morning. She’d always been able to identify with the Chinese mandarin who insisted on being woken at four every morning just so he had the luxury of knowing he didn’t have to get up yet. ‘And the roadworks on the bridge … shocking.’ ‘Paula wanted fresh air so she went across to Mo’s Diner to get the lattes,’ Mary said, not even bothering to reply to the traffic story. The day Daisy arrived on time, Mary would know there was something seriously wrong. ‘Take the weight off the floor and catch your breath,’ Mary continued, handing over a bit of the newspaper.
Paula, who was now five and a half months pregnant with her first child, arrived with the lattes and three of Mo’s famous blueberry muffins, and for a few moments, there was the weekend catch-up as Daisy asked how Paula felt, had the baby been kicking and how many bottles of Gaviscon had she gone through? ‘Two,’ admitted Paula, shamefacedly. She was torn between joy at being pregnant and misery at having heartburn like the eruption of Krakatoa.
‘Only two?’ said Daisy cheerily. ‘You should have shares in the company.’ Today she could joke with Paula. Up to now, she’d found it hard although she did her level best not to show it because she loved Paula and wouldn’t have hurt her for the world. But today felt different. Now that Daisy had decided to take action, the pain had receded a little.
When everyone had their coffee - two lattes, and a decaf for the mother-to-be - blissful peace took over as the women flicked the pages of the tabloids, seeing who’d been wearing what at the weekend.
One of the shop’s best customers, a ladies-who-lunch type who had loads of money and the fashion sense of a Doberman, was pictured at a movie premiere wearing a spaghetti-strapped embroidered dress in midnight blue, a French blue cashmere shrug and string of tourmalines - an outfit that Daisy had put together specifical y for her. The only defect was the flash of nude tights visible between the dress and the skinny navy suede boots.
‘You told her to wear black tights,’ groaned Paula. ‘The tights aren’t too bad,’ Daisy said. ‘If she’d done them on purpose, we’d al be saying it was bril iant.’ ‘True,’ muttered Mary. There was a fine line in the fashion world between the genius of doing something different and the stupidity of wearing the wrong tights. Likewise, blue eyeshadow could be spectacular on the right person, and a hideous mistake on the wrong one.
The morning was taken up with phone cal s about the whereabouts of a shipment of Italian silk print scarves. In between, Daisy lent a hand to a trio who were looking for a mother-of-the-bride outfit that would go with a cream brocade wedding gown, and a bridesmaid’s dress for the bride’s sister. ‘A dress that she can wear again, nothing with big flowers
like a huge duvet cover,’ insisted the bride, with the bride’s sister nodding emphatical y in the background. Once was quite enough to look like a refugee from the sofa factory -
she was: not wearing anything flowery and wildly fril y ever again. Daisy quite liked the chal enge of dressing bridal parties. Mary hated it because, in her current post-divorce state, she felt people weren’t being advised of what they were letting themselves in for.
‘There should be something more in the ceremony, something along the lines of a warning that it takes just one day to get married and five thousand days to work yourselves up to the divorce,’ she said darkly, out of range of the happy trio. ‘And bitterness … they never mention bitterness at weddings, do they? That’s the bit that lasts longest. You might have long since forgotten where you’ve put the wedding album, and the Waterford stemware might be scattered al around the house, but by God, you can lay your hands on a bit of bitterness at any time of the day or night.’
Daisy didn’t know what to say as they rummaged around at opposite ends of the
Paula, who was now five and a half months pregnant with her first child, arrived with the lattes and three of Mo’s famous blueberry muffins, and for a few moments, there was the weekend catch-up as Daisy asked how Paula felt, had the baby been kicking and how many bottles of Gaviscon had she gone through? ‘Two,’ admitted Paula, shamefacedly. She was torn between joy at being pregnant and misery at having heartburn like the eruption of Krakatoa.
‘Only two?’ said Daisy cheerily. ‘You should have shares in the company.’ Today she could joke with Paula. Up to now, she’d found it hard although she did her level best not to show it because she loved Paula and wouldn’t have hurt her for the world. But today felt different. Now that Daisy had decided to take action, the pain had receded a little.
When everyone had their coffee - two lattes, and a decaf for the mother-to-be - blissful peace took over as the women flicked the pages of the tabloids, seeing who’d been wearing what at the weekend.
One of the shop’s best customers, a ladies-who-lunch type who had loads of money and the fashion sense of a Doberman, was pictured at a movie premiere wearing a spaghetti-strapped embroidered dress in midnight blue, a French blue cashmere shrug and string of tourmalines - an outfit that Daisy had put together specifical y for her. The only defect was the flash of nude tights visible between the dress and the skinny navy suede boots.
‘You told her to wear black tights,’ groaned Paula. ‘The tights aren’t too bad,’ Daisy said. ‘If she’d done them on purpose, we’d al be saying it was bril iant.’ ‘True,’ muttered Mary. There was a fine line in the fashion world between the genius of doing something different and the stupidity of wearing the wrong tights. Likewise, blue eyeshadow could be spectacular on the right person, and a hideous mistake on the wrong one.
The morning was taken up with phone cal s about the whereabouts of a shipment of Italian silk print scarves. In between, Daisy lent a hand to a trio who were looking for a mother-of-the-bride outfit that would go with a cream brocade wedding gown, and a bridesmaid’s dress for the bride’s sister. ‘A dress that she can wear again, nothing with big flowers
like a huge duvet cover,’ insisted the bride, with the bride’s sister nodding emphatical y in the background. Once was quite enough to look like a refugee from the sofa factory -
she was: not wearing anything flowery and wildly fril y ever again. Daisy quite liked the chal enge of dressing bridal parties. Mary hated it because, in her current post-divorce state, she felt people weren’t being advised of what they were letting themselves in for.
‘There should be something more in the ceremony, something along the lines of a warning that it takes just one day to get married and five thousand days to work yourselves up to the divorce,’ she said darkly, out of range of the happy trio. ‘And bitterness … they never mention bitterness at weddings, do they? That’s the bit that lasts longest. You might have long since forgotten where you’ve put the wedding album, and the Waterford stemware might be scattered al around the house, but by God, you can lay your hands on a bit of bitterness at any time of the day or night.’
Daisy didn’t know what to say as they rummaged around at opposite ends of the
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