Evie’s skills had stemmed from making her own clothes when she was growing up. Her parents had wanted to dress her in Burberry, Dolce & Gabbana and Moncler play clothes, designer jeans, impractical fussy tops. After one summer hanging around with the new kid in town, Serena, whose parents lived a more modest life, she’d learned all about making her own clothes. Serena’s mother had taught Evie and Serena the backstitch, basting stitch, a chain stitch, and they’d practised for hours with offcuts until finally Evie knew enough to start making some of her own garments. She started with a summer top, sleeveless, with essentially two pieces of material and one button on the back of the neck. Then she moved to making an A-line skirt with a small zipper and a waistband. She bought a sewing machine with her allowance and slowly she got better and better. Evie had been making her own clothes since she was fourteen, and she wondered what either of her parents would say if they could see her now.
Evie ignored the twinge of sadness that crept in, and she left the two women flicking through bridal magazines to go the kitchen to pour a couple of glasses of champagne. With a strawberry pushed onto each glass for good measure, she returned to the laughter and chatter and the excited women tossing around ideas of empire waistlines, ball gown dresses and flowing veils made from the finest lace.
Evie took them through various fabrics for the dress first, and then they moved on to the swatches for the veil.
‘This one is exquisite.’ Megan let the lace fall into the palm of her hand, brushing it lightly with her fingertips.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Chantilly lace is handmade in France and very delicate,’ Evie explained, ‘but it’s a perfect choice.’
‘Is it terribly expensive?’ Megan winced.
‘Stop stressing.’ Annalise was firm. ‘This is your wedding day and you’ve saved long and hard for this.’ She put a hand on her sister’s arm. ‘You deserve the very best.’ A look passed between them and Evie wondered what their story was. Was it as gut-wrenching as her own? Would she ever reach the point where she felt she ‘deserved’ the best?
Annalise moved closer to Evie, and under her breath whispered, ‘Isit really expensive?’
Evie could tell Megan was locked in on that lace. She hadn’t taken her hand away from it yet. ‘It’s priced higher per yard, but it’ll depend on the type of Chantilly lace. That one you’re looking at now is at the lower end of the price range. From memory it’s around one hundred and fifty dollars a yard.’
‘And this?’ Megan flipped to the next, almost too scared to rest her fingers on the delicate lace for fear of the cost.
Evie leant forward to check the design name. ‘Around eight hundred dollars a yard.’
Megan whistled. ‘Good thing I like the first one then.’
‘Some lace can cost up to twelve hundred dollars,’ Evie elaborated, ‘especially the beaded varieties. But the one you have there is beautiful. Once you’ve met with Bonnie and discussed your basic ideas for wedding gowns, we’ll have you try on as many as you’d like to find the right shape. And I’ll make sure I find out a veil or two for you to try. It may not be the same lace, but you can get an idea of the length and style you’d prefer.’
The girls drank their champagne and Evie had a preliminary chat with Megan about the expectations for the dress. Bonnie eventually joined them and went into more detail before showing Megan and Annalise through to the second bedroom, which had become a dedicated dressing room—Bonnie’s husband worked on Wall Street and was thankful he wasn’t around the mayhem most of the time—where Megan tried on a few dresses to get more of an idea. She and her sister giggled their way through a slim-fit dress, an empire waistline, an A-line style, a ball gown and a mermaid.
The second Megan and Annalise left, Bonnie got to work. Evie had seen the passion oozing from her during the consultation, her hand almost twitching to get out her design pad and start sketching. Evie had an image in her mind’s eye of the dress that would work, and one day she hoped to be able to sketch it out just as Bonnie was doing now.
At the end of her workday, Evie walked to meet Nicole, her closest friend for the last three years. They always met in the same place, at least twice a week, at Thorello’s, a favourite café set a few blocks back from the Empire State Building, but tucked away enough that tourists often stumbled upon it rather than flocked there. It was owned and run by Thorello himself; an Italian immigrant he claimed, although Evie had her doubts with his accent that sounded as though he’d done a crash course at a language school, rather than a native Italian who’d gradually picked up American dialect and intonations. The café was also reasonably priced, generous in its portion size and friendly, and Evie thought they served the best coffees and food for miles around.
When Evie pushed open the door to the café, Nicole waved over to her from her table by the window. Dim lights encased in brass shades hung on long wires from the ceiling, and dark wooden furniture was arranged uniformly in the long room. A few paintings adorned the walls—two of the Amalfi coast, another of the Duomo in Florence, another of the Ponte Vecchio. The whole placed oozed Italian influences, down to the wine bottle candles on each table, lit now the winter sun had completed its descent.
Nicole hugged Evie. ‘So, how was your day?’
Evie chatted about new clients, dresses they were working on, plans for the next week. Nicole always asked the same question each time they saw each other, almost a check-in to make sure Evie was still doing well. It had taken a while to get used to, but Evie didn’t mind now and chatted away rather than accusing Nicole of worrying too much, as though she was an injured bird that had been rescued from the street and needed watching until her broken wings were mended enough to fly solo. It was important to Evie to be independent, have a place of her own and a job she worked hard at, but she’d never forget the role Nicole had playing in making any of that possible. She’d done everything she could for Evie, and Evie would go out of her way to make it up to her.
They placed their orders: spicy beans and sausages for Evie, spinach and ricotta gnocchi for Nicole, and they chatted with Thorello until extra clientele demanded his attention.
‘A winter wedding sounds lovely.’ Nicole clapped her hands together when Evie had finished telling her all about today’s consultation. She never used names, they were omitted to protect the confidentiality of their clients, but Evie knew Nicole wanted to know about her day in more detail than ‘it was a good day’, or ‘it was fine’.
‘What colour will the gown be? Nicole pressed.
‘Ivory, we think. And we’ve suggested a shrug, perhaps fawn, faux-fur, to go round her shoulders. She seems keen on having some of the photographs taken in the snow.’
‘And what colour will the bridesmaids be wearing?’
Evie laughed. Nicole knew Bonnie well; it was how Evie had got the job in the first place, and she’d loved the few days she’d spent in there keeping an eye on her protégé when Evie had first started her job. Nicole had been worried something would go wrong. Whether she thought Evie would steal or lie, Evie didn’t know, but second chances like this didn’t come along for everyone and if they both thought she needed watching at the start, then so be it. After a few days, Bonnie insisted she could ‘take it from here’ and Nicole wasn’t to worry, and Evie launched herself into her new position with gusto.
‘The sister says she’ll wear anything other than peach or lemon yellow.’
Nicole pulled a face and shook her head. ‘Neither of those colours would work with a winter theme.’
‘I’m not sure they’d work with any theme!’ Evie giggled. ‘But I think she’ll go for bold colours to contrast with the white of the snow. She’s one of the easier clients for sure, and I think she’ll make the right choice.’
‘Did the really awkward couple return?’
They thanked Thorello when he brought over their food and waited for him to sprinkle both dishes with black pepper and parmesan.
