A Special Kind of Woman. Caroline Anderson
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her paws under her and purring gloatingly because she’d got her own way again. Every now and again she reached out an idle paw and batted at the threads trailing from the needles in the pin cushion, making Cait nervous. She moved the pin cushion out of reach.
‘I don’t need a vet bill,’ she said, but the cat just washed herself and settled down for a snooze. ‘Tired?’ Cait asked unfeelingly. ‘That’s because you were miaowing all night and keeping me awake. I told you, she’s gone. She won’t be back for ages. Maybe even Christmas.’
Christmas? Good grief. It seemed such a long time away, but it wasn’t really. She was just finishing off this last of a run of wedding dresses, and then she’d have to overhaul her winter ball gowns, all the reds and blacks and deep greens that were so popular for the Christmas balls.
Some would need revamping, others would go in the pre-season sale, and she would have to do a lot of restocking, so she wouldn’t have time to miss Milly.
Not really. Only every time she got out two plates for supper, or cooked two jacket potatoes instead of one, or weighed out the wrong amount of spaghetti. Only whenever she went into the bathroom and it was tidy, with no soggy towels dropped on the floor or nightdress abandoned over the edge of the bath or the scales missing.
Only whenever she heard something funny and wanted to share it with her daughter, and then remembered she wasn’t there.
She was getting on fine, by all accounts—or at least she seemed to be. She’d rung a couple of times, between one party and another, and she seemed to be having a great time.
Unlike Cait, who was submerged under a pile of tulle that had to be ready by tomorrow.
And then, of course, there was the evening class she’d enrolled herself on.
She sighed. Maybe she was trying to take too much on, but she couldn’t afford to get someone else to run the shop and she didn’t dare farm out the sewing. She’d tried that before, with disastrous consequences.
So she’d struggle, and she’d probably have to stay up half the night every now and again, but she’d get there.
She had an essay to finish for tomorrow night, come to that, but her bride was coming for a fitting at nine in the morning, and she had to get the dress to the right stage by then. Still, it was straightforward enough, a variation on a pattern she’d made several times before.
She stayed up until eleven working on it, then started on the essay. Not a good move. Her brain felt like treacle, and the words seemed doubly impenetrable through the fog of exhaustion.
She fell asleep with her head in the book at one, went to bed and tried to carry on, and finally at three she admitted defeat, turned out the light and disappeared into blissful oblivion until eight thirty-eight.
Twenty-two minutes till her fitting.
Great!
She shot out of bed, had the fastest shower in the history of mankind and gave the cat a double portion of food by accident as she rushed out of the flat and downstairs to the shop, the dress carefully held aloft so she didn’t trip over it and shred the bottom.
Her bride was late. Almost half an hour late—time for a cup of tea and some toast while she finished off her essay, had she but known, but she didn’t, so she spent the whole time waiting for the young woman to arrive.
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