All Dressed Up Read online

  All Dressed Up

  By Lucy Hepburn

  With special thanks to:

  Erica Munro

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © Working Partners Ltd 2013

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected].

  First Diversion Books edition August 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-113-3

  Chapter One

  She wondered where he’d hidden the ring.

  “You look amazing, Mol.”

  “You noticed,” Molly smiled, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

  The restaurant was beautiful. Ornate, Parisian, elegant and way out of their usual price range. A young pianist, beautiful in a Sixties-inspired black suit which Molly suspected was an early Christian Lacroix, played slow, sexy jazz which washed around the room, unobtrusive yet perfect and so, so French.

  “This place looks amazing too,” she said.

  Reggie’s chest puffed out a little with pride as he followed her wide-eyed gaze around the restaurant. “Not bad, is it?”

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” Molly breathed. “You’re doing a pretty good job of making my dreams come true today, I have to say.”

  Reggie shrugged shyly, burying his face in the menu, and Molly smiled again and bit her lip.

  When was he going to do it?

  The gourmet dishes being borne aloft by the immaculate staff were sumptuous works of art and smelled delicious. Reggie had told her not to look at the prices, but it was impossible not to. Though he did murmur that he’d appreciate it if she didn’t order the lobster thermidor. It came in at approximately a week’s grocery bill for the two of them back home in Yorkshire—even allowing for the exchange rate.

  “Some wine, Mademoiselle? Monsieur?” The restaurant manager, tuxedoed, moustachioed, and straight out of Parisian Waiter Central Casting, smiled kindly at them, speaking in heavily-accented English.

  Molly looked at Reggie. “Whatever you like,” she whispered.

  “Um, a bottle of…rouge?” Reggie faltered, shrugging helplessly.

  The Manager nodded his understanding. “There is our very interesting Bordeaux, which you might wish to try?”

  Molly noticed with a rush of gratitude that he was pointing to the wine second from the top of the list, one with a less eye-watering price tag than some of the others further down.

  “It is an interesting Malbec blend,” the Manager went on. “My sommelier recommends it highly.”

  “Oh, a Malbec blend?” Reggie repeated. “Excellent. We’ll have one of those then, please.”

  Molly giggled and touched Reggie’s hand as the Manager inclined his head and melted away. “Nice bluff, matey.”

  He didn’t return her smile. Molly knew he was on edge. She was too; her tummy was in knots of anticipation, but she knew it must be ten times worse for him, the one having to do the actual asking.

  Outside, the languid River Seine rolled by, eerily illuminated in late August moonlight. From time to time a huge bateau-mouche would lumber along. The boats were crammed with tourists whose cameras would explode in a riot of flashbulbs as they took in the majesty of Notre Dame Cathedral. Its towers and spires rose magnificently out of the dark on the bank directly opposite the restaurant—what a view! Molly knew that real Parisians looked down on these ungainly boats, but for her they only added to the occasion of the place—who wouldn’t want to cruise along the Seine in the moonlight?

  She could feel her face reddening and knew that she must be clashing with her dress. It was a burnt orange satin 1950s prom number, onto which she had lovingly stitched a small corsage of pearl and crystal beads in the shape of an iris, her favorite flower. The color looked great against her long, dark chestnut hair and green eyes, but she hadn’t factored in the addition of bright red—probably very shiny—cheeks.

  “Why this place?” Molly asked, hoping to coax him out of the menu and back into the moment.

  “Google,” he replied with an embarrassed shrug.

  Molly smiled. “And what did you type in to get this place to come up?

  This was it! Romantic places to propose…

  Finally he put the menu down and clasped her hands. “I wanted to do this properly, Molly.”

  “Ah.”

  Her heart was pounding. She wished he’d just got it over with as soon as they had sat down. He’d have asked, she’d have said yes, and that would have been that. Of course that would have been that. What other outcome would there possibly be? After four years together, with not one single major bust-up to speak of, topped off with a surprise stopover in the most romantic city on earth? She would say, ‘yes, Reggie, I will marry you.’

  It was a no-brainer.

  She tried to concentrate on the menu, to translate the cheaper options so that she could have some idea of what to order, but food was the last thing on her mind, and the complicated descriptions of the dishes all seemed to merge into a blur. Jus of this, compote of that…

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle, Monsieur. Would you like to taste the wine?” The portly waiter from earlier had been replaced by a fresh-faced young man in a suit that was perhaps a size too large for him. He presented their bottle for inspection with nervous care.

  “Sure,” Reggie replied, grimacing briefly at Molly.

  Reggie wouldn’t have a clue if the wine was okay or not; he’d just go through the motions. She felt they were playing at being grown-ups and gave him a discreet thumbs-up in encouragement. They’d laugh about this later…

  “Oh!”

  Molly gasped as the waiter, leaning over with the bottle, missed Reggie’s glass and sent a large glug of Malbec blend splashing down on the lapel of his jacket.

  “Ah, pardon, monsieur, pardon!” The young waiter looked horrified.

  “My best jacket!”

  It was Reggie’s only jacket. Molly leaned across and dabbed at it with her napkin. ”Just an accident, Reggie.”

  “Don’t expect it in a place like this though, do you?” Reggie whispered. “Don’t worry, I’ll pour.” He dismissed the still-apologizing young waiter with a smile. “Be safer.”

  Molly said nothing as Reggie filled her glass. “I thought waiters in Paris had to go to waiter school for, like, five years or something to learn how not to spill wine on the punters?”

  “No big deal. These things happen,” she said. But she sighed and peered closer at his jacket. It was her favourite item of clothing of his; a slim cut, made from hand-woven Harris Tweed. They’d chosen it together during a visit to the Edinburgh Festival the year before, and even though she knew that it would dry-clean beautifully, she couldn’t help but share his irritation, just a little. The craftsmanship in that thing! It was made to last a lifetime, so long as it was looked after.

  Poor Reggie. He wasn’t usually so touchy, but tonight was a big deal.

  Molly took a deep breath and tried to relax. On paper, this evening should have been one of the most sparkling, the most exciting of her life, but as she watched Reggie cast irritated glances over his shoulder and stab at the place on his jacket where the tiny drop of expensive—for them—red wine had fallen, the knot which had formed in her s
tomach seemed to tighten.

  The Manager was back at their table in an instant, apologizing fulsomely and offering to have the jacket cleaned as the flustered young waiter reappeared also, to offer his own trembling apology before making a swift escape towards the kitchen. The Manager practically cuffed the back of his head as he left, making both Molly and Reggie wince.

  “Forget it,” Reggie told the Manager, “I’ll sort it myself in the gents.” He got to his feet, clattering the table with his knee and coming within a whisker of making the already strained situation a hundred times worse. He steadied and forced a smile. “Back soon, Mol. Leave me some of that wine, yeah?”

  “I’ll try,” Molly deadpanned, rolling her eyes.

  Reggie was off like a shot. Molly watched him go. She knew that he was just looking for a breather, taking some time out to get his head together. It was the way he always dealt with situations he found stressful, by distancing himself from the arena, changing the perspective. His photo-journalist’s psyche, she’d decided, a gift which would surely one day bring him the fortune and recognition he craved.

  At the start of their relationship it thrilled her, being with this dynamic, media-savvy man who saw life in pictures, in angles, in still-life compositions. Reggie was always on the lookout for the One Great Shot, the image to change lives and rock the entire world, to win awards and to be talked about.

  He wouldn’t appreciate his carefully-orchestrated Parisian restaurant scene being reduced to the slapstick slow-motion of ‘clumsy waiter’ and ‘angry diner.’ He’d be livid at the cliché. Tonight of all nights!

  Molly took a sip of wine. It was probably delicious, but she was too keyed-up to taste anything properly. She gazed around the room again, feeling more of an outsider than she ever had before.

  She had to admit that this was all just a bit suffocating. Reggie was being distant and touchy. She hated when he got like that. And it definitely wasn’t meant to happen on the night he asked her to be his wife.

  Wife! Such a grown-up word. Her childhood imaginings of this night, of bursting into tears of joy and flinging herself into her lover’s arms, were turning out to be just that. Childish imaginings. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had flung herself into Reggie’s arms in that sort of way.

  But that sort of grand passion can’t possibly last forever in the real world, can it? This is real life, not some Disney movie! People become…familiar to one another. Relationships change. And just because she and Reggie had settled into a routine, just because they didn’t go out so much any more, didn’t even laugh so much any more, didn’t mean they weren’t right for one another, did it? They cared about each other, and that surely was what mattered.

  But although she truly believed that she and Reggie had a good, if increasingly routine thing going, she knew she was trying not to admit to herself that the knot in her stomach wasn’t excitement; nor was it anticipation.

  It was dread.

  There could be no doubt, looking at her fellow diners, that they were in Paris. Couples mainly, exuding elegance and discreet sophistication, talked non-stop using animated hand gestures and expressions that were so classically European. The women all had wonderfully chic hair, coiffures of seemingly effortless simplicity which seemed to Molly to come from a lifestyle where careful and costly maintenance was as normal as breathing.

  Molly, however, was far more interested in what they were wearing. Clothes were her life’s passion, her career, and the main reason why Reggie’s sudden suggestion that they stop over in Paris en route to her sister’s Italian wedding had sent her into stratospheric ecstasy.

  She was staring shamelessly now. Over there, in the corner, a woman whose age could have been anything from forty to eighty was dressed in one of Chanel’s haute couture suits—from this season! Molly had only ever seen it once, in a moody black and white photograph in British Vogue. But here, in the flesh, its beauty made her shiver with glee. That cut! That crisp little hemline. The over-stitching; it was so impossibly perfect!

  And there, behind her, a whip-thin lady in oyster Balenciaga, bias-cut, draping around her body like the softest caress, like a marble statue of a Grecian goddess—Molly’s heart melted, and she longed to rush over and stroke the silk folds. That wouldn’t be weird, would it? Surely its wearer would understand?

  She reeled off the names in her head as she scanned the room, forgetting to be furtive in the heady rush of being surrounded by so many icons. The Hermès scarf being worn as a turban over there—genius! The grey Delametri Chevalier column dress, perfect as always. Wonderful, wonderful Chevalier had nailed it again this season—that was for sure; these last few years he’d been operating at the very top of his game. There was even a classic Yves Saint Laurent suit, worn to perfection by a woman who must have been over six feet tall. Molly narrowed her eyes taking in the contours.

  I can see what he’s done with the darts at the waist, she thought, tempted to get out her notebook and start sketching. I could do a scaled-down version of that. Everyone should have the opportunity to rock that look…

  “Stain’s gone.” Reggie’s voice brought her back to reality… if you could call these gilded surroundings reality.

  For a few moments she’d been so lost in the thrill of recognizing all these iconic labels that she’d practically forgotten her own name. That afternoon, when she’d stood outside the designer boutiques gawping at the beauty on display in the windows and far, far too shy to go in, she’d felt like a fan girl, pressed up against the wrong side of a velvet rope, idolizing the stars from afar. Tonight, seeing so many of those heroes made flesh in the same room was like getting a VIP invite to the backstage party of her dreams.

  “Think I’ll still hit them with a dry cleaning bill though,” he said. “Why not?”

  The knot in her tummy had returned, tighter still.

  “Please, Reggie, don’t. They’ve been so nice to us! We can take it to that specialist dry-cleaning place in Harrogate when we get home. They worked miracles on your dad’s tux for my graduation show, remember?”

  “Um, yeah, sure. Okay.” Reggie picked up his glass and downed half of it in one gulp, not meeting her eyes.

  Molly shook her head, fighting down needles of irritation. He wasn’t the only one struggling here!

  The Manager reappeared silently and poured more wine into Reggie’s glass as carefully as if he was handling a newborn baby.

  “My apologies again, monsieur. There will be no charge for this bottle.”

  Reggie was nodding graciously at the man, but Molly could see, below the level of the table, that he had clenched his fist in a mini air-punch of victory. Molly could feel her face grow even hotter.

  “Would you care to order?”

  “Later,” Reggie replied, and the manager inclined his head and moved away.

  “Don’t get like this,” Molly couldn’t stop herself from saying. She reached forward and took his hand. It felt warm and familiar, and gradually, it began to relax under her touch.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking down. “You’re right.” Then he sat bolt upright, jumpy all over again.

  Now, maybe? Molly thought. But Reggie didn’t seem to be sliding off his chair to fall to his knees in front of her, nor was he reaching into his pocket for a ring.

  But then, Molly reasoned, perhaps when he’d disappeared for an hour in the afternoon to ‘do a bit of shopping,’ he hadn’t found the right one?

  She was certain he’d been ring-shopping. Reggie never shopped. It was a chore he carried out infrequently and usually online. But this afternoon he’d seemed positively jaunty about the prospect, kissing her on the cheek and saying he just needed to ‘pick up a couple of things’ on the Place Vendôme. And he wanted to go alone. Oh, he’d dressed it up to make out that he was giving her some space to go and do her ‘fashion stalking,’ as he called it, but his manner had been a complete giveaway. Her suspicions had grown still higher—the Place
Vendôme was famous for its jewelery stores, wasn’t it?

  And after he’d gone, as she was searching through their travel documents looking for her Metro pass, she’d come across a banking slip. And a big row of zeros caught her eye. He’d withdrawn over a thousand euros in cash the day before, putting his account way into the red. A thousand euros! Just what sort of diamond could you get with that sort of money? Probably not a very big one to be honest, and anyhow, she’d always kind of wanted to choose her own ring. She’d have been happy to wait. She’d have been more than happy to wait…

  “I wanted to take you somewhere special tonight…”

  “And it was so thoughtful of you!” Molly cut in, suddenly overwhelmed with an urge to stall him. Her heart had begun thundering in her chest. She ploughed on. “Everyone’s been going on and on and on about Caitlin and the wedding, so for you to do this for me was really sweet.”

  A sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He was chewing his lip, and his eyes were darting all over the place.

  He took a large glug of wine. “Yeah, well, I need to—”

  “Perfect timing! I mean, it’s weird that Caitlin is getting married on a Tuesday, but it means we can have the weekend here. It’s nice to have a bit of a treat for ourselves, isn’t it? Because when we get down to Venice the wedding’s going to be full-on, if I know my sister—”

  “Molly—”

  “Three days!” Reggie was frowning at her, but she didn’t stop. “Trust Caitlin to expect everyone to come to a wedding that lasts for three days! Mind you, she’ll probably need at least three days just to get round all of those poncey Italian guests Francesco’s invited.” She gave an exaggerated laugh. What was wrong with her!? “Four hundred and eighty of his closest friends! Probably not one of them worth less than a billion euros, too—”

  “Molly?”

  “Celebrities, bankers, minor royals—what’s a minor royal, anyway? Smaller than a prince? Or a royal coming from a small place, like, like Liechtenstein or Monaco?”