The Tailor's Girl (27 page)

‘Hope so.’

‘I’m sorry I lost him, Edie,’ he croaked, reaching for her hand.

‘Me too. I miss Abba every day.’

He smiled sadly. ‘I meant Tom,’ he said, sounding so frail she wanted to call his wife, bring Tommy in quickly so he could see her fine boy, but didn’t dare let go of his hand or shift attention. ‘I’ve wanted to say that to you for a long time.’

Her tears began to flow freely and she gave up trying to dab at them.

‘He just wanted to buy you a gift.’

She caught her breath. This was the first snippet relating to Tom’s disappearance she’d heard since that terrible day.

‘Really? You didn’t mention it back then.’

Sol struggled to breathe as he spoke but was determined to say what he had to. ‘I forgot. I thought Abe would have mentioned it. We’re old men, Edie. Our minds aren’t what they used to be. Tom said he was feeling strong. He had plans to go to Piccadilly Circus but as we approached he realised it was too much and so I set him down at Green Park.’

‘I heard that. I never fully understand why he didn’t go to Savile Row with you. Why he was dropped off. I assumed he was scared and decided to head home on a bus out of central London, but it all became too much.’

‘He should have stuck with me. The Row is quiet.’

Edie nodded in agreement.

‘I dreamed of Tom not so long ago.’

She sniffed. ‘I dream of him all the time. Tragic, aren’t we?’

Her son peered around the door. She caught sight, beckoned to him, whispering.

‘Sol . . . this is our little boy. I called him Tommy.’

‘Tommy,’ he repeated in soft wonder, his voice gently rapturous.

‘Say hello to Solly,’ she whispered.

‘Hello, Solly,’ the little boy mangled with a slight lisp.

Sol chuckled. ‘Wow, Edie. He’s a Valentine all right, but I see Tom.’

‘Me too. I’m glad you do.’

‘I remembered something after my dream. It was as if I was there again. It was all so clear I could believe I could reach out and touch him, bring him back to you.’

Edie caught a sob in her throat; refused to crumple into tears.

‘You have to find the old man.’

‘Old man?’ she repeated, her voice shaking.

‘The one Tom was speaking to.’

She blinked. ‘I didn’t hear anything about an old man.’

‘I didn’t remember him at the time. It was all so . . . so . . . frantic when the police were making their enquiries.’ He stopped and gulped. ‘And losing Abe. I felt so responsible, Edie. I don’t think I was thinking straight. But in my dream I saw him, an old man, approaching Tom. I’ve seen him before when I’ve done deliveries. I think the old fellow feeds the birds at the park.’

Edie squeezed Sol’s hand. ‘Remember again. Tell me everything you can recall. Every tiny detail, Sol.’

_______________

The weather, though unseasonably wet, was also hot enough to send most people scurrying to the closest seafronts. Alex had booked a table at The Grand Hotel in Brighton and whisked a delighted Pen in Rupert’s new car to the coast in a roar of petrol fumes.

‘Glad I borrowed this motor. Mine’s far too sedate. I shall definitely have to get myself one of these,’ he yelled to her over the growl of the engine.

‘I shall race you to the purchase,’ she challenged, holding on to her hat, her face flushed with happiness.

After a laughter-filled lunch and a flute of champagne to add to the effervescence of the afternoon, he suggested a stroll on the promenade.

‘I have to tell you, Pen, you somehow manage to look as cool as ice-cream in this outrageous heat, and just as delicious.’

She grinned. ‘There is a saucy response that comes to mind with that remark.’

He laughed, delightedly. ‘I can work it out, I’m sure.’

She slapped him. ‘You’re a tease. I should be blushing.’

‘Really?’

‘I wish it wasn’t a tease,’ she said and gave him a sidelong, searching glance that he couldn’t hold.

They stopped and leaned against the dark Victorian lacework balustrade that separated the promenade from the shingle beach and enjoyed the balm that the very soft breeze brought.

‘Thank you for bringing me out today. It’s wonderful to hear you laugh,’ Pen said.

‘I actually had a question to ask,’ he began, frowning. Was this the moment he let go of his life to this point? He could feel the presence of the red handkerchief in his inside breast pocket, fancying that it was pressing against his heart, pleading with him to stay true. Whoever she was, she was looking for him. And as Pen turned towards the wind to catch its taunting relief, Alex heard it bring with it a plea.
Find me.
Damn it! That voice. It blew through his mind, disintegrating as fast as it came, so he was reaching after tendrils of the smoke it sounded like. The voice in his mind made him think of a garden. A tranquil, perfect garden of safety. Is that why he was suddenly gardening? Was her name Rose? Is that why he was growing magnificent perfumed roses over an arbour near his study window?

‘Ask away,’ Pen said brightly. ‘If I can help with something, I’d be glad to.’

Alex braced and smiled. He could do this. Had to, if he was to have any chance at normality again. ‘It is something I could use your help with, Pen. You see, I think I need a wife.’

Her head snapped around and she regarded him in wide shock; if this was what she hungered for, then she hadn’t seen it coming and he liked her all the more for that. He watched now as her normally violet eyes seemed to reflect the summery blue of the sky to match her dress. She’d never looked more gorgeous, and he couldn’t help but love seeing her speechless for once.

‘Do you mean it, Alex?’ she whispered, all amusement gone.

‘Care to marry me, Pen?’

Her shriek of joy managed to eclipse the music and squeals from the funfair rides on West Pier but even though it was noted by passers-by, all they saw was a woman oblivious to all around but the man she stared at so intently.

‘In a heartbeat,’ she gushed, clasping his hand and pulling it to her heart.

How could anyone resist her? ‘I’ll take it that’s a yes, then?’

‘Yes, oh, yes, I want to marry you with all my heart.’

‘May I kiss you?’

‘I’ll die if you don’t.’

Elders taking a seafront walk nearby hissed private disgust while younger people whistled as the couple on the Brighton promenade kissed and sealed a new society engagement that would set tongues buzzing wildly in London.

Meanwhile Alex could smell the perfume of roses and heard a woman’s heels walking away from him in his mind as a robin sang.

Edie stared at the newspaper with a dulled glaze in her eyes. The buttered toast appeared damp and lifeless to match her expression, while smudges of white had appeared on her already pale cheeks like night cream she’d forgotten to smooth in. Madeleine stood in unnerved silence, hands on hips, watching Edie.

‘Say something,’ she finally murmured. ‘Let it out.’

‘I’m not one for histrionics.’

‘Translation please.’

‘I don’t go in for screaming and tearing my hair out or slamming doors . . . but I feel as though I’m doing all of those things in my mind.’

‘How could this have happened, Eden?’

‘I’m not imagining it, am I?’ she begged. ‘Those are my sketches.’ She looked up at her friend as though pleading to be contradicted.

Madeleine visibly swallowed. ‘They’re not your sketches but they are your designs. Unmistakably.’ She shifted to stand behind where Edie sat, numb, in the salon. ‘How? You protect that folder like a child.’

‘It hasn’t left my possession.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘Here. In the office. I carry it everywhere.’

‘Wait. I’ll fetch it.’ Madeleine disappeared and then re-emerged, carrying the folder. She handed it to Edie, who undid the ribbon and opened it.

Sifting through the sheets, she searched for her sketches of the designs that were on display in the newspaper. Edie shook her head, making a soft noise of despair as she flicked through the drawings once more. ‘They’re gone. I didn’t notice before because they were finished and I’ve been working on the others. The three gowns featured in the article are missing,’ she said. ‘They were the most dramatic, my best work, but also effortlessly simple. The thieves could have them made up in days by an accomplished team of seamstresses.’

There was no passion in her voice at all. Madeleine laid hands on Edie’s shoulders. ‘You sound too calm. What’s happening?’

‘Calm? I feel dead, Mads.’ She flung the newspaper aside and stood, her arms clutching her elbows as if holding herself in pain. ‘Steadily, everything I love has been taken from me. I have told myself that there are people around me who have lost more . . . I’ve got Tommy, friends, I’ve got some money, and I’ve got my dreams. I’ve made all that enough – forgive me, Madeleine, I don’t mean to demean you.’

‘You’re not. I understand.’

Edie shook her head. ‘When Tom disappeared and then I lost Abba, I felt as though my life was over.’

Madeleine nodded. ‘Natural enough, but with Tommy needing you, you’ve picked yourself up and faced it all.’

‘Sometimes I cast out the words “Find me, Tom!” and convince myself he’ll hear it somehow and come back.’

Madeleine couldn’t hide the despair she felt on her friend’s behalf.

‘But this . . . this feels like the end for me, Mads. I’m tired.’

‘Eden, someone stole your designs. Get angry, get a lawyer . . . but don’t give up.’

‘I have a lawyer in my life.’

‘Then ask Ben what you should do.’

‘It’s House of Ainsworth’s word against mine. I can’t prove those are my designs!’

The phone rang. Madeleine answered the call. ‘Valentine’s, good morning. Ah, Lady Fincham, good morning. We’re not officially open yet but we’ll be happy to —’

Edie was back unfurling the newspaper and staring again at the sketches that were being described as ‘a new wave of bridal gown designs that herald the arrival of the jazz and cocktail age’. They appeared in the weekend feature on spring bridal wear in the
Sunday Times
. Edie hadn’t seen the newspaper until this morning as she’d spent Sunday listening to Sol recall in sudden vivid clarity about the afternoon she had lost Tom in London. Unbeknownst to her, by the time she’d returned to her flat in Chelsea, Sol was already slipping away from his family, released now that he’d spoken to Edie about that terrible day. She shook her head, still blankly staring at her designs with no clue as to how anyone could have taken them from under her nose.
Only Mads had access
, her mind screamed. But she dismissed the treacherous thought in a heartbeat and besides, the sketches had been in her care this last week.

Madeleine put the phone receiver down and looked at Edie, unsure. ‘That was Lady Fincham.’

Edie could guess what was coming. She made it easier for her friend. ‘I’m guessing she’s taking her business to House of Ainsworth.’

Madeleine hesitated. ‘She said they will make up the gown in white.’

‘Of course they will. That’s because they have no taste,’ she said in a bitter tone. ‘Did she at least wonder at how that bridal house could possibly have the same design to offer her daughter?’

‘She didn’t mention,’ Madeleine replied but Edie could hear the lie, knew her friend was protecting her feelings. Lady Fincham had probably accused Edie of copying someone else’s designs. It hurt. But she had no more tears to weep for herself.

The phone rang again. ‘That will probably be the Danby order,’ Edie murmured. ‘I guess Pippa Danby is having her gown made at House of Ainsworth too. I’m going out, Mads. Will you take care of it?’

‘Yes, of course, but . . .’

‘I just need some air.’

Her coat was hanging near the door or she would have left without it, despite the snap cold that had come with the rain. She didn’t have her bag and suddenly her folder of precious designs didn’t matter any more. Her bubble had been burst.

Edie walked without purpose, pausing to stare blankly into the windows of Peter Jones, where autumn fashions and even a few Christmas decorations were sneaking in. Fairy lights would go up in London in the next month or two and people would get into the festive spirit. She would have to bring Tommy out at night to enjoy them. But Edie didn’t feel like any of it right now, believing she had nothing to celebrate and nothing to look forward to but the misery of a collapsed dream.

She thought of Ben, curiously enough, and his desire to support her in her career, but perhaps his former attitude had been right. Maybe what she needed to think about now was security, being married, having a future with someone, starting again with trying for a new family . . .

Ben wanted to marry her. He wouldn’t care that her business had failed before it had even begun. He would handle the paperwork ending her marriage with Tom. Ben offered life beyond all of her suffering. Back to Golders Green regularly, although she could still live in Chelsea apparently. Back to synagogues, Shabbat, being a dutiful wife. No more sketching, no more dreaming. She could probably take up sewing for some of the tailors of Savile Row . . .

She saw her reflection in the window, noted the tear stains that she swore she would avoid, but mostly she noted the daringly mannish soft suede coat of grey that ended in a thick hare-fur trim to lend femininity. She admired the rich purple ribbon that embellished the pockets and lapels, complementing a matching silk lining and the ribbon around her charcoal cloche hat. It was a striking ensemble. Would she dress like this as Ben’s wife? She doubted it. Ben was so conservative, she was sure he barely understood her clothes. He’d not even asked to look at the sketches she was so proud of that evening in the restaurant.

The restaurant! Eight days ago!
That was the last occasion she’d let the folder out of her sight. Friday had passed in a blur of activity and she hadn’t touched the folder. Saturday likewise. Sunday she’d been at Sol’s house. In fact, the last time she even opened the folder had been Thursday morning.

Edie turned on her heel and hurried back to the salon.

‘Mads!’

Her friend looked up from the small counter. She looked grave. ‘Four cancellations, Eden. I won’t lie.’

‘Never mind that now. We can’t change it. But we can find the culprit.’

‘What do you mean?’

Edie explained.

‘Wait,’ Mads said, her tone ringing with admonishment. ‘You think a cloakroom girl has stolen your designs and sold them to House of Ainsworth?’

‘It was the only time I let that folder out of my sight! Can you think of another explanation?’

Her friend shrugged sadly. ‘It’s logical, perhaps, but surely —’

‘Why? Doesn’t a girl working in a cloakroom have dreams too? She may have been curious because I seemed so reluctant to hand my folder over. Perhaps she stole a peek inside, realised they had some value . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe she is interested in fashion, follows the stories in the penny newspapers about where skirt lengths are headed and the arrival of the jazz age.’

‘But how would she know what to do with them?’

‘I don’t know, Mads. I’m just trying to find an answer. I can cope if I know what happened.’

‘All right. Do you remember her name?’

‘Sarah. I don’t know the name of the restaurant, though,’ she continued and ignored Madeleine’s look of soft despair. ‘But,’ she emphasised, ‘I know exactly where it is, at the bottom of Sloane Square.’

‘Right, let’s go, then.’

‘Now?’

‘Got anything better to do, Eden? We don’t have any more clients on the books at present and I am guessing that you’re not going to be making up the Fincham gown in ivory or white.’

Edie shook her head ruefully. ‘I hope it turns out dreadfully.’ She gulped. ‘I didn’t mean that, did I?’

Madeleine took her friend by the arm. ‘You know, sometimes it’s healthy to be . . . as we French say,
méchant
.’

Edie sighed. ‘And after that?’

‘Well, let’s agree there’s no point in prosecution.’

‘Isn’t there?’

‘What’s to be gained? Not your name, your reputation, not your designs . . .’

‘The damage is done?’

Madeleine nodded sadly. ‘It simply draws more attention to a situation that requires no more kindling to the flames. Let the fire burn out, Eden. No one can steal your talent.’

‘Start again?’ she said, wearily. ‘I want to punish this thief.’

‘Stay optimistic. The editor at
Vogue
loved your designs. All you need to do is replace the designs you’ve lost.’

‘But those sketches were my best! They were so fresh and new.’

‘Eden, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that fashion waits for no one. Design something even more spectacular!’

‘For whom?’ she said glumly. ‘We have no clients.’

‘Oh, come on, the season is just beginning. There’s got to be a society engagement out there. Some disgustingly wealthy man has just proposed to an equally disgustingly wealthy woman, bringing together two disgustingly wealthy families who are prepared to spend a disgustingly enormous amount on their wedding.’

Edie laughed. ‘Where is she, Mads? Where’s my disgustingly wealthy fiancée?’

‘Out there, looking for you right now. She won’t want to go to House of Ainsworth, which everyone is talking about. That would be de rigueur for our girl. She’ll want you, Eden. You just have to let her know you’re here and waiting for her.’

‘I love you, Mads.’ Edie hugged her friend. ‘But I want to look that thief in the eye so she knows I know.’

Madeleine sighed. ‘Nothing to be gained. I’ll walk with you and you take the time of the journey to think it through and change your mind.’

It was while walking to Sloane Square that Edie began to tell her friend of Sol’s dream and his vivid recollection of the old man in the park who may have spoken to Tom, perhaps seen which way he headed . . . might even have exchanged a few words.

The King’s Road led into Sloane Square and Madeleine paused at the pub on its corner.

‘Forget Sarah. We’ve already decided there’s nothing to be done.’

‘She can’t get away with it.’

‘But she already has. Put your energies into Tom instead. Let’s go find this old man. We’ll go right now, to Green Park.’ Madeleine turned to gaze back at the clock tower above Peter Jones. ‘What time of day did Sol say he dropped Tom off?’

‘Just before noon.’

‘Well, it’s not quite ten-fifteen. Let’s make our way to Green Park. At worst it will be a pleasant morning out in the fresh air; we can visit Savile Row – which you’re always saying you want to do – and then we can return with clear heads to work out some new designs and make a pact that Valentine’s is going to be the big success story for London’s bridal scene in 1922.’

Eden took a deep breath.

‘She hasn’t ruined your life. Sarah – if it was her – has just set you back a few weeks, Eden.’

‘I was taught to turn the other cheek.’

‘Abe raised you wisely, then. Come on. An afternoon in the park beckons.’

_______________

Alex had finished making the Aubrey-Finches ‘the happiest parents in the world’, according to Pen’s mother, who pecked Alex’s cheek. ‘Go on, you two. We’ll join you later down by the duck pond. I’m sure you’d appreciate some time alone,’ her mother said, waving them away, still dabbing at her eyes as she glanced with a watery smile at her husband, who drew her close with an indulgent smile.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to ask you how it went with Dad,’ Pen admitted, linking her arm around Alex. ‘I’ll bet my mother’s the one who wants to be alone because she can’t wait to share the gossip.’

Alex grinned to cover the unsettled feeling that the news would now move through the country like a fire out of control. They wandered in comfortable silence into the small copse surrounding the Aubrey-Finch property that sat on countless acres of stunning, fertile land around Rye in Sussex.

‘Do you remember the duck pond? We used to swim in it,’ Pen reminded her fiancé.

‘Of course I do.’

The duck pond came into view, a contented pair of ducks drifting over its softly rippling water.

‘Lex, this is the happiest moment of my life,’ Pen said. ‘Right alongside the moment you came back from the dead, and the moment you asked me to marry you in Brighton. All of it, because my dream has come true.’

‘I’m sensing a “but” coming,’ he sighed, finding a comfy spot on the grass.

She joined him. ‘
But
 . . . do you know through all of this dreamy happiness, you haven’t once said you love me?’

Alex had been expecting this.

‘I . . . I’m not even insisting that you say it,’ she added, her tone pensive. ‘I just worry a little that I’m not enough.’