Page 34 of Barging In
C lem clutched a weighty box containing a chocolate cake to her chest, trying not to lose her grip on it whilst clutching two heavy bags of delights in her other hand.
She should have made two trips to the wharf, as she had on previous mornings, but with only one of her largest cakes ordered today, it hadn’t seemed worth it.
It was too late now, so she ploughed on across the bridge.
It crossed her mind to pop in on Victoria whilst she was there. Having spent so much time with her over the weekend, Clem felt her absence after a few days apart. Her cheek prickled at the thought of their parting hug and kiss on the jetty.
All the work she’d poured into the party had been worth the effort.
So was the last-minute lemon drizzle she’d thrown together while Victoria slept the morning after.
It was probably what had earned her that kiss.
As much as she enjoyed it, the real reward came earlier that morning with the unexpected news: Victoria wasn’t straight.
Not that it changed anything. Victoria had made her position painfully clear.
She was a married woman and intended to stay that way.
Over the past few days, Clem had found herself overanalysing their conversation that night after the party.
She’d started to wonder if she’d pushed too hard, probed too deeply into things she had no right to ask about.
It had only served to make herself angry and Victoria upset; forcing the issue helped no one.
It felt too similar to how Victoria’s parents had handled things with her, and Clem knew exactly how that had ended.
She needed to stop forcing the matter and instead find a way to become what Victoria needed: someone to talk to, someone who would listen, and, most importantly, someone who tried to understand.
Victoria’s situation was messy — mostly a mess of her own making — but Clem understood it well enough now to try and meet her where she was, as hard as that might be.
“Here, let me help,” came Victoria’s voice from somewhere ahead.
Clem looked up to see her running from the Jaguar, hair swaying from side to side. Clem sucked in a breath at the sight of her. Just being in this woman’s orbit made every cell in her body sing. Victoria scooped the bags from Clem’s hand, bringing much relief to her shoulder.
“Thanks,” Clem gasped. “Coffee and walnut cake, marble loaf, chocolate brownies, and fruity flapjack are heavier than I thought.”
The corners of Victoria’s mouth drooped playfully. “No lemon drizzle?”
“Haven’t you had enough this week to satisfy you?”
“You know me, I can’t get enough of you — I mean, your lemon drizzle — to satisfy me.” A sheepish smile crept across her face as she held the wharf’s front door wide open. “I’ve been trying to catch you the last few days, but I always seem to miss you.”
“You can text me, Victoria. I’m only over there.” Clem nodded in the direction of the canal. “I’d like to see you. I’ve missed your company,” she admitted softly, a statement that broadened Victoria’s smile even further as she strode ahead to open the café door.
“Likewise.”
“So, what did you want?” Clem asked, desperately curious.
“Oh, just to return your container. I popped it in the kitchen for you.”
Clem gave a half smile, secretly having hoped Victoria might have wanted to see her for something more than returning a container.
“There was something else I wanted to see you about,” Victoria added, as though she could read Clem’s thoughts.
“Oh?” Clem tilted her head, trying not to let her hopes rise too high. She was still waiting on a date for that dinner invitation.
Victoria held open the kitchen door. “I was wondering when you’d pop over for that tour of the wharf.”
It wasn’t quite what Clem had been hoping for, but it had been on her mind, too. She was curious to see what lay beyond those glass doors and delve into the history of women’s undergarments.
“I could come over after I close up. About four-ish?” Clem suggested, setting the cake box down on the kitchen island.
“Perfect. And I really don’t mean to pressure you. I want to show you what I’ve built here — properly, I mean. I know you’ve seen lots already, well, some of it anyway?— ”
Clem reached out and lightly touched Victoria’s arm to settle her rambling.
“And I’d love to see more,” she said, noticing Victoria’s cheeks pinking slightly as she removed the cake containers from the bags she was holding. “I’m quite intrigued by an entire museum dedicated to corsetry.”
“Jasper has worked wonders with it,” Victoria said, handing her the empty container. “Here. The lemon drizzle was predictably perfect. Very thoughtful, too. Thank you.”
The sheepish smile was back on Victoria’s face, making Clem’s heart tug a little.
“You’re welcome,” she replied softly, remembering again the first time Victoria had thanked her for it.
Before she realised what she was doing, her hand had reached up to her cheek — the same cheek Victoria had kissed.
She pulled it back quickly, glancing at Victoria to gauge any reaction.
Had she noticed? Their eyes met, and Clem felt heat rise to her cheeks.
“I’d best get back to work,” Victoria said, her lips curving upwards in a private sort of amusement. “I put out an advert for more catering staff on Monday, and applications have already started coming in.”
“That’s great. I’ll see you later then,” Clem said, following her out of the kitchen.
“Looking forward to it,” Victoria said, still smiling as she headed off to her office.
Clem stood and watched her as she went. That smile could have meant anything, but it felt like everything. Was she reading too much into it? She stopped her thought in its tracks. It was best not to dream about things that would never happen.
Clem arrived a few minutes early for her tour and introduced herself to the woman at the desk.
The receptionist nodded. “I’ll let Victoria know you’re here.”
“Thank you. Do you have a leaflet about the museum?” Clem asked.
“No, sorry, we don’t,” she replied with an apologetic smile.
How on earth were they promoting themselves to the surrounding area without one?
Moving further into the wharf’s reception area, Clem passed a sewing machine on sturdy, cast-iron legs.
She’d never noticed it before. Its black enamel still gleamed against the delicate gold trim, and the word SINGER arched proudly across it like a badge of honour.
The foot pedal was smooth, no doubt worn out from years of steady use beneath the feet of countless women.
The gift shop offered the usual array of homewares and gardening items. A centre table displayed smaller curiosities.
There were corset-shaped cookie cutters, boning-shaped pencils, enamel pins, key rings and postcards bearing slogans like Tightly Laced and My Body, My Rules . Clem smiled to herself.
Most striking were the bookmarks, fashioned from two pieces of woven fabric and edged with rows of gleaming grommets.
Threaded together with fine lacing, they echoed the intricate fastening of a real corset.
Another bookmark, made of leather, bore the words No fashion at the cost of freedom stamped deep into its surface.
In pride of place amongst the shelves on the far wall were several books bearing Jasper’s name.
She smiled at one titled Under Pressure: A Feminist History of Corsetry .
Others — Unfastened: The Politics of Shaping Women and The Queer Understructure — caught her eye.
Beneath them sat sewing guides on how to make your own corset, alongside mugs emblazoned with Not your waistline , Reclaim the corset , and Unlace the patriarchy .
Posters bearing similar slogans adorned the walls.
Someone had clearly put a great deal of thought into the merchandise.
She picked up Under Pressure and turned it over. Jasper’s face stared back at her from a photograph. She’d never known anyone who’d written a book before, let alone an award-winning author, as the cover declared.
A low voice spoke behind her ear. “I thought that one might interest you.”
Clem jumped and placed the book back on the shelf. “Victoria. Hi,” she said, turning to face her.
“So, what do you think so far?” Victoria asked, looking around the shop.
“It’s impressive.”
“And all Jasper’s work. You wait until you see what he’s curated inside the museum. He should be along any minute.”
“Victoria,” the woman at the desk called out, holding up a phone.
“Please excuse me,” Victoria said to Clem.
“Of course.” She was about to dive back into the books when another lower voice came from behind her.
“Ready for a whistle-stop tour through the world of corsetry?”
Clem turned to find Jasper smiling at her.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said, smiling back. “Victoria had to take a phone call.”
He looked to the reception desk. “Ah.”
“I was just admiring your books. Congratulations on being an award-winning author.”
Jasper gave a modest flick of his hand.
“Corsetry seems to be your life,” she added .
He clasped his hands together, tilted his head, and stared dreamily into the distance. “The first time I laid eyes on one at the Victoria and Albert Museum, at the impressionable age of eight, I became hooked — pardon the pun.”
Clem smiled at his exuberance. He was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stifling world of conformity.
“But I never dreamed where it would lead,” he continued.
“I thought I would end up as a burlesque dancer, but thankfully, I got my head down at school. I didn’t have much choice when the library was the only place for a gay kid to grow up in safety.
Fortuitous really, as I don’t have the knees for dance. ”
“Same,” Clem said with a grin. “The school library, I mean.” Not that she had the knees for dance either.
Jasper smiled. “As for all this, I have her to thank.” He nodded towards Victoria, but then his expression soured. “And Drew’s investment.”