In Fashion Read online

  Table Of Contents

  Foreword

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgements

  About Jody Klaire

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

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  www.ylva-publishing.com

  “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

  Psalm 139:14

  Foreword

  Writing has taught me so much and this book is no different. Darcy is one of those characters who strutted onto the page and connected to me. It was an absolute joy to write her story which I filled with every chuckle and smile I could, but somehow, Darcy brought something far deeper to the surface that I pray resonates with you. I hope that when you have seen her embracing her design, you will feel stirred to do the same.

  Thank you for giving me the chance to tell you a story, to make you smile and uplift you. May Darcy’s story touch you, move you, and remind you how very special you are.

  Be you, be proud to be you, you are truly unique. Embrace your truth, your core, you are beautiful. You are designer. #EmbraceDesigner

  Big Smiles,

  Jody

  Dedication

  To:

  Those near and far who make me happy I’m me

  And:

  To all those who have the courage to embrace their own unique design

  Chapter 1

  Darcy McGregor was a bitch. A big one. She knew it as she snuck into the cab before the elderly woman on crutches, but cabs were like gold dust in London. Surely an internationally acclaimed supermodel, celebrity mum, and star of The Style Surgeon—the best live-makeover TV show in existence, thank you very much—had more important places to be.

  The cabbie turned, a scowl on his drawn ruddy face, but then his eyes twinkled and he gave her a half-smirk. “Guess I’d better not argue, or you’ll try dressing me.”

  She flashed him a smile. “And you wouldn’t enjoy that?”

  He coughed, turned back around, and roared the cab into life. He even closed the Perspex screen, muttering something about privacy for ladies. Good to see someone with manners.

  She flicked out her mobile and tapped out a quick tweet about hackney carriages needing a redesign. What was with the bland grey anyway? So they needed to be black outside, yes, but where was the sparkle? She glanced through the screen… Better to add something about banning silly ornaments dangling from rear-view mirrors. Hawaiian Flower Chains were so last year. Frankly, it surprised her that such an apparently avid fan of her show would have such dated tastes. Was he not learning anything from watching?

  London rolled on outside: The sparkle of Harrods in Christmas lights, the ice rink full of skaters in purple glow overlooked by the Gothic architecture of the Natural History Museum, the city awash with Christmas trees and snowy air. Shoppers laden with items they couldn’t afford ducked out of the way as businessmen dashed across from offices to cabs. Odd people shuffled or slunk their way along, muttering at teenagers with rucksacks and oversized headphones peering over at the ice rink. Cyclists with tinsel on diced with danger as they whipped through the stream of traffic chased by couriers on mopeds. Fluorescent-clothed workmen in Santa hats, wide-eyed tourists rosy cheeked with cold. London in a festive rush hour. But not a touch of the cheer made any impact on her. She had parties to attend.

  Her phone jingled, and she swiped to answer. “If you tell me you’ve broken something or are sick, I’m sending you to that hovel your father lives in.”

  “Hi, Mum,” Susannah muttered. Sounded like she was eating something, again. “You think Barcelona is a hovel?”

  “Yes.” She glared out of the window at a man with a camera in hand. But when he lifted it to his face, she turned on her media-ready smile. Idiot. “It doesn’t matter where he lives. He wouldn’t know what domesticated was if it took his football away.”

  “You have a cleaner and a maid.” Susannah chomped even louder. She knew full well how much it irked. “But, seeming as you love me so much, why am I coming to the stupid party?”

  “Because you have left school, and you are not becoming a bum.” Oh fantastic. The tourist was using his zoom. She hammered on the Perspex screen. “What is the hold-up?”

  The cabbie half turned, then motioned to the queue of traffic trying to get around some van.

  “Just take a side street,” she snapped. Why wait at traffic? “Don’t you sit some exam on London or something?”

  He laughed, coughed up half his lungs, and tapped the wheel. “Yeah, but we have Sat Nav now.” He fiddled with his radio. Was he turning it up?

  “A hundred-pound if you use your brain instead. I’m in a hurry.” She raised her eyebrows and thumbed to the guy with a camera. “Two hundred if you get me there in fifteen minutes.”

  The cabbie sucked in his chin and roared them into a side street. Some red sign said access for residents only.

  “Don’t worry ‘bout that,” he called over his shoulder, darting around a cyclist. “Chelsea pensioners just don’t want a load of traffic.”

  “You know I’m still here, Mum?” Susannah muttered. “Seriously, two hundred quid?”

  “What’s the issue? I give you that as pocket money.” She pulled her fake-fur coat around her—a bitch, yes, but animals were cute—and leaned back into the seat. The tip of an enormous Christmas tree glowed through the arched windows of the Chelsea Hospital. “Why do they need such a large building for a bunch of old people? Surely there are better uses.”

  “Why are you in such a bad mood?” Susannah chomped louder. Probably with her mouth open and as dense-looking as her father. “You’re old too.”

  “You would say that, you don’t know what a real woman is yet.” She flicked her cellulite-free legs crossed—the wonder of Pilates. Maybe she was in a mood? She shouldn’t be. Was she?

  “Do you?” Susannah’s solemnity echoed.

  She laughed. Silly child. “Just be ready when I come in.” She scowled out at the snow falling. Ice was not good for heels. “Pluck your bush-like brows, and when I say wax, I mean wax.”

  The phone cut out. Hmm. Screen was flashing red as if Susannah had put the phone down.
Oh well, must have gotten cut off.

  “Kids, huh?” the cabbie said with a smile as he pulled the Perspex screen back. “My daughter is all stripy tights and black lipstick.”

  She pocketed her phone in her handbag. “She’s seeking identity, not to mention teenage rebellion. Better tights and lipstick than breaking the law.” Susannah rebelled by doing her homework and spouting off nonsense about women only being looked at as trophies. “Let her grow, and be there to cheer her.”

  The cabbie screwed up his face like thinking about it hurt. “My wife wants her to take her cue from you.”

  Even in a bad mood? Even in the kind of mood where she thought Tower Bridge was drab and dull? Darcy gave him her most polite smile. Best appease him. “Perhaps she will when she’s ready.”

  The cabbie pulled into Kensington and up to her house. White Georgian perfection in a five-storey townhouse, complete with mini-trees with lights on either side of the front door. Of course it was the most stylish on the street. Not only could she make the ugly look good, she had the touch with buildings too. Pleasing.

  She pulled out her purse and flicked five fifty-pound notes at the wide-eyed cabbie. “Extra fifty if you are back here and waiting for seven.”

  “You got it.” He snatched the notes off her with a grin. “You’re wonderful, Ms McGregor.”

  “I know.” She headed out into the bitter air and trotted up the steps. Gladys, her wonderful maid—whom she herself trained, of course—had the door open and her favourite lemon tea at the ready. “You are a trooper.”

  “Thank you, Ms McGregor.” Gladys—what a name for a twenty-something Welsh beauty. Sounded like something out of the Chelsea Hospital. “Susannah is upstairs having a bath. I left the wax on for her. Marshall wants to know if you are arriving with him… And your outfit came from Mario.”

  “Marshall may greet me there but not before.” Dates were rarely interesting. So he looked good on TV. In reality, he bored her. She plucked the cup from Gladys’s trembling hand and threw her bag on the floor. Yes, Marshall didn’t come close to what she wanted. She needed perfection. She glanced at the ship-wheel barometer on the wall: the hallway was the correct temperature, 22.5 degrees. Didn’t feel like it. Somehow, seeing the ridiculous attempt at nautical fashion conjured her father’s voice from inside her. She could see him, huge man that he was, huge beard, twinkling eyes, and always a joker. “Darcy,” he’d say in his gritty voice, “I’ve sailed all around the world and not seen a girl as pretty as you.”

  She tapped her fingernails to her mug, the lemon-scented steam tickling her frozen nose. He’d always been jolly, and her mother intense, but then her mother had done the rearing while he sailed around on his ships. Merchant Navy. Lucrative. If only they’d seen some of it.

  “Ms McGregor?” Gladys squeaked from behind her.

  Silly to fixate on the past. She turned and fixed Gladys with a stare—dark-haired, chubby, sweet, but she needed to lose two stone at least. “Yes?”

  “Mario is waiting to show you the outfit.” Gladys motioned to the front room. “He wanted to check in case it needed adjustments.”

  Adjustments? She honed her body. Not a pound under or over eight-and-a-half stone. Perfect.

  “I did try to explain,” Gladys mumbled, scurried ahead, and pushed open the white-panelled door. “But he was set on it.”

  “Mario, why are you here?” She strode in. Gladys had done a good job of the Christmas tree, and there were stockings hanging from the mantlepiece. Good. She put her hands on her hips.

  Mario, a short faux-Italian who thought camp worked with a bodybuilder’s physique, turned and rubbed at his “arty” beard. “Not you, Ms McGregor, but Susannah.” He let out a giggle and covered his mouth with his hand. Thumb out, of course.

  “Oh, in that case, stay.” She clicked her fingers, and Gladys hurried off. Good luck to her trying to help Susannah preen. No girl should have such manly legs. She’d told her several times over that running was good, Pilates was good. They both elongated, not bunched. Strength and grace. But no, no, not Susannah; she wanted to play football like her father.

  She sipped at her lemon tea and let out a long sigh. One could give out half their genes, but it was always a battle to remove the inadequacies of the other. Served her right for getting drunk with a footballer seventeen years ago. Good thing neither of her parents had been around to witness that little slip-up.

  “Mum?” Susannah wandered in with her dressing gown on. She was unmistakably her daughter, but her father’s Portuguese influence would make Susannah breathtaking when she got through adolescence. Although, knowing Susannah, she’d tie her hair back and cover it all up with baggy clothes.

  “You’ve eaten?” Darcy stroked a stray hair from Susannah’s forehead. “You need me to make something?” She glared at Mario, who was watching. Best not to show too much emotion; he might think she was nice, and it was not wise to be nice when in unpleasant company.

  “No, I’m fine.” Susannah glowered at Mario, who waved at her. “Marshall called again. He told me that if you didn’t call back, he’d have me fired.” She scowled until her forehead wrinkled up. “He threatened to fire Gladys too, twice.”

  “He’d better not have.” Marshall had been barely tolerable as it was, but he seemed to think he could get his feet under her table. That would have to be fixed. “Gladys is far too useful.”

  Susannah narrowed her eyes. “This like when he clicked his fingers, and you spent the whole day having pictures taken—on our holiday?”

  “He had a film coming out.” Susannah had enjoyed the day at the hotel pool while she’d had to pretend she wanted to be drooled over. The things one had to do to be “caught” by hired paparazzi.

  “But he didn’t have a clue who I was.” Susannah put her hands on her hips. “Bit like you.”

  Didn’t she understand they had the gaze of gossip on them? “Of course he did.” Marshall better know who Susannah was. “He was just teasing.” If he knew what was good for him. She fussed with Susannah’s hair again, dark like her father’s, with a touch of a wave through it. “He will have the two most beautiful ladies with him. How could he forget who you were?”

  “You look wonderful,” Mario said, fiddling with his stubby fingers. “I know the dress will dazzle on you.”

  “Yes, it will.” She smiled around her cup. Yes, she was a bitch, but at least she was a beautiful one.

  Chapter 2

  Kate Bonvilston clapped her frozen hands together and let out a shuddering breath as she stood at the school gates. Always reminded her of a prison with the high walls and spiky rails on top. Wasn’t much more welcoming inside. Then again, when were schools meant to be friendly places?

  “Kate?”

  Ah. Laura—her cheating, lying scumbag of an ex. Even the sound of the voice grated. Flipping fantastic.

  She took a breath as Laura plodded over with a smirk on her face. What was her deal? “Yes?”

  “You look rough. Did you catch another cold?” She laughed. Why was that funny? And when had she decided to get her nose pierced…three times? Ouch. “Bennie always uses that wash stuff. She never looks rough.”

  “I know.” But why would she care? Why should she give a shit about her ex-friend? The ex-friend she’d been a sucker for until she’d decided on a fresh start with Laura… Yeah, that had worked out great, hadn’t it? She rubbed at her aching forehead, frowning again.

  Mum had issues with her frowning, some weird advice from a TV show saying it would turn men off. Hopefully men were a lot less shallow than that. The men she knew were. The Style Surgeon? She shook her head, hoping that Laura would take the hint and find someone else to natter at. Who called themselves a Style Surgeon?

  “You here for Mikey?” Laura wasn’t going anywhere, by the daft grin and lack of personal boundary. It had been bad enough when they were together. Who w
anted to cuddle with an ex?

  “Yes.” Why else would she be there freezing her ass off if she wasn’t waiting for her brother? If Mikey’s teachers hurried up, she might not get hypothermia…or need therapy.

  “How is he?” Gone was the smugness and the Laura she’d known. Kind, quirky, compassionate peeked through. Nice to know Bennie hadn’t completely squashed that side.

  “You know Mikey. He’s good.” She shrugged. Mikey had a lot more resilience than her. He smiled more too. Considering he was the one with a traumatic brain injury and he didn’t look like he understood and couldn’t always speak, he was the wisest person she knew. Maybe having more shit on his plate made the small stuff more heartening?

  “Is he getting any better?” Now Laura had threaded a hand around her arm. She peered up, a soft look in her eyes.

  “No, it’s permanent.” She pulled away. A sudden urge of irritation flushed through her. “What do you care anyway?”

  Laura sighed. “Yes. I messed up.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “You never let me explain. You never let me close to you…not really.”

  Three mums bustled by, waved, and called out “Merry Christmas.” Kate glared up at the school. What were the teachers doing? Why did they have to wait so long to let the kids out? So they had a “disco,” but it was five o’clock. “Mikey needs dinner.”

  “I want to explain… Bennie wants to.” Laura reached for her arm again. “I love her, I really love her. She loves me. I didn’t want to come between you. Can’t you see that?”

  She snapped her arm away. Stepped away. “He’ll get a bad stomach if he doesn’t eat. It’ll bring on a fit.”

  “I miss you, but Bennie… She’s heartbroken.” Laura stepped closer again, glancing around as if only now she got the whole being in public, school gates thing. Yeah, best the parents didn’t know too much. Don’t show, don’t get stressed. “She talks about you all the time. You don’t want to give up on so many years together, right?”

  “You make it sound like I was married to her.” She shut her eyes. Great. There was the opening. Laura never missed an opening.