Page 38 of Parker
Chapter thirty
Buchanan Street, Glasgow
Nicky
“This is perfect,” I squeal to Sophie standing behind me. She covers her ears with her hands, playfully. “Can you believe I own it?” Something in her smile makes my chest ache in the best way. “I have so much work to do, though.”
“We have. This seamstress is going to be the best in Glasgow.”
After adjusting my business plan to allow for my sudden windfall, Sophie and I had scoured the advertisements for a city center shop for sale. This unit in the heart of Buchanan Street had gone up for sale after liquidation. I snapped it up with a cash offer.
I haven’t spoken to my ex-husband since our meeting in his office, but his men watch my every move. No doubt they’re reporting back on any interesting events, not that there’s anything to report.
Drayton’s been around more lately. Boyd, less so. It makes me wonder what’s changing in the Parker’s world.
“The shop fitters arrive tomorrow,” I tell my friend.
“They said three weeks to complete the work. I should be open by September first. I can’t believe it, Soph.
Finally, things are coming together, and I’m going back to doing what I love.
The thought of having my fingers on the fabric again. Scissors slicing through material.”
My old friend laughs at my enthusiasm. “Only you.” She shakes her head. “Only you would find that enthralling.”
***
Nicky’s Designs hangs proudly above my front door.
The sign is bright pink with the letters in a scroll-style white. After much debate, Soph and I decided ‘designs’ sounds better than ‘alterations’. It gives a more rounded approach to the business, which ultimately was to be couture fashion design, with alterations as a supplementary income.
In a few minutes, we open to the public, not that I’m expecting a queue down the street. If a few people’s feet fall into my shop today, I’ll be happy. Already on social media, there have been some inquiries from a few sporadic posts.
Soph and I stand behind the wide white counter, staring out the enormous windows onto the Glasgow streets. The weather is pleasant for September, and people are busy going about their days, scurrying from one place to another.
An empty rack stands poised against one wall, ready to take customers’ garments. A mannequin in the window displays one of my handmade dresses. It’s a long-sleeved, floor-length dress made for cooler evenings in an ornate pattern. It would be ideal for a day at the races or family meal.
I have considerably toned down my designs. I need to reach actual women now, not the celebrities I dressed in my old life.
A man in a brown uniform is striding toward the shop.
In his arms, he holds a gigantic bouquet of red roses.
He stops and looks up at my sign. Sophie rushes to open the door for him.
He steps inside. “Ms. Smith,” he asks, and my friend points in my direction.
He places the flowers on the counter, then passes me a pad to sign. “Have a nice day,” he says and leaves.
I stare at the flowers as if they will explode when I touch them.
“Is there a card?” Sophie asks, prodding my shoulder to get my attention. Within the leaves, a small white envelope sits. When extracting it from its hiding place, my finger pricks a thorn, and a red spot stains the paper.
“Shit!” I hiss and pop my damaged finger into my mouth. “Fucking thorns.” My attention returns to the note that I slide from the envelope.
Wishing you every success in your new venture. J xoxo
Before I can stop it, a tear escapes.
Sophie pinches the card from my fingers. “Oh, how sweet? You know, if he didn’t have people killed for a living, he’d be a keeper.”
“Sophie.” If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry. She’s summed up my ex-husband perfectly. A green flag trapped in a red- flag world.
***
Our day passes without incident. It’s four in the afternoon, and we’ve had three alterations customers appear. One lady was interested in having a wedding dress made to order.
We spent the rest of the day creating social media posts and deciding how best to market the business. When Joel gave me the money, Sophie quit her job to help me set up the shop.
“Two heads are better than one,” she said. “We’ll be a great team.”
Both focused on the computer behind the counter, we were not aware of the approaching customer until the bell signaled someone opened the door. I look up and freeze. My ex-mother-in-law stares straight back, eyes as shrewd as ever.
“Imelda! What are you doing here?” I clamber from my seat, not sure whether to hug her or duck. Boyd stands behind, chuckling under his breath.
“Well, dear,” she says, “this is a bespoke fashion design shop. And I need an outfit for an event I’m attending later this year. I was hoping you would create something sensational for me.”