Her New Year Baby Secret(27)

One day she would like to have a larger collection of ready-to-buy  stock-but for that she would need a studio and storage, possibly a  couple of seamstresses. No, tiny steps were best. If she could just make  enough to keep herself and the baby afloat, then she would have  options; she didn't want to need Marco's money. She would like his  emotional support though.

Which was ironic-he had money to spare but support, real support, was much harder for him. Maybe too hard.

'Right, we have to get off.' Ashleigh hauled herself to her feet. 'Are  you sure you don't want to come, Sophie?' Grace's fiancé was hosting a  glamorous fundraising event at his hotel and all three of her friends  were attending. Funny to think that just a few months ago they would  probably have all been waitressing for it.

Which reminded her, she needed to discuss hours and jobs with Clio.  Heavy cleaning and too much standing around were probably out, but  Sophie wanted to ensure she had some steady income while the first  orders came in. Her waitressing days weren't behind her yet.

'I'm sure. I'm exhausted by nine at the moment. Besides, I want to stalk my inbox and wait for an order.'

'It won't be long,' Grace said loyally, dropping a kiss onto her cheek.  'If you need a hand, well, I can't sew. Or cut out. But I am very good  at parcels-and making tea.'

'You'll be my first port of call,' Sophie promised, kissing her back and then embracing Emma and Ashleigh in turn.

The flat felt larger without her friends-a little larger-and a lot  emptier. Sophie put her laptop on the kitchen counter and refreshed her  email. Nothing. Maybe her friends were wrong, maybe the publicity and  excitement over Bianca's wedding dress and the two-piece,  sixties-inspired going-away outfit she had gifted the bride were just a  storm in a teacup and wouldn't translate into sales.

But she couldn't believe that, wouldn't believe it. After all, photos of  Bianca were everywhere and not just in the Italian press; a few British  sites had picked up the chatter about the 'London-based designer' and  had run short pieces extolling her as one to watch. Every piece used the  same photo, taken at the wedding, Sophie in her grey dress smiling up  at Marco, handsome in his tuxedo. Her heart turned over at the picture.  They looked so happy, so together-to a casual observer as if they were  head over heels in love. But she wasn't a casual observer.

Impatient to shake her bad mood, Sophie grabbed her pad and pencil. The  success of Bianca's wedding dress made her wonder if there might be more  bridal commissions in her future and she wanted to be prepared...

Stretching, she realised she'd lost track of time. Over two hours had  passed while she'd sketched her first attempts at twenties-, fifties-and  sixties-inspired bridal gowns. Not too bad, she decided, standing back  and taking a fresh look. She'd like to get some samples started soon, a  heavy silk for the twenties dress, lace and chiffon for the fifties  dress and embroidered velvet for the sixties-inspired design.

As she moved the pad further away her hand knocked the keyboard and her  laptop screen blared into life, opening onto her brand-new inbox. Only,  it wasn't empty as it had been when she last looked; no, there were four  unopened emails sitting there and they didn't look like spam... With a  trembling hand she clicked on one and scanned the message; would she be  able to design a wedding dress and what were her fees?                       
       
           



       

Sophie took a deep breath; she'd been right to turn her attentions to  bridal. The second was from a boutique here in Chelsea asking if they  could discuss stocking some of her designs, the third another enquiry,  this time for an evening gown. So far so good. No actual money but the  possibility of work. The fourth, however, came from the automated  payment system she had set up. She took a deep breath and clicked.  'Yes!' she shouted. 'Yes!' An order, a real order for two of her  dresses, a shift dress in a polka-dot pink and a copy of the dress she'd  worn to Bianca's wedding in a gorgeous green flowered cotton. She had  done it! She was a real designer with real sales to people she didn't  know.

She looked round, wanting to jump up and down, to babble her excitement  into someone else's ear, to have someone else to confirm that, yes, the  emails said exactly what she thought they said. But there was nobody  there; her shoebox had never felt so spacious, never felt so lonely. She  could text her friends, of course. They would be delighted. But, she  realised, sinking back onto her stool, the euphoria draining away, she  didn't want to impress them. She didn't need to witness their reactions.

She wanted Marco there, celebrating alongside her. She wanted to see him  look impressed, to tell her how proud he was. But he was a long, long  way away. Emotionally, physically, in every way that mattered. She'd  thought she'd been lonely in the past, but it didn't compare to how she  felt now. Completely and utterly alone. She couldn't let that stop her.  She'd pulled herself back from the brink before, she could do it again.  Besides, it wasn't all about her, not any more. She had to be strong for  the baby-she simply had no other option.

* * *

Marco took another look at the address. He hadn't thought too much about  where Sophie lived, but he'd assumed it would be in a flat in one of  Chelsea's leafy streets, possibly sharing with a couple of friends. Not  on this noisy, busy road, cars honking horns impatiently as they queued  three abreast, fumes acrid in the damp air.

'Number one eight one,' he muttered, coming to a stop outside the right  building. There was a takeaway on the ground floor and Marco grimaced as  the scent of greasy fried chicken assailed him. The door to the flats  was a dingy green, the doorstop covered in thrown-away boxes and  discarded chicken bones. No way was any child of his growing up here, he  vowed.

He scanned the names, almost illegible against the long list of buzzers,  but before he found Sophie's name, the door opened and a young woman  barged out, leaving the door ajar. Marco added security to the list of  undesirables and shouldered it open. He needed Flat Ten. He looked at  the door at the end of the ground floor-number one. It looked like he  was going up...and up and up. Another item for his list: too many  stairs. How on earth did she think she would cart a baby up here?

It was easier to list all the reasons for Sophie to move than it was to  face the other list, the list that had brought him to the door. The list  that started with how big, how lonely his bed felt every night, the  list that included how much he missed her. The list that concluded that  he didn't want to live in the Chelsea house or Venice on his own. The  list that told him he had reacted badly to the news of her pregnancy,  that he might be a little too convinced of his own eligibility, possibly  bordering on arrogant where his marriage prospects were concerned. He  patted Nonna's ring, secure in his top pocket. He would do better this  time. He had to.

Finally he made his way to the top floor. Sophie's door was the same  dull navy as all the other flat doors, but the handle was polished and  two terracotta pots filled with lush greenery brightened the narrow  landing. Marco shifted, nervous for the first time since he had boarded  the plane this morning fired up with purpose. Before he could start  listing why this was a bad idea he raised his hand and knocked firmly at  the door.

'Mr Kowaski, have you forgotten your keys again? It's okay, I... Oh.'  The door was fully open and Sophie stood there, shock mingling with  something Marco couldn't define but hoped might be pleasure. 'How did  you get in?'

'A neighbour.'

'They're not supposed to just let people... Not that it matters. Come on in.'

She stepped back and Marco entered her flat. There wasn't much of it, a  small attic room, a large dormer window to the right the only natural  light. A sofa ran along the wall to his left, opposite him a narrow  counter defined the small kitchen, a high table barely big enough for  two by the window. He'd been on larger boats.

The furniture was old and battered, but the room was scrupulously clean,  the cream walls covered in bright prints and swathes of material, the  sofa heaped with inviting throws and cushions. Along the wall adjoining  the window a clothing rail lined up, dresses hanging on it in a neat row  and drawings and patterns were pinned up on a huge easel.                       
       
           



       

There was no door between the living space and her bedroom, just a  narrow archway. Through it he could see a single bed and two more rails  bulging with brightly patterned dresses and skirts.

He walked over to the nearest rail and pulled out the first dress. Just  like the outfit she'd worn to Bianca's wedding-just like everything he'd  seen her in-it was deceptively simple. She obviously took her  inspiration from the past, each outfit having a vintage vibe, but the  detailing and cut gave it a modern twist.