Fern swallowed hard, feeling an ache deep in her chest for her great-aunt. ‘She must have been devastated.’
‘She was,’ Zaza said softly. ‘She lived her life quietly, gracefully, but afterwards always alone.’
‘That’s so sad. How did she end up owning a junk shop?’ asked Fern.
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Zaza.
Fern’s thoughts were tumbling over in her mind. ‘I’m not sure where to go with this. Is this just the end of the story? We’ve found out who the groom is, but what are we meant to do with that information?’ She looked over at Daniel, who shrugged.
‘Newspaper articles are suggesting that Nathaniel has removed himself from the limelight and is in ill health,’ he volunteered.
‘Yes.’ Fern looked towards Zaza. ‘Do you think there’s more to this story, or did someone just want me to know that my great-aunt was once going to marry a famous composer?’
‘I would say someone is trying to tell you something, and my guess is it’s about why the wedding didn’t actually happen,’ she replied. ‘It seems to me there was more to the story, and it could possibly be coming out now because whoever gave you the dress knows Nathaniel is in ill health. Maybe he’s the only one who knows the answers.’
‘Looks like this mystery isn’t over. My guess is, we’re only just scraping the surface,’ replied Fern.
ChapterThirty-Three
Fern stood in the shop, pretending to rearrange a tray of vintage brooches for the tenth time, even though her head wasn’t in it. She could feel Daniel watching her while dusting an old radio that probably hadn’t worked since the seventies.
She knew he’d clocked her mood the second they’d had breakfast. ‘All right, out with it,’ he finally insisted. ‘You’ve been quiet for the last hour.’
Fern glanced over at him, forcing a half-smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re about as fine as that lamp with the wobbly base. When a woman says she’s fine, that’s code for not fine.’
She let out a soft laugh. She hadn’t told him about the email from Edgar Carmichael she’d received in London, or about the text from Ella that had popped up on her phone in the middle of the night while Daniel snored softly beside her. She’d read it twice. Then a third time, hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something less disappointing.
Ella
I need to tell you something. I’ve been sleeping with Jax for a while. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I feel awful. I know I overstepped. I shouldn’t have, I really shouldn’t, but you know what he’s like… he’s hard to resist. I’m so, so sorry. We’re together and I hope you can forgive me. x
How could Ella do that? She was meant to be Fern’s best friend. They’d been through everything together– dodgy boyfriends, flatmate disasters, wine-fuelled meltdowns. Now this? She didn’t even feel sad exactly, just… gobsmacked. A bit ragey. But mostly hurt. Properly hurt. Because Ella knew what she was doing. The betrayal would’ve been easier to endure if it had come from a stranger. But from Ella? Herbest friend? That was the twist of the knife.
And the worst part? It wasn’t even the first time she’d pulled something like this. As soon as she’d read the text, Fern’s mind had flicked back to London, years ago, to the night they’d sat side by side in that sticky little dive bar in Soho, both a few glasses of cheap wine deep, scribbling ideas for freelance pitches on napkins like two underpaid geniuses about to change the world. Fern had told her about a column idea, a music feature on unsigned London artists, a spotlight series for the magazine circuit. Ella had smiled, nodded and toasted to the future of music journalism.
A week later, Ella’s byline appeared inEcho Beat Weeklyunder a headline that readThe Fresh Faces of London’s Music Scene. She’d stolen Fern’s idea. She’d secured a regular gig with the magazine, and the substantial salary that came with it.
Fern had forgiven her back then. Or, at least, told herself she had. She’d chosen the friendship over the fallout. But now, given this new betrayal, she was looking at things differently. Maybe it had always been more about convenience than closeness with Ella? After all, they’d worked the same gigs, lived in the same apartment block, moved in the same circles. It had been easy. But now? Now it just felt like another nail in the coffin of Fern’s former life.
Daniel interrupted her thoughts. ‘So?’ he prompted, tilting his head and waiting for her to open up.
She swallowed, then gave him the easiest lie she could muster up, part of which was true.
‘I’ve just been thinking about Matilda and Nathaniel. Surely Dorothy is going to know something, and possibly Betty? Maybe I should have a chat with them both.’
Daniel didn’t look convinced that that was all that was on her mind, but he nodded slowly. ‘Okay, good idea.’
When he turned away, she glanced at the clock. Edgar would be in his office very soon and she really wanted to chat with him about his email and the offer from the mystery buyer.
A few minutes later, while Daniel was chatting to an elderly couple who were trying to decide between two slightly rusted oil lamps, Fern took her chance. She grabbed her bag. ‘Back in a bit,’ she called lightly, waving over her shoulder. The second the shop door swung shut behind her, she slipped next door and climbed the stairs to Edgar’s office. She knocked and waited.
‘Fern,’ Edgar said, holding his door open. ‘I thought you might pop in today.’
‘I was intrigued by your email,’ she said as she slid into the worn leather chair across from his desk. ‘You have a potential buyer for the shop? But how? It’s not up for sale.’
Edgar slid across the desk a single sheet of paper that outlined the details of the offer.
