about to ask Nicola but stopped herself. Their friendship was their business. And she had always believed that men who had female friends were more trustworthy than those who didn’t.