Page 116

‘Please. It will need you and Stan to sign – everything’s in order with Giles and how we agreed. I’ll see you this evening. What’s the time now?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I can close up a bit early. Why don’t you come and have some supper at the house and then we can return to the workshop and spend a couple of hours playing with chocolate?’

‘Those hearts are the best idea you’ve ever had.’

‘They do sell well,’ Alex admitted.

‘I’ll bet Rowntree’s are kicking themselves they didn’t hang on to you when they had you.’ Holly winked. She kissed Alex. ‘Thanks for supper. See you a bit later.’

Holly left and Alex returned to her desk to regard the paperwork that notified her she was now a divorcée, free to meet other men, to fall in love, to marry. The oddity was that she had never felt more imprisoned by her heart than she did now. If Matthew had given her the irksome reputation of a failed marriage, it was Harry who had ruined her for future relationships.

It had been fifteen months since she’d seen him but it might as well be fifteen minutes because her despair felt fresh. In fact, though she dare not admit it to anyone, not even Holly, she grieved for Harry far more than for her tarnished reputation, which failed marriage brought, or for the obvious talk that now followed Matthew’s name.

She knew she was fortunate not to be one of those society ladies, though, or the divorce would likely consume her until she became bitter company. Happily, establishing and growing Frobisher’s Chocolates had taken all of her energies and thinking time so that the last year and more had fled past her in a fast-moving path of tastings, testings and trials. Alex now had her chocolate range set, her brand was known and appreciated in York, Harrogate too; the latter’s seasonal influx took her product south with the society folk and she had no doubt that her next conquest would likely be London, with a tiny salon. She had a private goal to open in Brighton and would choose the south coast resort location over the capital because of its high society population and constant ‘holiday’ atmosphere. It was within such easy striking distance of the capital that she had convinced herself it would gather up the London market anyway. However, before she could make such a move she needed to be sure of the logistics of moving her product successfully across such a long distance. In this regard, Matthew would have been ideal assistance, but her father would surely offer help and advice for using rail transport.

Secretly, though, Alex’s only desire for a Brighton salon to succeed would be to show Henry Blakeney that she’d achieved her dream. It would be a lustreless victory not to share his pleasure in seeing his inspiration for the hollow heart being so successful but at least he would know. She sighed; Brighton was for another year . . . right now she had three shops to supply and ensure they enjoyed brisk trade before she could consider a fourth.

She tucked the paperwork she was holding into the safe behind her and moved out into the salon, inhaling the chilled fragrance of chocolate, sweet and dark at once, which seemed to prompt a stream of pleasure to flood her consciousness. It was like a waterfall of happy memories melting her mood from slightly melancholy to optimistic, and she appreciated that her future was bright even though she planned to live it alone. Her heels clicked lightly on the black-and-white tiled marble floor that her shop assistants broomed each hour; Alex insisted that no dust ever be allowed to take purchase. She glanced out through the two sets of windows divided up into small panes, which lent a Victorian look to her headquarters and, in the depths of winter, caught the snowflakes in their angles. Despite the chill afternoon she assured herself that those harsh months were behind them. Good for chocolate sales, though, she reminded herself.

Alex smiled at the customer being served by her single staff member. ‘Hello, Mrs Bromley. How are you?’ She couldn’t help her gaze darting quickly to the display cabinets to check that she had plenty of violet creams piled up in a neat pyramid beneath the glass; they were Mrs Bromley’s favourites. They stood proud and glossy, their daintily sugared fresh petals glittering off the strategically placed mirrors that lined the dark wooden cabinets.

‘Good afternoon, Alex. I’m very well, thank you. Just recovering from a bit of a chest cold but otherwise fine. I saw your mother today, actually. She’s awfully proud of you and your salons.’

‘She took some convincing at the outset.’ Alex glanced at the box of chocolates that were being tied off with a red satin bow. ‘Lovely, Elsie. Did you include some of our new spring rose chocolates?’

Elsie nodded with a grin.

‘Oh, I’m glad you’re trying those, Mrs Bromley. It’s taken me a while to get that rose syrup just right. And the sugared crimson rose petals contrast perfectly against the violets.’

‘You’re so clever to be using fresh flowers, Alex. I have to admit, whenever I get a box of your chocolates I almost never want to open them, the packaging with that red ribbon is so exquisite. I’m giving these to my sister-in-law. She’s quite the adoring fan of your floral fondants. The rose and violet in particular.’

‘Thank you. Give her my warmest regards.’

Mrs Bromley paid and left with her parcel.

‘You’re getting better with those bows, Elsie. Far neater than mine.’

‘Go on with you, Miss Alex. I love my job here.’

‘Well, you take an early mark. I’ll close up.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t mind.’

‘I’m sure. I’ll probably get away a bit earlier too.’

‘All right, then. Good evening, Miss Alex,’ Elsie called, taking off her white linen apron. ‘I’ll lock the back door on my way out.’

‘Night night,’ Alex called, sighing comfortably to herself as she checked the gloves that needed to go home with her for laundering. She hummed as she neatened up the padded boxes of assorted fabrics. Her signature box was a black-and-white striped oval that was tied with a scarlet satin ribbon – this was reserved for her most expensive range and the ovals were stacked up on the shelves in contrived disarray to make a pleasing monochrome display, while the ribbons, scarlet and various others to denote different ranges, hung from hooks in a silken cascade of glimmering colours. Entering the space was like falling into a special world from a time that was fast disappearing. She had surprised herself at her choice of decor but somehow the cleaner, paler choices of today didn’t suit the atmosphere she wanted to create around her products. She wanted the cosy, soft warmth that only dark wood, which Alex favoured for her cabinetry, could muster. Together with her mirrors, it formed a backdrop for the brilliant colour from her ribbons, crystallised flowers, sugar-dusted confections and the high-gloss unadorned chocolate-covered caramels, nougats, fudges and fondants, and showed off their shiny desirability.

Christmas was her favourite time to decorate the salon in a frenzy of colour and her fir tree in the window that was hung with her special hand-foiled chocolate angels and snowflakes had been widely admired, even mentioned in the newspapers too. She hoped that people would begin to travel to Frobisher’s just to see the window dressing at the festive times. If she could make it a tradition then Alex imagined that sales could easily quadruple in Christmas week.

But while she was a long way from Christmas, Alex had no complaints about her business or its potential to expand across England. Harry would be proud . . . so would Matthew, she had to concede. Her former husband had only wanted success for her business dreams.

She looked up momentarily to stop any rogue tears from surfacing and with the gesture made a mental note to ask Elsie to dust the chandeliers and wall sconces tomorrow; she knew her girls had only done them yesterday but, even so, it paid to be attentive to their hygiene. The chandeliers cast a rosy glow around the shop, reflecting their sparkle off the mirrors perfectly to light the polish of the dark chocolates for maximum brightness, but the lights were traps for the tiny motes that blew in with the customers or drifted up from the floors in light whorls when the door was opened. Alex wondered whether she should introduce a new cabinet of wrapped chocolate bars. They might be small ones that inside the wrapper told the story of Frobisher’s, or perhaps the origins of chocolate and how a humble bean is fermented, relying on the air to change its structure and taste. Something to ponder, especially her idea to not make the bar flat but give it a ‘mounded’ shape . . . making it look feminine. A thought struck . . . perhaps she could fill the mounds with fondant on some of the bars . . . peppermint, orange, strawberry . . . the most popular flavours? She grinned at the notion, promised herself she’d explore that idea on Sunday when the shop was closed and she could ‘play’, as she liked to call it.

Alex wound up a few of the stray ribbons and generally tidied the main counter around the till for the morning. She peered out, anticipating drizzle, but the early evening remained dry. Soon the days would stretch into the night and she could remain open longer. Spring this year was mild; she might even get in a ride on Blackberry this evening before Holly and Stan joined her for supper. Life was good; she needed to keep reminding herself of that and not permit the shadows to cloud her mind and colour her thoughts as unhappy. There was much to look forward to in business and perhaps her achievements in the chocolate salons had to be enough.

She bent beneath the counter to pick up a stray glove she’d missed when she heard the bell above the door ring. Annoyed with herself for forgetting to put the closed sign up, she straightened.

‘I was just about to close,’ she said.