hues, not something you might mistake for a parakeet! Get those blue feathers off as quick as you can. We’re behind already and we can’t be doing with silly mistakes like that!’
Daisy suspected that Miss Button probably thought she was too busy dreaming about her wedding dress to pay attention to her work, but that wasn’t it at all. She was focusing all her will on not being sick, and at least she’d only sewn the wrong coloured feathers on the hat, not thrown up on it. It was a dreadful hat anyway; whoever had ordered it obviously couldn’t care less that they were going to look like their head was on fire.
Daisy burped quietly, pressed her fingers to her mouth and swallowed bile. God, she wished this would go away. All of it, not just the morning sickness. She wished she and Terry were already married and living in their own little house somewhere all comfortable and happy. He would mow the lawns in the weekends and she’d cook delicious roasts for Sunday lunch and in the evenings they’d think up names for their baby, which would be arriving at the very earliest nine months after their wedding day, not a shameful five or six months. But instead, she was going to have to waddle down the aisle with a belly on her like a watermelon and all the world knowing what she and Terry had been doing.
She felt a wave of panic jostling to get past the nausea in her throat and did what Louise had suggested at lunchtime: she closed her eyes, breathed slowly in and out until she felt calmer, and told herself about all the good things.
For a start there was Terry, whom she loved more than anything else in her entire life. And there was the baby that they both loved to death already, even if it was coming at the wrong time. And they were getting married in only five more weeks. Irene was right: she’d still only be four months pregnant then and if she chose a pattern with a high waist and an A-line skirt and wore a girdle (but not one that was too tight—she didn’t want to squash the baby) people might not even notice. So it wasn’t all bad, was it?
Beatrice Button climbed off her stool at the head of the work table and came to peer over Daisy’s shoulder.
Daisy knew she was there but didn’t look up from her work, terrified she would make a hole in the hat with her stitch unpicker if she didn’t pay attention. She was a funny woman, Miss Button. She was in her early fifties, Daisy guessed, very short and rather round, but her clothes always fitted her perfectly. She said that to patronize any other store would be disloyal and only ever wore clothes from Dunbar & Jones, whether they were off the peg—which wasn’t often because of her rather odd shape—or garments she’d had made by the store’s dressmakers. When she and Miss Willow arrived at work together, which they did every day because of their living arrangements, they looked more than a little bit like Laurel and Hardy, though no one dared say that to their faces.
Miss Button said, ‘You look a little green around the gills, Daisy. Are you not feeling well?’
Alarmed, Daisy replied, ‘No, I’m all right, Miss Button, thank you.’
Miss Button gave Daisy a look. ‘You don’t look all right. Do you need to go to the sick bay?’
‘No, thank you,’ Daisy lied. Her nausea had suddenly worsened and her mouth was starting to water. Through clenched teeth she added, ‘I might just go and get a drink, though, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course it is.’
Daisy got off her stool and hurried from the workroom, heading for the toilets. Banging into a cubicle, she knelt in front of the bowl just in time as her lunch came up in a hot, stinging gush. She waited for a minute until she was sure it was all out, spat a couple of times and wiped her mouth on a wad of toilet paper, then flushed the loo.
In the mirror above the handbasin, she looked a fright. Her eyes were red and watery and her face was very pale, but she felt a lot better. This seemed to
Daisy suspected that Miss Button probably thought she was too busy dreaming about her wedding dress to pay attention to her work, but that wasn’t it at all. She was focusing all her will on not being sick, and at least she’d only sewn the wrong coloured feathers on the hat, not thrown up on it. It was a dreadful hat anyway; whoever had ordered it obviously couldn’t care less that they were going to look like their head was on fire.
Daisy burped quietly, pressed her fingers to her mouth and swallowed bile. God, she wished this would go away. All of it, not just the morning sickness. She wished she and Terry were already married and living in their own little house somewhere all comfortable and happy. He would mow the lawns in the weekends and she’d cook delicious roasts for Sunday lunch and in the evenings they’d think up names for their baby, which would be arriving at the very earliest nine months after their wedding day, not a shameful five or six months. But instead, she was going to have to waddle down the aisle with a belly on her like a watermelon and all the world knowing what she and Terry had been doing.
She felt a wave of panic jostling to get past the nausea in her throat and did what Louise had suggested at lunchtime: she closed her eyes, breathed slowly in and out until she felt calmer, and told herself about all the good things.
For a start there was Terry, whom she loved more than anything else in her entire life. And there was the baby that they both loved to death already, even if it was coming at the wrong time. And they were getting married in only five more weeks. Irene was right: she’d still only be four months pregnant then and if she chose a pattern with a high waist and an A-line skirt and wore a girdle (but not one that was too tight—she didn’t want to squash the baby) people might not even notice. So it wasn’t all bad, was it?
Beatrice Button climbed off her stool at the head of the work table and came to peer over Daisy’s shoulder.
Daisy knew she was there but didn’t look up from her work, terrified she would make a hole in the hat with her stitch unpicker if she didn’t pay attention. She was a funny woman, Miss Button. She was in her early fifties, Daisy guessed, very short and rather round, but her clothes always fitted her perfectly. She said that to patronize any other store would be disloyal and only ever wore clothes from Dunbar & Jones, whether they were off the peg—which wasn’t often because of her rather odd shape—or garments she’d had made by the store’s dressmakers. When she and Miss Willow arrived at work together, which they did every day because of their living arrangements, they looked more than a little bit like Laurel and Hardy, though no one dared say that to their faces.
Miss Button said, ‘You look a little green around the gills, Daisy. Are you not feeling well?’
Alarmed, Daisy replied, ‘No, I’m all right, Miss Button, thank you.’
Miss Button gave Daisy a look. ‘You don’t look all right. Do you need to go to the sick bay?’
‘No, thank you,’ Daisy lied. Her nausea had suddenly worsened and her mouth was starting to water. Through clenched teeth she added, ‘I might just go and get a drink, though, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course it is.’
Daisy got off her stool and hurried from the workroom, heading for the toilets. Banging into a cubicle, she knelt in front of the bowl just in time as her lunch came up in a hot, stinging gush. She waited for a minute until she was sure it was all out, spat a couple of times and wiped her mouth on a wad of toilet paper, then flushed the loo.
In the mirror above the handbasin, she looked a fright. Her eyes were red and watery and her face was very pale, but she felt a lot better. This seemed to
Similar Books
