Girl in a Vintage Dress. Nicola Marsh
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all her boldness in playing enforcer, the owner of all this frippery didn’t like playing the big, bad boss. Something he could identify with so he settled for thrusting his hands into his pockets and glancing around, seeing the place for the first time.
Riotous colour assaulted his senses: fake pink roses stuck on black pillbox hats, orange and teal gloves spilling out of floral boxes, emerald feather boas draped over satin clad mannequins and primrose paisley scarves only a small sampling of the merchandise cramming every nook and cranny of the store.
To his discerning eye, which much preferred sleek modern lines in everything from furniture to fashion, this place was his worst nightmare.
‘Can I help you with something specific? An item of clothing? Accessories? A special something for your wife?’
‘I don’t have a partner,’ he said, a blinder of a headache building behind his eyes as he stared at the incredible visual assault of florals and flounces and feathers, glitter and gowns and gaudy baubles that twinkled beneath the muted down-lights, the only concession to the twenty-first century in the entire place.
‘Oh. Right. Well, we cater to all types,’ she said, a hint of amusement in her low tone as she sized him up and he puffed up in indignation.
‘I’m not here for me.’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re welcome to try on anything you fancy.’
He gaped before snapping his jaw shut. He’d been mistaken for many things in his lifetime; a cross dresser wasn’t one of them.
‘Are you always this forward with your customers?’
‘Only the recalcitrant ones.’
Her encouraging smile lit up her face, adding a sparkle to her eyes and transforming her from simply pretty to beautiful.
‘Well, I hate to burst your sales pitch bubble but the women I date don’t doubt my masculinity so I’d appreciate it if you did the same.’
She blushed, her smile fading as she looked away, but not before he’d seen that same flicker of vulnerability he’d glimpsed before.
The women he knew, professionally, socially, never showed vulnerability. They were confident: in their talents, in themselves, women who knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to go out and grab it with both hands. This woman was as far from those women as he was from his past yet there was something about her that intrigued him on an intrinsic level.
He’d always trusted his gut instincts and right now, they were telling him to find out what made her tick before he hired her.
She cleared her throat. ‘Right, now that we’ve established you’re not in the market for a nineteen-twenties tangerine tea gown, what can I help you with?’
The corners of his mouth twitched as she continued to eye him dubiously, as if she still wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t slip into a tulle petticoat when she wasn’t looking.
‘I heard you did birthday parties.’
She nodded, the huge curl pinned over her forehead wobbling.
‘That’s right. We can do make-overs, photos, dress ups, the works. Women love it.’
She paused, her lush red-slicked lips curving into a coy smile.
‘Some men too.’
He found himself smiling back, when in fact he wanted to say, Enough with doubting my masculinity already.
‘Would that sort of thing transfer across to a hen’s night?’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Of course. A few hours of fun for the bride-to-be—’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of a week.’
One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched. ‘A week?’
‘That’s right.’
He strolled around the shop, picking up a sparkly hair clip here, a spotted scarf there, not seeing the attraction personally but knowing Cari would adore everything about this place.
And what Cari wanted he’d provide. She was the only person who’d stuck by him all these years and if it hadn’t been for her when he was growing up… He suppressed a shudder.
‘Let me get this straight. You want me to run a week long hen’s party?’
‘Uh-huh.’
He stopped at the counter, covered in baskets of womanly paraphernalia and brochures, staggered by the amount of stuff draped over every available surface.
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Nothing’s impossible,’ he said, watching her fiddle with a mannequin, adjusting the wide belt, smoothing the skirt. ‘I checked the charges on your website. I’m willing to double your hourly rate and pay for all transport costs.’
Her eyes widened and, already knowing his offer was too good to refuse, he continued. ‘And as CEO of Dazzle, who I’m sure you’ve heard of, I’m willing to personally recommend you for upcoming events needing something fresh in the way of fashion.’
She stared at him with those big brown eyes, an unwavering stare that made him strangely uncomfortable.
When she didn’t jump at his offer immediately, he had to move onto Plan B: cajole.
There his plan hit a snag: he didn’t even know her name and knew if he asked now he’d lose serious ground.
‘So what do you say?’
She straightened, tossed her blonde ringlets over her shoulders with a flick of her hand and pinned him with a glare that spoke volumes before she opened her mouth.
‘Thanks for the offer but my answer’s no.’
CHAPTER TWO
LOLA didn’t take kindly to being bossed around. She’d had enough of it growing up from her Miss Australia finalist mother and catwalk model sister.
Wear the boot cut jeans, not the slim fit.
Don’t wear the A-line skirt; it makes your bum look big.
Use the coral lipstick, not the pink, you look washed out.
Bossiness never failed to put her back up and the moment Mr Tall, Dark and Domineering had strutted into her domain, ignoring house rules, she’d been primed for battle.
Mobile phones didn’t belong in Go Retro for a reason. Trying to recreate a vintage ambience was imperative to her business and considering those infernal devices weren’t invented back then, she’d made it a house rule to not have them used in the shop that was her pride and joy.
She also hated their constant buzzing and ringing and clattering as people tapped at those miniature keypads as if their lives depended on it.
How anyone could be glued to a phone when surrounded by all this beauty… She trailed a hand over a velvet nineteen-forties vermillion ball gown, savouring the plush-ness, the timeless elegance, let her fingers skim a floral silk scarf she bet could tell a few stories about the necks it had been knotted around over the years.
She glanced at the diamanté shoe clips, the crimson lipsticks in different brands, the fascinators at jaunty angles on the classically dressed mannequins.
Every item had been lovingly chosen in the hope it would bring joy to its next owner in the same way it had brought her joy to discover it. Surrounded by all these wonderful treasures of the past, how could anyone not be tempted?
‘I need an answer.’
Just like that she snapped out of her reverie and glared at the philistine who wouldn’t appreciate vintage at its finest if it slithered off a mannequin and onto his rather impressive frame.
The same impressive