Sal looked at me like I’d lost the plot. “Not until we’ve got what we came for. I will not be beaten by sodding footwear.” She looked up and down the arcade as if deciding her next move. “By my reckoning, we only have one shop left to try, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Why not? Which shop?”
“Sorry, Tess, but you’re going to have to trust me on this. Come on.”
My shoulders slumped at the thought of taking another step. I felt like I’d walked miles already and my feet certainly weren’t up for squeezing into yet another pair of stilettos.
“There’s no point sulking,” Sal called back. “Like I’ve already said, you’re not walking down the aisle in anything less than your dress deserves.”
Grumbling to myself, I traipsed behind. “Yes, Mum.”
“I heard that,” Sal replied, still refusing to abort her mission.
Finally, we came to a standstill.
I took in the shop’s signage. “You’re kidding me?” I said. If the other stores didn’t have anything suitable, no way would the one before us hold the answer.
“At least have a look inside before you make judgement.”
I stared through the window and taking in the brightly coloured pencil mini dress that hung on display, I tried to figure out if its pattern was world flag or Picasso inspired. Even more confusing, was the long fitted maxi dress on offer. Dark metallic grey in finish, it was long sleeved, and had two weird overlapping front panels that created a draping effect. The high thigh split detail was eye-watering, and as edgy and forward thinking as the dress no doubt was, I couldn’t for a second think where such an ensemble could be worn. “Sal, this is Vivienne Westwood. Famous for punk rock and tartan.” I glanced down at my fitted white T-shirt and straight-legged cropped jeans. “Do I even remotely fall into this shop’s demographic?”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Sal said, taking my arm and shoving me through the door.
A member of staff looked up from the counter as we entered. She was around my age, but that’s where the similarity between us ended. She wore a long-length bright red shirt under a navy and white checked suit, and a thick large-silver-buckled belt around her waist. Her hair was long, poker straight, and black, and her fringe was cut into a widow’s peak. Her make-up was faultless. Winged eyeliner swept across her lids, creating the perfect hood effect and her bright red lipstick had been meticulously applied.
“I don’t know why we’re even bothering,” I said. Keeping my voice low, I was convinced that the shop assistant had to be thinking the same thing.
“Excuse me,” Sal said, marching straight up to the woman.
“Yes,” she replied. “How can I help?”
“Shoes,” Sal said. “My sister here is getting married soon, and we’ve looked everywhere for the right pair. You’re our last hope.”
The woman turned to me and going from my head to my toes, her eyes settled on my comfortable runners. She diverted her attention back to Sal, screwing up her face as she spoke. “I’m not sure we’re the right place for–”
Sal raised her eyebrows, warning the woman not to finish her sentence. “I take it you’ve heard of Zane Rafferty?”
“Sal!” I couldn’t believe she was pulling the name card.
“Who hasn’t?” the shop assistant said. “A great designer. And well ahead of his time.”
“Exactly. And a member of his team just happens to be the head designer of Tessa here’s wedding dress. Suffice to say, the designer concerned shall remain nameless. But we both know that since Mr Rafferty’s death, one or two of his underlings have gone on to earn worldwide fame themselves.”
The shop assistant fixed a smile on her face. “Would you like to come this way?”
Chapter 37
Having shoe shopped until we dropped, my sister and I needed sustenance and in the mood for a casual dining experience as opposed to fancy and formal, we headed to a little street café Sal knew. Apparently they had a selection of fabulously tasty cakes and all of them home-made, which was high praise indeed from my cake-maker extraordinaire sister.
“Here we are,” she said, pointing just ahead.
I smiled at the sight. Thanks to my aching feet, never had a seating area felt so welcoming. Wicker chairs and bistro tables were lined up in a Parisian fashion and a retractable all-weather canopy had been wound out to protect customers from the sun. Abundant flower installations containing white and pink roses sat at either end. It was the perfect spot to sit and watch the world go by.
“You grab a couple of seats,” Sal said. “I’ll get the coffee.”
Knowing I couldn’t stand in line even if I wanted to, I wasn’t about to argue. “Don’t forget the cake,” I said, calling after her.
Sal chuckled. “I won’t.”
