Silk Queen

  Silk Queen

  The Wishes Series, Book 1

  G.J. Walker-Smith

  Contents

  Other Books by G.J. Walker-Smith

  Contact the author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Coming Soon

  Copyright © 2017 G.J. Walker-Smith.

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any other information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction, all names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968.

  * * *

  Editing by Tiny Tiger Edits

  Formatting by Irish Ink – Formatting and Graphics

  Cover design by The Book Design House

  Other Books by G.J. Walker-Smith

  Saving Wishes (Book One, The Wishes Series)

  Second Hearts (Book Two, The Wishes Series)

  Sand Jewels (Book 2.5, The Wishes Series)

  Storm Shells (Book Three, The Wishes Series)

  Secret North (Book Four, The Wishes Series)

  Silver Dawn (Book 4.5, The Wishes Series)

  Star Promise (Book Five, The Wishes Series)

  Shiloh (Book Six, The Wishes Series)

  Shadow Lily (Book Seven, The Wishes Series)

  Stone Roses (Book Eight, The Wishes Series)

  Contact the author

  https://www.facebook.com/gjwalkersmith

  mailto:[email protected]

  http://www.gjwalkersmith.com

  Chapter One

  I was practically raised in my mother’s haberdashery shop. As a result, I know far too much about needles, thread and buttons, but not much about anything else.

  Nellie’s Needle is a tiny shop that is overstocked and disorganised, but the location is decent, on a main road crammed between a tobacconist and a baker. It wasn’t exactly Harrods, but what would I know? I’d never been to Harrods. I’d never left Manchester. Life in my hometown of Denton wasn’t exactly charmed. I helped out in my mother’s shop and did a bit of house cleaning in nearby Stockport in a bid to earn extra money.

  Weddings are expensive and I wanted mine to be perfect, just like Princess Di’s. In fairness, mine probably wasn’t going to be anywhere near as grand as hers. A beautiful gown with a twenty-five-foot train was out of the question – no amount of saving would stretch the budget that far.

  My vision of flowy silk gave way to stiff taffeta, and my resourceful mother fashioned a floor length veil out of a pair of lace curtains off the shop floor. The end result was a simple white dress with fake pearl buttons and a puffy skirt.

  “Wait until Andrew sees it,” exclaimed my mother. “He’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

  I couldn’t actually remember Andrew falling in love with me the first time around. Sparks didn’t fly when our eyes met across a crowded dance floor – there was no meeting. I’d known him my whole life, and now we were getting married. To me, it sounded more like the end of the story rather than the beginning but my mother wouldn’t hear of it.

  “You need to stop reading those romance novels, my girl,” she scolded. “They’re ruining your mind.”

  Romance novels didn’t ruin me. They were my escape, and the biggest lesson I was ever likely to get on how it felt to fall fiercely and blindly in love.

  Today I sold Mrs Wimbush a set of curtains that were exactly the same as my veil. Surely Princess Di’s veil cost more than £8?

  I’m going out with the girls tomorrow. Charlene’s going to pick up a couple of bottles at the off-license after work. Gill’s closer, but she’s been banned from going in there until she apologises.

  Andrew’s going to Stretford with a mate but wouldn’t say who or why. I bet it’s Trevor. He knows I hate that knob.

  Book of the week: My Darling Lover

  Honeymoon fund: £64.

  Chapter Two

  My friend Charlene is the poshest girl I’ve ever known. Her father is a bank manager and her mother has a genuine Liz Claiborne handbag. We first met when my mam enrolled me in Brownies when I was six. Once a week we’d meet up at the school hall and do our best to pretend that we were upstanding and conscientious girls. The Brownie phase was over by the time I turned ten, but my friendship with Charlene endured.

  I wish I was more like her, and almost always tried to be. It wasn’t just her fancy clothes or stylish perm that made her classy. Her accent was dead posh too, and that was the thing I tried hardest to emulate. I was never going to live at Buckingham Palace, but I could at least pretend that I did.

  My friend Gill didn’t give a hoot about sounding posh. Accents didn’t matter in reform school, and Gill would know. She’d been sent down twice before – once for joyriding in a stolen car and again for shoplifting a few months later.

  To her credit, she’s stayed out of trouble for a while now. Once we turned eighteen, the threat of a stint in Borstal no longer applied. Riding in stolen cars with boys would now earn her a stint in proper jail, and not even Gill was that tough.

  She pulled her head in and signed up for a secretarial course at the local college, and after failing twice, she was finally gearing up to graduate. That was the reason for tonight’s celebration. The three of us met up at one of our usual haunts – the playground at the nursery school on Grove Road.

  Gill was there when I arrived, dragging her Doc Martins through the dirt as she slowly spun on the roundabout.

  “Hiya. You alright?”

  She lifted her head and smiled. “Better than alright.” She waved something at me. “I just found 50p in the sand. Rich little bastards at this school.”

  I giggled my way over to the swing. “Keep digging. I have a honeymoon to pay for.”

  Gill grimaced at the reminder. “A waste of time and money,” she muttered.

  To her, getting married at twenty was the most ridiculous idea on earth. No matter how many times I defended the decision, I never managed to convince her otherwise. There wasn’t time to try today. Charlene appeared, tottering across the yard in her white stilettos carrying a big green bottle.

  “About bloody time,” said Gill, jumping to her feet. “A girl could die of thirst.”

  “You each owe me 30p,” replied Charlene, handing it to her.

  Green Totty Cider was hardly top shelf, but we were skint and it was cheap.

  The bottle hissed as Gill twisted the lid. “Last of the big spenders, aren’t we?”

  Spending Saturday nights drinking in the playground in summer was nothing out of the ordinary for us. As far as behaviour went, it was as top shelf as our drink of choice, but old habits are hard to break.

  “Do you think we’ll still come here when I’m married?” I asked. “It’s probably not the done thing, right?”

  I directed the question at Charlene, but Gill jumped in. “As if Andrew will care,” she scoffed. “Where is he tonight anyway?”

  “Stretford,” I replied. “With Trevor.”

  She handed me the bottle. “Ugh! Bloody Trevor
.”

  “Have you seen him lately?” asked Charlene. “He has a moustache now. It looks like a giant bat flew up his nose.”

  “It’s his Magnum P.I. look,” said Gill, cackling.

  Trevor Hillman – and blokes like him – were the main reason we stayed out of the pubs on a Saturday night. He was a creep. He also happened to be my fiancé’s best mate.

  “He’s going to be best man at my wedding.” I pulled a face, slightly horrified by the prospect.

  Charlene sat down next to Gill on the roundabout, seemingly oblivious that her pristine white stilettos were digging into the sand. “Make sure he gets rid of the ‘tache.”

  Gill leaned, taking the bottle from my grasp. “Just call it all off.” She threw her head back and took a giant gulp before speaking again. “Getting married is stupid.”

  More than once, I’d wondered if her negativity stemmed from jealousy. I had a lot to be envious of, and for the first time ever, I called her out on it.

  “You think I’m jealous?” she asked, eyes wide. “I think you’re a knob for even considering it. You’re throwing your whole life away.”

  “I love him, Gill.”

  “Love is overrated,” she shot back.

  “Maybe you’ve just never been in love,” suggested Charlene.

  Gill handed her the bottle of cider. “Tell me what it’s like then,” she demanded. “What’s the big fuss about?”

  Charlene looked across at me, rapidly blinking as if she had sand in her eye. “I don’t know what it’s like,” she admitted. “I’ve never been in love either.”

  I wasn’t good with words, but I liked them. I grabbed my bag and reached for the tatty Mills and Boon novel that I kept hidden in the side pocket.

  I thumbed through to the chapter I was looking for and geared up to enlighten them both. “At that moment, Perdita knew that Mario was the only man she’d want for the rest of her life,” I read out loud. “As she looked into his chestnut brown eyes, her heart began thumping. Her body trembled, overcome with pure wanton desire.”

  “What the flippin’ ’eck is wanton desire?” interrupted Gill. “And Perdita is a naff name.”

  Charlene bumped her with her shoulder. “Shut up and let her read.”

  I cleared my throat and continued. “Mario leaned closer, touching his warm lips to Perdita’s ear. ‘I must go,’ he breathed. ‘But when you hear the cold wind howling in the distance, know that it is I, whispering your name.’”

  Gill groaned as if her belly hurt. Charlene stretched the bottom of her grey knitted dress to cover her knees. “That was lovely, Fi,” she praised, almost sincerely. “Is that how you feel about Andrew?”

  I felt my shoulders sag as I silently answered her question. The only thing that ever made my body tremble was cheap Green Totty Cider. But I was a realist. My mother had told me a hundred times that life is not a fairy-tale.

  I wasn’t Princess Di. There was no Prince Charles on my horizon. My prince was an apprentice bricklayer from Denton.

  Andrew was no wind-whispering Mario, but he was real and he was good and he loved me. That had to be enough.

  Never drinking again. Cider is poison. Threw up in the pot plant near the door on the way in.

  Charl is in worse shape. Gill asked her if she felt ok and Charl told her to sod off. Charlene never says sod off.

  Book of the week: My Darling Lover

  Honeymoon fund: £63.20

  Chapter Three

  I first met Mrs Crichton-Percy when she visited my mother’s shop. Mam told her that I was getting married (because Mam tells everybody), then mentioned that I was on the scrounge for extra work.

  In a stroke of pure luck, Mrs Crichton-Percy was looking for a part time house cleaner.

  It was the perfect arrangement. Three afternoons a week, I caught the 372 bus out to Bramhall and spent a few hours cleaning an already spotless house.

  The rest of the time was usually spent daydreaming that I lived there. The big Tudor home was magnificent. Each of the five bedrooms had its own private bathroom, and there was a games room with a pool table just like the one in the Gloucester Arms Pub.

  Mrs Crichton-Percy was a kind lady, which was a good thing because I took a few liberties. I often sneaked a squirt of the Chloé perfume on her dresser and was constantly checking out her shoe collection. When she walked in on me in her bedroom that day, I was parading in front of the mirror wearing a pink pillbox hat that I’d found at the top of her wardrobe.

  “I wore that to the races at Aintree last year,” she told me.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered, snatching it off my head. “I couldn’t resist trying it on.”

  Mrs Crichton-Percy slid open the mirrored wardrobe door and began raking hangers across the rail. “I wore it with this.” She turned, holding a dead lovely drop-waisted pink dress.

  “It’s beautiful.” I practically moaned out the compliment. “I really like the sequined bow.”

  She smiled at me. “We all deserve a bit of glamour in our lives, don’t you think?”

  I was nodding before she even got the question out.

  There was a rueful tinge to Mrs Crichton-Percy’s smile. Perhaps she knew that gawking at her race day outfit was as close to glitz as I was likely to get.

  “I have something you might like,” she suggested, walking over to the big chest of drawers near the window.

  I stood firm, holding my breath in anticipation, and when she turned around and presented me with a small sequined clutch bag I nearly squealed. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “Your first piece of designer glitz,” she announced. “The first of many, I’m sure.”

  I thanked her a hundred times, painfully aware of how stupid I sounded.

  “And something to put in it,” she added, handing me five quid.

  My weekly housecleaning wage felt a like highway robbery at times. I worked far harder in Mam’s shop for much less reward, but I was always grateful to receive it. It brought us one step closer to our dream honeymoon. And if we ever did make the bright lights of Blackpool, I’d have a dead posh handbag to take with me.

  I stood at the end of the Crichton-Percys’ driveway and waited for Andrew to pick me up, grasping my new little bag with both hands. I squared my shoulders and held my head high as if I was the lady of the manor waiting on her driver. As expected, the daydream quickly slipped.

  I heard Andrew’s car before I saw it. There was no mistaking the sound of a souped-up Ford Cortina with a dodgy exhaust. It was downright embarrassing, especially in this neighbourhood.

  He leaned over and threw open the passenger door. “Hiya, lass.”

  After clearing a pile of junk off the seat, I got in the car. “I thought you were going to get that noise fixed.”

  “I am.”

  “When?”

  He took my hand and kissed it. “One day.”

  Everything was going to happen one day. My mam called Andrew grounded. “That lad’s good for you,” she constantly assured me. “He keeps your head out of the clouds.”

  I looked down at the sequined bag in my lap, glinting in the afternoon sun. “See what I got today?” I asked. “It’s a Mel Lazar bag. She’s a famous designer.”

  Andrew reached over and swept his hand through my hair. “You’re turning into a right posh lass,” he teased. “I can’t keep up with you.”

  His eyes never left the road as I gazed at him. Twenty-one-year-old Andrew was boyishly handsome with a devilish smile.

  I loved him, but he was right. I didn’t think he could keep up with me either, and it sometimes scared me.

  I wonder how posh people like Mrs Crichton-Percy end up with double-barrelled surnames. Maybe they make it up themselves.

  I could never do that.

  Andrew’s last name is bad enough. I certainly don’t want to make it worse by being Fiona Black-Pidgeon.

  Mam found the puke in the pot plant. I blamed the cat from next door. She said someone needs to find the cat and
put it out of its misery.

  Book of the week: My Darling Lover

  Honeymoon fund: £68.20

  Chapter Four

  There’s a reason why people like Mrs Crichton-Percy shopped for fabric at Nellie’s Needle. My mother stocked some of the finest dress fabrics this side of London. How she managed to get hold of them was anyone’s guess, but mine was that they fell off the back of a truck.

  Her latest acquisition was two bolts of beautiful black dupioni silk. I noticed them instantly, sticking out like a sore thumb against the cheap voile and taffeta.

  I picked up a roll and held it close as I waltzed down the narrow aisle. “All of my dresses will be made of silk like this one day,” I wistfully declared.

  “At ten quid a yard?” scoffed my mother. “You’re marrying the wrong Andrew. Head to the palace and set your sights on the prince instead.”

  I leaned the roll of fabric against the wall. “I don’t fancy Prince Andrew, Mam,” I muttered. “He’s not the marrying kind.”

  My mother chuckled her way to the front of the store, flipped over the sign on the door and declared Nellie’s Needle open for the day.

  The promise I made of working the entire day only held until eleven. Andrew appeared at the front window, calling me outside with a wave of his hand and a cheeky smile.

  I quickly glanced across at my mother, who was at the counter explaining her no-refund policy to Mrs Boorman.

  “There’s nowt wrong with them, Missus,” she gruffly insisted.

  “They hang crooked,” came the fast reply.

  My mother pushed the folded curtains back across the counter. “You go home and tell your Fred to put the rail up straight,” she ordered. “He hung it on a lean.”