When she finally arrived at the Casemate, she found Rovena standing by the door talking on the phone.
She put a hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Tirana wants to know if she can come and see the dress now it’s all complete with the flowers.”
Laura nodded, smiling. “Of course she can, but tell her to come soon; I’m going to pack it up. Also tell her I want to speak to her too, please.”
Tirana should delete her tweets about Nicole. Now that everything had gone well, Laura would rather make peace with that woman.
The thought was still forming in her head when she got to her room at the back and put her key into the lock.
It didn’t turn.
Because it was already unlocked. Which was impossible.
She always locked it. It was one of the things she was most careful about.
She opened the door and walked in — perhaps a single step — before she saw.
Inside, the dress stood on its mannequin, just where she’d left it in the middle of the room.
But nothing else was the same as she’d left it.
The window was wide open, as if a wind had blown through it, and the entire workroom. Tins of paint had toppled to the floor; liquid colours had spilled and mixed into an ugly, murky blend which puddled around the mannequin and soaked up into the dress.
But worst of all was the glass jar of acid which had shattered. The corrosive liquid had splashed the silk, devouring it.
What had been a beautiful pearl-gold underskirt with delicate leaves painted on it now hung in tatters. Whatever silk survived the acid attack had ugly dark stains from the spilled paints.
There was a sound, a strange, heart-breaking sound halfway between a moan and a howl. Only after arms grabbed her from behind and someone spoke urgently to her did she realise the keening sound was coming from her.
People were milling around, asking shocked questions. It all seemed to come from far, far away.
“Sit down,” someone said.
There was a chair behind her suddenly, and hands pushed her into it.
It was Rovena who took charge, kept everyone out of the room and closed the door so Laura couldn’t look at the mess someone had made of her work.
Someone.
Yes. Someone had done this.
Even if she had been stupid enough to leave the window open which she never, ever did. No wind would be strong enough to take tins and bottles out of a closed cupboard, prise their lids open, then hurl them to the floor.
There was a spare key to the workroom; the key cabinet had spare keys for all the rooms, but no one had touched it. Rovena questioned the rest of the workforce, but no one had seen anything. They’d left the Casemate after lunch, of course. They’d been given the day off and had all been busy at the photoshoot with Emmett down by the harbour waiting to welcome Lord M.
After a while, someone opened the door and used a broom and pan to sweep away the smashed glass and mop up the spillage. Laura watched the mess being cleared off the floor, then the tears came, blurring her view of the ruined dress still hanging on its mannequin.
“I think we should call Millie,” Rovena suggested quietly. “What do you want me to tell her?”
“Yes,” Laura answered dully. “Tell her she will have to wear the Vivienne Westwood dress after all.”
“No!” Rovena was shocked. She must have heard the story from her daughter. “You can do something to fix this.”
Fix this? How? The wedding was on Saturday at noon. It was Thursday now, and probably midday already. Even if she could order new silk, even if the small exclusive suppliers had enough of the same colour, it would never arrive on time.
And she would never have the time to paint it again. The spirit of the dress was in the flowers and leaves, which were the spirit of Millie’s life here; otherwise it was just a dress. She may as well have the Vivienne Westwood monstrosity.
Wiping her eyes, she could see what she’d missed before. The chiffon double layers had been rolled up into a fat belt around the waist. She’d done that to protect it from the still wet paints on the silk underskirt. But some of the acid had splashed drops at the chiffon layers too. The irreplaceable antique gold chiffon now had little holes the size of kidney beans.
