Silk Queen

By GJ Walker-Smith

In 1983, life for Fiona Black was simple.
She loved fashion, nights out at Bingo, and Duran Duran.
Her days were spent working in her mother’s haberdashery shop or hanging out with her two best friends.
She was also planning her wedding.
Unlike her idol Princess Di, Fiona hadn’t landed a prince. Her fiancé Andrew wasn’t perfect, but royalty was hard to come by in her small town in Manchester.
Her princess aspirations were closeted, but perfection could always be found in the pages of the romance novels she loved so much.
What she didn’t realise was that a real life fairy-tale was waiting for her in London, and it would be more epic than the twenty-five foot train on Princess Di’s wedding dress.
All she had to do was find it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Walker-Smith
• Release date: Mar 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994376084

GJ Walker-Smith

Wife, mother, writer, wanderer. Lives near the beach in Western Australia. Author of YA novels The Wishes Series. Saving Wishes (book 1) iBooks Best Of 2013 Breakout Book Of The Year AU & NZ.

Book preview

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.