The castle is a maze but he navigates it with ease, through wide echoey hallways and down grand staircases, the music from below gradually getting louder as we get closer to the ground floor again, and then we’re at the top of the stairs I came up, looking down at the main entrance hall. The two ballrooms on either side are still bubbling with people who sound a lot merrier than they were when I left. He stops at the edge of the stairway and puts a finger to his lips, and then peers around the banister as though he doesn’t want us to be spotted, and when the coast is clear, we hurry down the stairs. Instead of going back to the ballrooms, he tugs me alongside the staircase and past the staff kitchen door, and at that exact second, it opens.
‘Run!’ His hand tightens around mine and we take off through an open doorway and down a darkened hallway, leaving the light of the entrance hall behind us, hopefully along with whichever staff member was about to catch us. He opens another door and there’s an actual theatre inside, complete with a stage and rows of seating, and we weave around the edge of it and back into another hallway. His eyes are twinkling when he stumbles to a stop against the wall and I crash into him and fall against his solid chest.
He’s not upright, and his lips are right there and everything outside of them feels very far away and an adrenaline rush floods my body. His eyes burn into mine, his tongue wets his lips and his head lowers, and my hand automatically uses his chest to push myself up until my lips are level with his, and for just a second, I imagine us kissing. I imagine throwing caution to the wind and pulling his mouth to mine, but then my sensible side kicks in and I stumble backwards.
He pushes himself upright and goes to shove a hand through his hair, but realises at the last minute that the mask is in the way and accidentally clonks himself in the forehead instead. ‘Adrenaline rush.’
‘Adrenaline, yeah.’ I shake my head at myself. I got carried away. I never would have actually kissed him, but for just a moment there, I wanted to. I could have. The possibility that I am someone who would kiss a stranger hangs in the air, and I like it. It makes me feel unrestrained and carefree, the opposite of my usual self.
He walks back to the end of the hallway to double-check we weren’t followed, and then we go across another room, a stately living room-type area with bookcases, a sofa and armchairs. Probably original oil paintings in lavish gold frames line the walls, and a grandfather clock is ticking in the corner, and then we’re in another hallway, this one with honey-coloured brick walls and glass panels in the roof so it’s lit by the moon above, and lined on one side by wall-planters with the dead strings of some once-living plant still spilling from each one, and that feeling of standing still in time prickles again, like if someone only came along and watered them, they’d come back to life, just as they were when they were abandoned.
He seems to be counting as he moves slowly along the corridor, but I’m not sure what – until he stops, presses the flat of his hand against a brick, and sure enough, a part of the wall shifts backwards and he slides it aside on silent runners.
‘Another secret door!’ I say in shock. To the untrained eye, there is absolutely no difference between that part of the wall and every other part, and yet, he knew exactly what he was doing. ‘Where does it lead to?’
‘Secret.’
I raise an eyebrow and then remember again that he can’t see me doing it. I peer in but it doesn’t give anything away. It’s a narrow walkway that looks dark and foreboding.
Should I be honoured? Scared? Slightly wary that he might be a lunatic and is leading me into some kind of hidden dungeon for definitely not Prince Charming-type purposes?
‘Sorry, I don’t have my phone on me for a torch.’
‘Me neither.’ Phones seemed like the sort of thing best left at home tonight.
He’s smiling again, his lips pressed tightly together and tipping upwards like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. ‘Do you trust me?’
I don’t know. Do I? It’s that moment from Aladdin, right before Jasmine steps onto the magic carpet. In my head, I know the horror stories. The instinct every woman has about going into dark places with strange men when no one knows where you are, but I think I’m generally a good judge of character, and I feel safe with him.
‘It’s not going to be a dungeon, is it?’
‘Nothing so macabre.’ He’s stepped inside the doorway and he holds his arm out, inviting me to slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, and it’s such a nice, chivalrous gesture that I do it. Because even though he’s a bit aloof and cynical, he also seems every inch the gentleman – suave, dapper and polite, and it’s been a long time since anyone treated me like a lady. He’s either a real gent or the world’s most sophisticated serial killer.
He pushes the wall shut behind us and stands for a minute to let our eyes adjust to the darkness. ‘So how does the false wall rate on the list of castle clichés?’
I can’t help laughing. ‘Well, between that and the decoy book, it’s ticking all the boxes. The only disappointing thing so far is that my teacup didn’t blow bubbles when I drank. Secretly hoping we might be on the way to find a torn portrait of a prince-turned-beast though.’
He laughs too. It feels like we’re both a bit nervous, a bit out of our comfort zones and doing something we wouldn’t usually do, but in the best way possible. My hand is curled around his elbow, the back of it held against the smooth material of his suit jacket, and I can sense his eyes on me when he keeps glancing down, and I keep glancing up at him, and every so often we catch each other’s eyes and look away quickly.
Our footsteps echo along the corridor until he stops, takes a jangle of keys from his pocket and unlocks a door, letting in a rush of cool night air.
‘It’s a secret garden!’ I’m surprised as we step outside onto a patio. There’s a wall surrounding half the garden and a waist-high neatly cut hedge fencing us in on the other side, a paving stone patio area with decorative planters all the way around it, each one housing a rose bush with different colour flowers, so perfect that it could be like the Queen of Hearts’ garden in Alice in Wonderland and someone’s been out here painting them. ‘A secret rose garden. Wow.’ I seem to be incapable of saying any other words to express my delight. ‘How is this still here?’
‘There’s a castle gardener. He’s kept up maintenance of the grounds over the years. The castle’s been locked up but there’s a path down to the lower gardens on the other side of that wall.’
We’re not on ground level; it’s like a private garden to one of the towers, and on the opposite side of the wall he’s pointing to are the upper windows of a ballroom and the music from below is filtering up. There’s a stone fountain burbling in one corner with a single penny in the basin. A wish. Whose? His? The gardener’s? I look over at him, but his mask gives nothing away. I trace my fingers across one of the many roses; this one has pink petals splashed with white and a sweet floral scent. ‘This is the most romantic place I’ve ever seen in my life.’
‘I thought your beautiful dress deserved better than filthy towers and retro kitchens. If there’s any magic in this old castle, I think it would be found here.’ His voice is a whisper that makes me want to whisper in response. It doesn’t feel like the kind of place for talking at normal volume. There’s something so lovely about the way he speaks – slowly and deliberately, as though he’s thinking about every word before it comes out. The kind of princely voice that makes me want to close my eyes and just listen.
‘Your dress is…’ He stutters as if he can’t complete the sentence. His lips move but no words come out, and eventually he shakes his head. ‘It’s rendered me speechless. It’s… a phenomenon.’
Words that could sweep me off my feet. ‘Thank you.’ I can’t tell him why that means so much, but the amount of time it took him to settle on that word makes it feel incredibly meaningful.
He reaches out slowly and lifts a fold of rainbow silk and sky-blue organza from my skirt and rubs his thumb over it, looking down as though it’s something revered, and using such a careful touch that it’s like he’s scared of tearing it with his huge fingers. ‘The whole sky in a dress.’
Eventually he lets go and murmurs an apology, even though he has nothing to apologise for. Being under his gaze feels special somehow.
He goes over to a white rose bush and goes to pluck one, looks at me, and then reconsiders and sidesteps to cut off a red one instead. As he comes over, he’s brushing every thorn from the stem, and he holds the rose out.
My fingers touch his as I take it and hold it to my nose to inhale the scent, letting my eyes close at the romance of the gesture. No one has ever given me a rose before.
‘May I?’
I nod, and he takes the rose carefully from my hand and tucks it behind my ear, letting his fingers trail through my hair as he steps away.
I open my eyes and meet his and he starts laughing. ‘Was that the cheesiest thing anyone’s ever done? I swear there’s a spell on this castle tonight. I lose my mind every time I look at you.’
I laugh too. ‘It was nice. Cheesy, but nice. Rom—’ I go to say ‘romantic’ but I don’t want to make it awkward.
I smile at him and he smiles at me and it’s like there’s a warmth in the air between us. It’s not cold tonight and it’s not too warm, it’s the most perfect night anyone could’ve dreamt of.
‘Would you do me the honour of dancing with me?’ He holds his hand out again, another perfect Prince Charming pose, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think there was a genuine chance that he really is royalty. Surely non-aristocrats don’t behave like this?
I slip my hand into his and he pulls me gently closer, still keeping a respectful distance between our bodies.
‘It’s not going to be “Tale As Old As Time” is it?’
I break the intensity by making him laugh, and he holds up a finger. ‘I have an idea. Hold that thought.’
He goes to the wall in the far corner, swings his legs over it and drops down onto the other side. There are a few noises: the rattle of keys again, the sound of a window opening, and the music from downstairs filters up, louder now. He must’ve opened a window to the ballroom below. He jumps back over the wall with ease on such ridiculously long legs.
‘All the fun of the party with none of the crowds.’ He brushes his hands off and reassumes the position, and I slip my fingers over his again.
The singer below is having a break and the orchestra are playing Tchaikovsky’s ‘Waltz of the Flowers’ from The Nutcracker Suite and the classical tune filters up from below, loud enough to hear but quiet enough not to be a disturbance.
His right hand closes around my ribs, and his left hand extends to hold onto mine, and we start a waltz. Usually I’d be overthinking it, but everything feels different with him. It’s a night of romantic firsts. Just as no one’s ever given me a rose before, no one’s ever danced with me in the moonlight before, and I’m not sure things have ever felt so natural with someone.
I remember doing this with my father when I was little, standing on his shoes and practising a ‘Cinderella’ dance that I’d do at my future wedding. Doesn’t every little girl dream of one day wearing a ballgown and dancing with a man she loves more than anything else in the world? Dreams like that were quickly wiped out as I grew up, but tonight, I feel like that little girl again. As if anything is possible. As though fairy-tale castles and Prince Charming can exist in real life, and you can really go to balls and meet a prince. A figurative prince. I’m fairly sure he’s not actual royalty.
‘I haven’t done this for a long while. My father taught me to dance when I was young. He mistakenly believed I’d have a lot of use for twirling fair maidens around a ballroom.’
‘My father taught me too. I grew up under the illusion that there were many more Prince Charmings in the world than there actually are, and the movies make you believe that you’ll attend a lot more fairy-tale balls than you actually do.’
He’s strong and firm, holding me steady, and although it’s been years since I danced, each move is instinctive. I mean, we’d probably get a one out of Craig Revel Horwood on Strictly Come Dancing, but it feels right tonight.
He spins and twirls me and lifts me with ease, and with every twirl, the skirt of my dress crashes against him like a wave, the soft rustle of the many layers of fine fabric adding to the atmosphere of the night.
The castle encloses us, as though we’re right in the heart of it. Behind us are brick walls, and in front are the trees that surround the castle and the hills. The almost round moon glowing down will be full later this week, and there are no lights out here to take away the view of a million twinkling stars. His aftershave has taken over every other sense. He smells of the darkest chocolate and the driest wood, something inky and bewitching, and I’m not sure I’ve ever smelt anything sexier.
‘Your dress moves like the ocean.’ His voice is a deep whisper and he has to swallow a few times before he can get any words out. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s like dancing with a cloud.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again, my mouth suddenly dry from the closeness of his body. ‘It feels like wearing a dream. I don’t wear clothes like this in real life.’
‘That was made for you.’
Oh, if only he knew how true that was. ‘Look a bit daft walking round Tesco though, wouldn’t it?’
He bursts out laughing so hard that he missteps and nearly overbalances us both. ‘Ah, the illusion of being dashing and debonair can only last for so long. Sorry.’
Everything about him makes me feel normal. There’s an ease between us, a feeling that neither of us needs to hide our true selves. He looks every inch the Prince Charming, but beneath the expensive suit and shiny shoes, he’s like me. Awkward and used to not fitting in. He seems shy, kind of clumsy, and he’s someone who chooses tea over champagne and who buys birthday cake for the sake of it, and that is what makes him so charming.
As the song reaches a crescendo, his hands close around my waist and he lifts me up for a final spin, and I feel like a firework spinning in the sky as he lowers me slowly, my hands on his shoulders as he sets me down and steps back, and with one hand behind his back and one over his heart, he bows.
I’ve never curtseyed before in my life, but it feels right, like Ella and Kit ending their dance in the live-action Cinderella film. He is every inch the gallant prince and every woman deserves a night like this in their lives. It’s so perfect that I’m convinced I’m going to wake up at any moment, because it must be a dream.
We’re standing, staring at each other. My eyes haven’t left his since the beginning of the song. The way he’s looking at me is breath-taking, and it makes me feel like my whole body is vibrating with anticipation of the next touch.
He reaches out and runs his fingers through my long, straight hair, a million miles away from my usual curls. His hand lingers, touching it like the Beast touches Belle’s hair when he gives her the magic mirror – as if he’s trying to commit the moment to memory forever. It makes me feel like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
In my real life, I am someone who people look straight through. A seamstress on the edges of their awareness. I listen to instructions, make suggestions, take measurements over and over again, but at the end of the day, what people see are the dresses I make. I’m a side effect of that. Not someone who deserves the level of reverence that he’s bestowing upon me.
His tongue wets his lips and he swallows. ‘Ask me again if I believe in magic.’
The words make my knees go weak. It’s such a simple, beautiful question, and the answer is shown so unflinchingly in his blue eyes. ‘I don’t need to ask.’
That smile again. His eyes and mouth are so expressive that I’ve forgotten so much of his face is obscured. His smile could turn water into something better than wine, like hot chocolate with marshmallows. The kind of smile you can see once and then never, ever forget. Even when you’re ninety, you’ll still be able to picture it every time you close your eyes.
The singer has come back and the next song that reaches us from the window below is ‘Once Upon a Dream’ from Sleeping Beauty, fitting considering I’m convinced this is a dream.
‘I love this song,’ I whisper, and he steps closer, puts his hand on my waist and pulls me tight against his body. It starts off as a waltz again, but I’m enjoying the closeness so much that I relax in the solid cage of his arms, my fingers brushing his shoulder and running down his arm. ‘Got to appreciate Disney teaching a caveat to the traditional lesson of not talking to strangers you meet in the woods… unless they’re good-looking.’
It makes him laugh again. ‘You’re dancing with a stranger tonight.’
‘Doesn’t feel like it though, does it?’ My mouth is almost too dry to speak.
He swallows hard enough to hear, which is all the answer I need.
It feels like the stars from the sky have fallen down and are sparkling between us and I move in a way I never thought possible. I float rather than step. I’m dainty and elegant rather than clumsy and tomboyish. Time loses all meaning. Nothing outside of his bright eyes and his smile is important now.
I lean back in his arms as he spins us around, my arms extended, elegant like a swan, the dress moving with me, creating a momentum that makes it feel as though we’re gliding.
I’m dizzy in the best way possible when we slow down, giddy with the sheer joy of how good it feels and intoxicated by his smile as we unsteadily wobble back into a normal waltz.
‘What you said earlier about wearing a mask,’ he murmurs. ‘Do you wear a mask?’
‘More than you could ever know.’ It’s the first time I’ve admitted that out loud and it makes me realise how true it is. Life is nothing like I expected it to have turned out, and a night like this makes me realise that something has got to change.
‘Me too.’
‘You?’ I look up at him. Tall, gallant and good-looking. ‘You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d need to pretend to be something you’re not.’
‘I think… pretending not to be something I am… is a better fit.’
I feel those words in my soul.
‘And yet, I feel like I’m not wearing one tonight. Ironic, really.’ He gestures to the mask on his face.
‘Me too.’ If ever there was a night for unflinching honesty, this is it. And there’s something about him. I get the feeling he’ll know if I pretend otherwise, and for once, I don’t want to be anyone other than myself. Even though I’m as dressed up as I’ve ever been, I feel as exposed as if he could see inside me. ‘In real life, I’m invisible. I exist on the side-lines and blend into the background, watching life go by without me.’
‘That can’t be right.’ He smiles down at me. ‘You’re the most memorable thing I’ve ever seen.’
He’s trying to be nice, but he’s unintentionally reinforced what I was saying. My dress is the most memorable thing he’s ever seen. But me? He hasn’t seen me.
‘But I get it,’ he adds. ‘In my real life, I’m a middleman between people and… a thing.’ He clearly can’t elaborate without giving too much away. ‘People only see the thing. The middleman is overlooked. Forgotten. I fade into the background like I was never there.’
‘I get that more than you know. I’m a middleman too. Well, middle-woman. I create… a thing, and people only see the thing, not the person behind it. And that’s always been okay with me, I’m not a “front-and-centre” type of person, but I wish… There are certain people in my life who I wish would listen to me and take my ideas seriously. I’m not very good at putting things into words and asking for what I want.’
His answering smile is full of understanding. ‘Words are my problem too. In my head, sophisticated and articulate. In my mouth…’ He makes a noise of a splutter crossed with stepping in a sludgy puddle and pulls a face that makes me laugh. ‘Can I just say that you are… spectacular, and anyone who doesn’t value you… well, that’s a reflection on them, not you.’
How can you go from laughing to the verge of tears in three quarters of a second? ‘Thank you.’ I say the words so quietly that he has to lip read.
We’ve drifted closer, and we’re not doing any kind of proper dance now. His hands are on my hips and mine are around his neck, just swaying to the music as the song reaches its final note, and there’s a lull while the singer downstairs starts the next request.
I could look into his eyes for the rest of my life. I could feel safe in these arms forever. The respectable distance between us has gone and my body is pressed against his as closely as possible. His fingertips are so warm through my dress that it feels as though they’re leaving permanent brands on my skin. There’s a deep cleft in his chin and I let my thumb rest in it as my fingers skim his jawline, brushing against the edge of his mask.
His eyes close and that sense of peace settles over me again, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It would be so easy to curl my fingers around his mask and gently pull it away and remove mine as well. Would he complain if I did? It doesn’t seem like he would, but this night, this ball… Maybe the magic is in the anonymity. I can say anything to him, I can be honest, because neither of us know who we’re dancing with. Will that be ruined if we take off our masks?
I like being the glamorous and mysterious partygoer. The elegant mystery woman with the sleek and styled hair and the dress that looks like the sky. What if I take off my mask and he’s disappointed? What if we make plans to see each other again, and next time, the frazzled woman who turns up will be wearing combat trousers, a tape measure around her neck, and have hair that looks like it’s been styled via the medium of sticking fingers into a plug socket?
I am not the person I look like tonight. This night is perfect. I don’t want to ruin that by revealing my true self.
The music from below continues and my fingers can’t stay still. They trace up and down the back of his neck, into his dark hair and across the thick elastic that holds his mask on, and back down again. His hands skim up and down my back, his arms around me, holding me steady with every shiver that runs through me each time he reaches the top of my dress and his fingers brush the bare skin of my back. It feels more intimate than anything has ever felt before.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Mhmm,’ I mumble in response, unsure if I’m capable of actual words.
‘Am I imagining this?’ The words don’t come out right and he swallows and clears his throat. ‘I feel like I’ve met someone I was meant to meet. I feel at ease around you, and I’m not the type of person who feels at ease around anyone. There’s something in the air tonight. Do you feel it too?’
I pull back and look up into his eyes. ‘I was hoping you were going to say that. I thought maybe I was the one imagining it.’
‘Can I…’ We’ve stopped moving and his fingers come up to trace my jaw, and his eyes focus entirely on my lips, leaving no doubt about what he’s asking. His arm that’s around me has loosened, allowing me to step away if I want to, and he makes no move to get any closer without permission. Little gentlemanly things that make all the difference.
I nod.
He tightens his hold on me and his other hand tilts my head gently as he bends and his head lowers, tilted in the opposite direction to avoid our masks clashing.
It’s like electricity when his lips touch mine. A buzz that blocks out everything else in the world. Every hair on my body stands on end and every pore turns into a goosebump. I let out a moan at how good it feels. I’ve never felt this special before. My fingers slide along his jaw and curl into the short hair at the back of his neck to pull him closer, and he moans into it too, and it makes it feel even more intense that kissing me is having an effect on him too.
It’s the most perfect kiss I’ve ever experienced. The kind of kiss they write fairy tales about. A kiss that I’ll tell my grandkids about someday and they’ll think it’s a thing of myth because kisses like that don’t actually happen in real life.
I’ve never kissed someone I don’t know before. I’m far too sensible for that sort of thing, but it doesn’t feel like I don’t know him – it feels like I was meant to meet him too, and the universe did what the universe does to ensure we were in each other’s path tonight.
Everything outside of his lips and his body has faded into nothing and the only things I can focus on are his mouth and his dark and alluring aftershave and the feelings tingling through me, a wave of happiness that’s making me emotional at how right this feels.
And then… a banging filters through the haze of kissing him. Something distant and faraway and not as important as the kiss. No, it’s not a banging. More of a clonking. A dong, like a chiming.
Chimes! Midnight! I scream and push him away. ‘I have to go!’
He pulls back in surprise. ‘What?’
I stare at him in horror. This has to end now. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. I wasn’t meant to be here, and…’
He looks like I’ve punched him in the face. His eyes behind the mask don’t hide any of the shock and disappointment, and his lips move as though he’s struggling for something to say. ‘No, don’t. Please.’
God, this guy. Every fibre of my being is screaming at me to stay. Like an anchor pulling me backwards, and my mind is racing. What’s the worst that can happen if I’m not there when Ebony gets back?
She’ll never agree to hand The Cinderella Shop over to me if she knows I’ve broken her trust like this.
This guy is something special. I know that. I’ve never felt like I do tonight. I want to stay. I want to take my mask off and tell him everything about me and I want to know everything about him. But I’m always annoyingly sensible. I don’t take chances. I don’t rock boats. I don’t want to upset people, and if my aunt knows I went to the ball, everyone else on Ever After Street is going to know too. They’re going to know I let them down. That I didn’t stand up to the threat of a supermarket like they did. That I came to the ball thrown only to support the selling of the castle.
‘Thank you for an incredible night. This isn’t you, it’s me. I should never have come here.’
His fingers hold onto mine for as long as possible as I back away, until just the tips are touching. He’s leaning forward to prolong the contact and it feels as if they drop in slow motion. I look around for an exit. Back through the castle will take too long. That corridor, having to get him to find the keys or the secret brick or whatever, prolonging the agony of saying goodbye, it’ll be impossible. My eyes fall on the low wall he vaulted over earlier, and I lift up my dress and make a run for it.
‘Wait, don’t go. Tell me your name! Your number! Where to find you! This can’t be over!’
It has to be over. I was never meant to be here, and I can’t explain that to him, not in a way that makes sense. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to go – I have to go. I’m too sensible for my own good too. And I’m late. I’m so late.’
I throw my legs over the wall and my body follows, dropping down onto a grassy verge, and then down steep concrete steps into the castle gardens, rectangles of lawn surrounded by smooth paths, statues and fountains and pretty white benches. There are well-maintained flowerbeds bursting with spring flowers and freshly trimmed topiary shapes everywhere, and I dodge around them and run.
It’s midnight. If my aunt’s flight was on time, she’s already at the shop. And if I’m not, she’s going to know exactly where I’ve gone.
The gate isn’t far. Through the hedge that hides the gardens from sight and I’m back at the entrance, doormen still on the door where I handed my ticket in hours ago.
There are footsteps behind me. He’s following.
I race down the stone walkway, walled on either side, and his footsteps are getting closer. Mine echo up from the ground below, leaving no secret of where I’m going.
His legs are a hell of a lot longer than mine and he can cover ground much faster than I can. And it’s not that I don’t want him to – it’s that he can’t catch up. Ebony is probably already at the shop. If I have any chance of saving myself, I cannot go barrelling in wearing a ballgown with a handsome prince on my heels. She’s not going to believe that I picked him up on a late-night wander round Lidl, is she?
My wedge heels are a hindrance on the cobblestones and the dress is so floofy that it’s a hazard, even though I’m trying to keep it gathered up. I can sense his moonlit silhouette behind me, gaining on me, and I do the only thing I can think of. I reach down and yank my shoes off. I’m not used to heels and I’m slipping and sliding every which way. I usually walk around in socks at work and only shove flat shoes on when I see a client. I’m better barefoot.
I try to bundle them together in the same hand so I’ve still got one free to steady myself, but it’s just too much and I drop the pair of them. I grab one, but one has rolled behind me, and I turn to go back for it, but he’s right there, already halfway down the walled walkway. A few strides and he’ll catch me.
‘Wait!’ he calls. ‘Please wait!’
I meet his eyes across the distance, one final time, and then I force myself to turn and run, leaving the shoe. A pair of shoes is a small price to pay for any hope of getting back to the shop before Ebony.
If I stay on the main path to Ever After Street, he’ll catch up in seconds. Instead of following it, I jump the wall at the end of the stone road to the castle, scramble down the bank, and disappear into the depths of the Full Moon Forest.
It’s not a very Cinderella-esque exit, far from hordes of palace guards thundering after me on horseback, but at least it’s not the original Grimm Brothers’ Cinderella with the tar on the stairs. That would’ve been seriously messy.
I can hear him calling ‘Come back!’ but it’s distant now. I dash through wild raspberry bushes, jump over roots and slip between tree trunks. These are my woods. I know them better than the back of my hand, and tonight they are my saviour. They provide a shortcut back to Ever After Street. Years of wandering through them, daydreaming of the fairies that are said to live here, escaping from school bullies and my aunt’s unreasonable demands, it all feels like it led to this moment, because when I need them the most, the forest gives me the cover I need to disappear, and I’m at the back door of the shop in minutes.
It’s mercifully silent. She isn’t here yet.
I fall into the back room and nearly impale myself on a coat hanger as I unhook the fastenings of my dress and clamber out of it. I yank my mask off and with it comes the rose he tucked behind my ear.
There’s the rev of a car engine from out the front. Ebony. I shove the dress onto a rail of returned dresses to hide it and bury my one remaining shoe under a pile of fabric on my workbench. I grab a spare piece of satin and rub it over my face to get rid of the make-up, yank on a long T-shirt, and—
‘Sadie!’ Her key turns in the lock and a breeze rushes in as she opens the door.
‘I’m up! I’m up!’ I shout, shoving a hand through my hair to pull out the half-up do and dragging out a handful of sparkly pins that skitter across the floor. I kick them aside and rush out the front, stumbling to a dishevelled halt centimetres away from barrelling into Ebony’s composed form.
‘What on earth happened to your hair?’
‘Scarlett! Scarlett was practising; I must’ve fallen asleep while she was doing it.’
‘If that’s how she makes her clients look, she needs to reconsider her job,’ she says with a sneer. ‘And for goodness’ sake, learn to remove your make-up properly before you go to bed, it’s terrible for your skin and you have enough problems in that department.’
‘Yes, Aunt Ebony.’ I touch my nose defensively. I know my oily T-zone never really grew out of the adolescent years, but someone pointing it out does nothing to make me less self-conscious of it.
I fake a yawn to further demonstrate the ‘just fallen out of bed’ act.
‘Oh, do stop that, Sadie. If anyone has a right to be tired, it’s me. I’ve been travelling for hours, and coming here is another delay I didn’t need tonight. I want to go home for a hot shower to wash the airplane off me and to sleep in my own bed, so stop dawdling.’
I trot after her obediently as she goes over to the counter and throws papers down on it. I rifle through them, trying to make head or tail of them, and then look up helplessly, waiting for her to explain.
She clicks her tongue, annoyed that I can’t magically divine what the sketches are. She turns the drawing around so it’s the right way up. ‘This is what that Finnish reality star has ordered from us.’
‘That? What is that? Why does it have… tentacles?’ It looks as if you’d need to be a spider to get it on and I debate turning the sketch around again – it looked better upside down. ‘That’s not clothing, that’s lingerie. It belongs in the bedroom on a saucy weekend away with an eight-armed spouse, by the looks of it. There are plenty of lingerie shops that can provide your Finnish friend with that – I’m not making it. It’s two nipple covers and a gusset.’
‘Joined by plenty of see-through black fishnet, which we have in the store room.’
‘The store room is my flat.’
‘Which is exactly why I don’t charge you much rent on it.’ She pats my cheek. ‘By Wednesday, please, I need to get it shipped to Finland by Saturday.’
‘Wednesday! Ebony, I can’t, I’ve got three bridesmaid dresses and a mother-of-the-bride outfit to match a wedding dress and they’re coming in for the fitting on Tues—’
‘Well, you’d better get on with it rather than making such a fuss, hadn’t you?’
‘But this is… trashy. No one normal would wear this in a million years. It isn’t appealing, and it has no business being associated with a shop on Ever After Street. We’re a shop that makes wedding dresses and kits out teenagers for proms. Small children used to stand and stare at princess dresses in our window. If it gets out that we’re making things like this, we’ll probably be banned for being non-child-friendly. This is a walking wardrobe malfunction.’
‘It’s a walking wardrobe malfunction that’s paying good money. I don’t see you out there dragging in new clients and we need all the new clients we can get. We’re going under, Sadie, you know it as well as I do. Gone are the days when we could lackadaisically sew anything we fancied and put pretty floaty dresses in the window and people flocked from miles around to see our perfect creations. We make anything we get paid to make – your opinion of it is irrelevant.’
I go to protest but she pats my other cheek, somehow managing to out-do herself on the patronising front. ‘One day this will all be yours and you can run it however you want. Until then, you listen to the experienced businesswoman who works her fingers to the bone to bring in prestigious new clients and knows the ins and outs of profit and loss.’
I glance at her fingers – freshly manicured in Finland, by the looks of it. ‘You sew it then.’
‘You’re the seamstress, not me. We’ve always agreed to work to our strengths, haven’t we? Sewing is yours, dealing with clients on the shop floor is Scarlett’s, and I thrive in the world of business and celebrity. Let’s not deviate from our particular lanes, hmm?’
This is all wrong. It’s all gone so wrong. My mum and dad would be mortified if they saw the kind of clothing we make now. I glance down at the sketch again. While lingerie has its place, The Cinderella Shop isn’t it. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look sexy for a partner, but we make dresses for people to wear on days of their dreams, not tentacle-laden catsuits that barely cover the wearer’s modesty.
Half an hour ago, I was a princess, dancing with an incredible man and feeling like the world was at my feet. Now, I feel lower than a rat crawling around the gutter. Useless and ineffectual, like I have no say over my own life and what happens in it. And something has to change.
Meeting him has buoyed my confidence. Some chances are worth taking. If I hadn't been brave enough to go tonight, I would never have met him. Magic still exists in the world if you have the courage to look for it.
He's made me feel like anything is possible.
Maybe he's not the only good thing that can happen tonight. ‘Ebony, I've been thinking…’
She sighs, as though me thinking always ends badly.
‘I don’t want to do this any more. We’re going under because of clothing like this.’ I tap the paper on the counter. ‘We’ve lost who we are. People don’t come in because the clothes in the window are off-putting. They don’t appeal to your average person. And they’re too expensive. We don’t need exclusive clients who’ll pay hundreds of pounds for a dress – we need normal people who’ll pay what they can afford for a special occasion. The cost of living is going up and people can’t afford—’
‘Which is exactly why I target the rich and famous who can afford your beautiful dresses.’
‘No. This is the opposite of what my mum wanted when she started the shop. She wanted to make people happy, she—’
‘—was in huge debt when I took over, you know that. That’s what happens to people whose business model is “making people happy”. Happiness doesn’t pay the bills.’
‘Neither does clothing like this.’ I wave the sketch about in front of her, trying not to let the frustration turn into an emotional outburst. My mum’s legacy is being trampled all over and it’s her own sister who’s doing the trampling and she refuses to listen. ‘People laugh at us. Instead of Cinderella, our clothing is better suited to the Ugly Sisters. It’s time to change. I’m old enough now. More than old enough.’ I think of his eyes. The strength in his voice when he said that about valuing me and it gives me the courage to continue. ‘I want to take over The Cinderella Shop. Now. Not in some unknown number of years’ time when you “deem me ready”. Now. Today.’
She laughs. ‘I’ve had a long day, Sadie. I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Well, I do. There will never be a time that you don’t find inconvenient to talk about what’s happening here. This stupid guarantee of finding love or getting your money back needs to go. I’m spending hundreds on fabric and hours of my time to make dresses that people can wear for one night and then return for a full refund, which then sit out the back on rails and do nothing. No wonder we’re operating at a loss. Something needs to cha—’
‘What’s got into you tonight?’
His eyes. His smile. The strength in his words. The way I felt, spinning around with his huge hands on my body, the feeling of being safe and protected from all bad things… I don’t need to be protected by some handsome definitely-not-prince, but it made me realise there are not-good things in my life and I’m the only one with the power to change them. ‘I can save this shop. I know I can, but not if you don’t let me.’
‘Oh, you are dramatic, Sadie. We’ve been over this. You’re a seamstress, like your mother, and while your talent is appreciated, you don’t know the slightest thing about running a business. There’s far more to this job than sewing. You’ll be out of your depth within a week. The moment you show me that you can do something spectacular on a marketing and business management level, the shop will be yours. In the meantime, we don’t let clients down, and this client has ordered this outfit, so chop chop, hmm? Don’t expect me in tomorrow; I need a couple of days off to recover from the arduous travelling. Goodnight!’
‘Ebony!’ I call after her but the reply is the rev of the engine as she starts her car and whizzes away, clearly thinking that the ‘no cars’ rule applies to everyone other than her.
I sigh. I really thought tonight would be the night she’d listen to me. Her ideas on how this shop should be run are the exact thing that’s pulling us down, and if she’d just swallow enough pride to listen… Tears threaten again and I force them down. I don’t want to end this night by crying. Maybe it was the wrong time to broach the subject. Maybe I went in too hard. Maybe I had too much courage. Or maybe she’s right. I don’t know the first thing about running a shop from the business side of things. If she did sign this place over to me, I would be out of my depth.
And yet, I want it more than anything. Apart from Scarlett, there are people I could get to help me – accountants and other business types who do know stuff about running businesses. Ebony insists on chasing high-profile celebrity clients, but I just want to make dresses that ordinary people can wear for special occasions. Dresses that make people feel like I felt tonight. It’s magic to put on a dress that makes you feel like a princess – that makes someone you love look at you as though you’re the only person to have ever existed. I want to do that for normal people. Not make lingerie for Z-list celebs whose only claim to fame is an inability to wear clothes that don’t flash their bits.
I gather up Ebony’s sketches and pick up my mask, the shoe, and the rose from the back room and trudge up to the flat. I should start work on the catsuit, but I don’t want to sully my mum’s gorgeous vintage Singer sewing machine with it; I only sew special dresses on that, so I’ll do it downstairs when Scarlett’s covering the shop tomorrow.
I put the mask and my one remaining shoe into a drawer beside my bed, and fill a slim vase with water for the rose and place it on the bedroom window ledge and sit down beside it. I lean my head against the window and look towards the castle again. It’s illuminated tonight, like a glowing haven within the mountain, and when I open the window just a little, faint snatches of music filter down from the hillside.
My mind drifts to Prince Charming again. Is he still there? Did my speedy exit ruin his night too? I sit with the window open and let tonight replay in my mind. The most magical moment of my life, cut short by sensible, boring reality.
I trace my fingers over the red petals of the rose he gave me. You never know, maybe it’ll turn out to be enchanted after all and I’ll find him again before the last petal falls.