Free If the Dress Fits by Daisy James Page A

Callie took a sip and ran her tongue over her lips. It was delicious – golden, yeasty, fresh – and she swallowed a long draught, wiping the froth from her upper lip with the back of her hand.
    ‘Now we see her! The old Callie-Louise Henshaw is back with us again!’ exclaimed Seb, drawing her into a squeeze and dropping a kiss on her forehead. ‘Callie, I’m so pleased you decided to stay on for a few weeks.’
    ‘Hey, Callie! Great to see you.’ Archie rested his snooker cue against the table and strode round to envelop her in his arms. ‘Missed you, darling. We all do. It’s just like old times. Well, it will be when…’
    ‘So, Callie…’ Nessa guided her away from a trip down Archie’s Memory Lane to a bashed copper table in the corner of the snug next to a museum-standard display of Gavin’s best horse brasses and Toby jugs. ‘I hear you’ve decided to sell Gingerberry? Is it really true?’
    ‘Did I hear you right?’ asked Archie, who had edged round the table to take his next shot. ‘You’re selling up? You’re leaving again? Aren’t we your friends any more, Callie?’
    ‘Of course you are, Archie.’ But she couldn’t quite meet his accusatory stare.
    Another pint arrived and Callie gulped half down in one go. The unfamiliar dose of alcohol was working very nicely at erasing the sharp edges of the local pub. Good grief, she thought, what was Archie doing here, anyway? Why wasn’t he living it up in the nightspots of London or Manchester? He was the bass guitarist in one of the most successful bands in Britain at the moment. Hell, The Razorclaws were lucky enough to be booked to perform at the wedding of the decade. If they weren’t in demand now, they certainly would be after that. Jealous? Her? Yes!
    ‘I’m so sorry about Hannah, Callie. I loved her, too. We didn’t get a chance to talk much at her funeral. How are you holding up?’ asked Nessa.
    She saw her childhood friend study her over the rim of her pint glass, casting a worried glance over her scrawny frame. They’d been exactly the same build at school, but now Nessa possessed the taut, muscular silhouette of a sports instructor as well as the rosy glow of health and vigour achieved by spending her days on the hockey field with eleven adolescent girls. Securing her position as their old high school’s gym teacher was a dream come true for Nessa.
    ‘Oh, well, you know, I’m doing okay, I suppose.’
    The scene was a replica of their adolescent dialogues – the welcoming atmosphere of the Fox and Hounds, a ready supply of beer and her friend’s soothing words – it was the balm to cure many a teenage heartache. But with the empty space in her heart her aunt had inhabited, Callie doubted any amount of Theakston’s Best Bitter would heal the trauma she was experiencing at that moment. The aroma of Chanel Cristal, Nessa’s favourite perfume, and the sympathy oozing from her oldest friend conjured up the pain-lashed memories of the last few weeks and caused hot tears to flow down her cheeks.
    ‘I miss her so much, Nessa. I was a useless niece. I’ve hardly been home in the last three years. Too engrossed in my selfish ambitions, thinking I could run with the pack of celebrity wedding gown designers. Now I’m a true orphan.’ Her grief resumed; raw and violent.
    ‘You are not useless, Callie.’ Nessa’s habitually jolly face, strewn with freckles, reflected the pain she herself was suffering.
    Callie saw her friend sweep her eyes over her hair, usually as glossy as liquid tar, but which today hung flat and dull, her fringe skimming her spidery lashes and in need of a salon’s attention. She knew she looked a mess. Dark triangular smudges had lodged themselves beneath her eyes that no amount of foundation could disguise, not that she had tried; she sported not a scrap of make-up. What was the point?
    ‘I am, Nessa. Not only as a niece, but as a cousin’ – she shot a glance across to where Seb and Archie were