Page 45 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museum

‘One thousand crochet flowers.’ Warren sifts through the box that Mrs Coombe who runs All You Need is Gloves has just delivered.

She makes a selection of warm winter clothing for humans and pets in her shop on Christmas Ever After, and in her spare time, she crochets flowers, which no one knew until she answered the request I put out for collections we could put on show.

‘How on earth are we going to display these?’

Mickey is downstairs, watching the front desk and gift shop, while we’re in one of the rooms upstairs, figuring out the best way to display our collections.

We’ve got Warren’s display cabinet full of Tamagotchis, and a couple of room dividers to separate each collection and create a cohesive walkway around the room.

We’ve put up shelves to hold Marnie’s Ladybird book display…

and now, for the opposite wall, crochet flowers.

I’m loving every minute of this. The room feels alive with the love and attention our friends have put into these collections for years.

It’s an honour to be trusted with them, and I’m excited to see where it could go if we invite people from further afield to show off their collections here.

The room is alive with the sizzle of something else too because Warren steals a kiss every time we cross each other’s paths, finds any reason he can think of to touch me, and it’s an internal fight to not wrestle him to the floor and make good use of the time he has left before he leaves.

While I’m trying not to think about that, I hear the noise of the stairs creaking like someone’s coming up, even though the upstairs is off-limits to the public at the moment.

‘Liss! Visitor!’ Mickey yells up from below, presumably because she’s concerned that Warren and I being alone in a room together is likely to end in only one way and she’s trying to prevent us being interrupted again.

We both spin around at the exact moment that a woman appears in the doorway.

She’s tiny in stature, probably older than she looks in her black pencil suit with once-grey hair dyed the darkest of black and cut in an angled bob.

The only splash of colour is her postbox-red lipstick and her leather handbag that’s somehow an exact colour match.

‘Mother!’ The easy smile on Warren’s face plummets.

Mother? Oh, blimey. I was not expecting to come face to face with her, ever, let alone today.

Has she come all the way here from London?

Why would she do that? I glance at Warren to see if he’s as surprised as I am, and the look on his face leaves me worried.

He does not seem okay, and I wish I was standing close enough to give his hand a supportive squeeze.

‘What are you doing here?’ His voice sounds unsteady, like her sudden appearance has knocked him sideways.

Instead of answering, she makes no secret of the way she’s looking him up and down, and I see her taking in the Converse he’s wearing with jeans and a casual jumper.

His hair isn’t stuck down, and he’s holding a handful of crochet flowers.

‘I think a more pressing question, dear boy, is what are you doing here?’

He recovers his composure and goes over and gives her an air kiss on either cheek, and I see her eyes stop on his ear, the hearing aid, and her red lips press themselves into an even thinner line of disapproval.

He holds an arm out towards me. ‘This is Lissa, who I’ve been telling you about.’

‘Hello.’ I feared I might be about to commit an etiquette crime by going over to give her a hug, but her standoffish nod suggests that physical contact would be as welcome as a thunderstorm when you’ve just put your washing out.

Although her red manicured fingernails make her look like the type of person who would not concern herself with menial tasks like housework.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Berrington. I’ve heard so much about you.’ I give her my most charming nod back.

‘So have I, dear. So have I.’ It does not sound like a good thing.

‘This is the display of people’s collections I mentioned,’ Warren explains, shifting uneasily. ‘We’re getting them set up, ready to open to visitors at the weekend.’

She peers around the room and her eyes fall on the Tamagotchi collection.

‘Oh, your father’s silly little game things.

I never could abide them.’ She turns to me.

‘An adult man playing with toys. I was going to say that you shouldn’t be encouraging such a silly hobby, but at least if they’re here, they’re not in his house. Small mercies.’

‘I think it’s a lovely way to honour his father’s memory.’ I feel myself bristling in a way that I haven’t since he first arrived. ‘I’m lucky that he’s let me display them. And look at these beautiful flowers that one of our colleagues has crocheted. Aren’t they fantastic?’

I hold a crocheted pansy out on my hand and she takes a step backwards like she might catch something from it.

‘Yes. Very nice. Personally, I don’t know how people find the time.’

‘People around here are happy to dedicate their time to things they love that bring them joy,’ I say, and Warren’s eyes flit between us and he looks like he’s trying to defuse a situation that hasn’t started yet.

‘They must have more hours in the day than we do then, mustn’t they?

’ The look on her face probably isn’t meant to be a sneer, but it definitely resembles one as she looks between us again.

‘I came here to see what’s got my son so excited, I must say I didn’t expect it to be tatty old books and woollen flowers. ’

I force myself not to react. Putting everything about the museum aside, I also think I’m dating her son, and I want her to like me.

The last thing I should do is rile her up by getting defensive, and I try to focus on the good parts of that sentence, like Warren being excited enough about the museum to share that with his mum. That’s a good sign, right?

‘You.’ She clicks her fingers towards him and makes a gesture that suggests she’s telling a trained dog to come to heel, which he does immediately, and she takes his arm. ‘You can show me around while we have a catch-up. Delightful to meet you, Miss Carisbrooke.’

It’s a formal dismissal, plainly telling me I’m not invited while he gives her a tour of the museum, which is understandable, especially as they haven’t seen each other in quite a while.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I call after them, at a loss for how else to be helpful.

‘No, thank you,’ she replies.

Warren looks over his shoulder and tries to give me what is probably a reassuring smile, but his eyes look worried. He definitely wasn’t expecting her, and there’s a tone of condescension in her voice about what she’s seen so far.

He takes her into the next room, the one I’d thought about turning into a cinema-style room, and I grab the opportunity to slip past and go back downstairs to Mickey for a gossip.

‘Was that his mother?’ my best friend hisses from where she’s still minding the front desk. ‘She of “running the company and pulling all the strings” fame?’

I nod.

‘I did try to stop her but she was having none of it. She asked where Warren was and then just started walking up the stairs.’

‘It’s okay. I get the impression she’s the kind of person who can’t be stopped.’

Mickey grimaces. ‘Was that as painfully awkward as it looked like it was going to be?’

‘Yeah. I thought he was exaggerating when he’s talked about his mother, but now I’m not so sure.

I know you can’t judge on first impressions, but she doesn’t seem like the type who’s going to be influenced by whimsical wishes and handmade beanstalks.

’ I try to make a joke out of it to cover the nervous restlessness that’s taken over me, because I want to be part of their discussion.

I want to know what her plans are, if Warren’s enthusiasm has swayed her in our favour, and at the same time, they deserve a chance to catch up alone, and I respect that…

even when the sound of raised voices filters down from upstairs, and Mickey turns the music player off so we have a better chance of overhearing what’s being said.

I climb as many stairs as I dare to without being caught out by creaking floorboards, but they’re on the third floor in the kitchen, and their words are too muffled, but it reignites the all-too-familiar pit of dread in my stomach.

They’re obviously disagreeing about something, and if she was on board with everything Warren and I have got planned for the museum, there would be nothing for them to disagree over, would there?

‘Maybe it’s about that acquisition in Southampton you said he was late for?’ Mickey suggests, being the ever-supportive best friend.

‘Maybe,’ I reply, but I have a feeling there’s a reason for his mother to make the effort of travelling all the way here from her London office, and it has nothing to do with Southampton.

It feels like an eternity before Warren and his mother reappear.

He’s walking her down the stairs while she clings onto his arm with one hand and has a white-knuckle grip on the banister with the other.

Mickey and I were both leaning on the front desk, talking about the film screening idea and which parts actors could act out in real life, and we both quickly stand to attention at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

‘Miss Carisbrooke, walk me back to my car.’ Mrs Berrington stops in the lobby and makes a hand gesture towards me that suggests she’s calling that well-trained dog over again.

‘I will,’ he says quickly.

‘No, Miss Carisbrooke will.’ Her voice is steely and she’s clearly not going to be dissuaded from this plan, and I force the nerves down as I go over.

She hooks her arm through mine like she did with Warren earlier, and I realise that she’s surprisingly frail, and maybe her demand is because she needs the support of something to hold onto, but doesn’t want to show the weakness of using a stick or frame.