Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker

By Denise Morgan

Dressmaker, Raye Dawkins, is obsessed with her neighbor, Eric Mandini, an international businessman. When they meet by chance, she later becomes his lover, his domestic goddess, his babysitter to his ten-year-old son, Enzo. Just when she believes their relationship is moving to the next level, he dumps her by email. Heartbroken, devastated, she wants to hurt him back and begins her vengeance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Morgan
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311022868

Denise Morgan

Denise Morgan lives in London, England and once a resident of Canada. Over the years, she has molded herself into an artist. She writes novels, pens Japanese Haikus: Modern Day Japanese Haiku and Wildly Random Haiku, also short poetry: The Crux of Being. When she's not writing, she paints enchanting nature, portrait, and abstract in acrylic on canvas. Follow on Instagram.com/denisedeluxedesigns

Book preview

Part One

Raye

longing for Eric

«Chapter One»

Raye Anne Dawkins had set the stage for lovemaking. It was nine-thirty in the evening and she had carried out her bedtime ritual like clockwork. Seductively she lay on her back in her queen size bed gazing up at the ceiling in an indulgent trance, her chubby cheeks crimson with heat. A curious blend of pheromones and sweet aromas permeated the air around her. The culprits were an ivory bowl full of fresh fruits: strawberries, bananas and vines of grapes on the bedside table. On the opposite side table was a breathing bottle of an Italian Merlot ready to decant into two crystal wine glasses. Soft moonlight pressing through the gauzy white curtains and a single lit candlestick, ylang ylang scented, created an alluring ambience in her all white bedroom.

In the weeks leading up to this nighttime ritual, she had impulsively driven miles out of her way to Percy Beck Public School just outside Mississauga. All she needed was confirmation that the boy was still in the city.She had parked by the curb on the opposite side of the curving street and waited. The affluent leafy area was teeming with well-to-do parents and nannies; some getting out of their vehicles, some clumped on the sidewalk to chat and gossip about God knows what. She had rolled down the window a crack for air even though it was already hotting up outside. But the air in the car was suffocating and the air conditioner was broken. And she did not dare step out of her vehicle, terrified of running into the boy and his mother.

Parked by the curb without doing anything, it worried her that she could be mistaken for a potential child snatcher, or worse still, a paedophile, or a paedophile’s perverted assistant, waiting to lure an unattended child to her vehicle. With no kids of her own to unload, coupled with her personal stash of assorted candy in the seat beside her; the sweets would give the wrong impression if a concerned parent approached her vehicle, wanting to know what the hell she was doing there.

Are you waiting for something or someone?

Do you live around here?

Are you lost ma'am?

Why are you watching the children?

It seemed stupid for her to go to such lengths, but insane desire overpowered common sense -she needed to see with her own two eyes.

Therefore, craftily, for thirty minutes or so, she sat slouched in her seat, keeping her eyes peeled on the school-gate entrance, hearing the excited, incessant voices of children and car horns beating sporadically.

Around 8:17 a.m., she spotted them: Eric’s ex, Sylvia Mandini, with their son, Enzo. She had seen the little brat first, kicking a soccer ball to a friend. Although all the boys were dressed in the standard school uniform - maroon blazers and charcoal trousers - she would recognize Enzo Mandini anywhere. He had a shock of unruly dark hair and full of restless energy and mischief.

Spoilt little brat, popped in her head instantly. Just the very sight of him made her stomach churn - the bane of her life, her existence.

In spite of her acrid disdain of Enzo, she had received the confirmation she craved and released a slow sigh of relief. She was dead certain, if not for anything else; Eric would turn up for his little brat’s birthday. Any doubts in her mind had been dispelled.

The mound of her stomach rose and fell softly under her sheer white negligee. In her mind’s eye, she played and replayed the love scene she enjoyed that memorable night. That memorable night as she lay in bed reading a copy of A Road Less Travelled, by M. Scott Peck, she looked up to see Eric standing on the threshold of her bedroom door, holding up a bottle of red wine, sex toys and exotic oils wanting to play sex games. There had not been any mix messages about his motives that night.

The sight of him, took her breath away, enormously arousing!

That night he looked hot and very horny, wearing a devilish half-smile and oozing his own distinctive manly smell of cologne, deodorant and body odor. He had undressed with urgency and climbed into bed alongside her, kissing her greedily, uttering erotic Italian words into her ear, "Cara, voglio scoparti fino a diventare ciechi," – even ribald, filthy words in English, while stimulating her fleshy body with his enormous manly hands, taking in the scent of her skin, his manhood alive and gleaming. In no time, the exotic oils and sex toys came into play, giving a new meaning to the word Bulgaria.

Raye had writhed in the white silk sheet beneath him, thrusting her meaty hips against him, whispering his name Eric, oh Err, in the mad throes of ecstasy - groaning incessantly in a cocktail of panic, pleasure and sweet pain. On the brink of orgasm, his guttural grunts and groans coalesced with her high octave primal shrieks - their climax crescendoed throughout the entire apartment, loud enough to awaken the working-class residents on the seventh floor.

Then in an instant he was gone.

Alone, Raye lay there on the rumpled sheet slick with oil and semen - sweating as if she had been in a steam room, wishing he had stayed the night.

Just replaying the erotic scene in her head left her burning with an intense desire for his touch. Absent-mindedly she rested a palm on her bosoms feeling her heart thump violently against her ribcage. So fresh in her mind, she relived the same skin-sizzling heat with every molecule of being - ergo the pheromones interspersing the air around her.

But if truth be told, at twenty-five, this was the extent of her love life - mental sex playing out on her vivid mental screen. For starters, Raye has not seen Eric in the flesh in five months, two weeks, three days, and counting – even though they are very close neighbors. He lived directly across the hallway at apartment 706.

Before he had gone AWOL, the two of them were forever falling into each other’s respective beds - like horny teenagers on ecstasy pills. They performed fellatio and cunnilingus in his four-by-four in the underground car park of the condominium, oblivious to other residents coming and going. They skinny-dipped in the indoor/outdoor swimming pool up on the eighth floor. Rendezvous in seedy motels downtown Toronto for afternoon quickies.

On one occasion, he drove her a few miles out of the city, intending to park at a beauty-spot where young lovers congregated to have sex in nature. But as Eric drove along highway 401 to the secret destination, Raye kept complaining that she was hungry.

She’s always hungry, Eric had thought. He glanced at her wearing a billowy summer dress when he heard her stomach grumble and growl for the umpteenth time.

Why didn’t she eat earlier? Then he saw the sign, Mayfair Motel, and opted for it instead. He feigned he was running low on gas and pulled into the ESSO gas station adjacent to the Mayflower Motel. He topped up the tank and, while she waited in the car, he went inside, picked up half a dozen stale, gas station sandwiches and two bottles of cheap red wine. When he stepped outside, he beckoned to her. Vieni qui Bella, I bought some nice sandwiches.

Eric had booked a room in the, Mayfair Motel, where they passed the evening eating and drinking, necking and watching hardcore pornography. On the bedside table under the shoddy lamp, a worn Catholic Living Bible had stale tobacco and cocaine residue from previous guests.

There was nothing romantic about their many rendezvous. When Raye had alluded that she despised the seediness of it all, especially the flea bag motels, the next outing Eric drove her to Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada. The two of them spent the evening dining and dancing at the ritzy Niagara Fallsview Casino Resort, a five star establishment. Afterward, she stood by his side as he gambled at the Black Jack and Punto Banco tables for a few hours. Later he escorted her to the Breeze Bar, and found a cozy table by the grand piano. He barely said a word the whole time sipping scotch, checking his text messages and filling up her wine glass. He kept squeezing her hand in his as if to reassure her.

Of what?

She did not know, but welcomed the warm gesture. However, Eric had been setting the mood - giving the implications of attentiveness: he knew she was hopelessly in love with him long time. Bella, you’re so quiet. He spoke with an Italian accent, laying on the charm. His sultry glare made her even more lost for words. Later they took the elevator to their luxury suite and had rough sex into the early hours of the morning.

Oh, how much she had loved Niagara Falls. The quality time and attention Eric bestowed upon her that day was really special, and now, nothing.

An abrupt halt.

During their time together, Eric had stated he was an International Business Executive, travelling as far as Algeria, Egypt, Afghanistan, Zimbabwe, all these foreign, far-flung places. Raye had expected him to elaborate, but he volunteered nothing. Sometimes he would pack a suitcase on a moments notice, only imparting vague information in drips and drabs, tidbits of what he saw fit.

Still, even that was cryptic to her. Sometimes the way he behaved in an authoritative manner around her, gave her the impression that their relationship had no correlation with his impressive job title: International Business Executive. And being forty-three, almost twenty years older, she felt uncomfortable prying into his personal business. Needless to say, his failure to confide in her bothered her beyond words.

Lost in her reverie, a feisty fruit fly jigged about her plump face, allured by the dulcet berry-red lipstick on her lips.

It pecked her lips.

Her left cheek.

Tickled her long black lashes.

She brushed it away, bringing her out of her trance. She breathed up through her nose, releasing a long exaggerated sigh. After months and months of built up sexual frustration she felt like a desperate fool, staring into nothing - night after night, until ridiculous hours, conjuring up this futile sexual image of a man that was never ever around. Some nights, she would convince herself she suffered bouts of insomnia - albeit phantom - and swallowed two or three sleeping pills before climbing into bed. Before long though, she found they clashed with her antidepressant. In the dead of night, she’d hurry to the en suite bathroom, being sicker than a rabid dog into the toilet bowl, goop drooling from her lower lip, while, anticipating the next wave.

Raye glanced at the clock: 22:37. It was unlikely Eric would turn up now. Besides, the white candlestick had burnt down to a sooty black ring and sadly the two packets of candy-flavored Trojan lay intact again.

She plumped up the two goosedown-pillows under her head and curled up on her side. A wave of sadness overwhelmed her.

Does Eric even think about me?

Did he even care?

Go to sleep, you silly woman.

She pulled the cotton bedspread over her pale shoulders and shut her eyes. Eric has bound to arrive home before long; his son’s birthday in a few days.

But sleep did not come easy. Her thoughts drifted off onto a recurring theme: an ideal future with Eric. She fantasized about their engagement party, arranging the details of their lavish wedding, strolling down the aisle, arm in arm, with her dad, Henry and then jetting off with her man on honeymoon to Barbados as Mr and Mrs Eric Mandini. She envisioned the two of them strolling hand in hand along a sunshine-kissed sandy beach, kissing intermittently. She envisioned living in a large house with the white picket, fence, two cars in the garage, being heavily pregnant and opening lots of shiny presents at her baby shower - hopefully two more to watch.

Raye rolled over on her back.

She imagined having silly spats with Eric over the four children she hoped they would have, two boys and two girls. The accusations of squandering money on stupid furniture and other finer things, like Crystals, ornaments and trinkets. Where to holiday each year - renewing their marriage vows.

Just living out her fantasy brought a smile to her lips, a life of domestic bliss.

Then she frowned.

Wasn’t this the beginning of a love story?

Why is it so difficult?

Wasn’t he the one I’m waiting for?

She glanced at the radio alarm clock. 23:47 and registered it was getting really late. She had a dress shop to operate in the morning.

The only solution to stop wallowing in a jumble of daydreams - neurotic daydreams - was to block out her thoughts and feelings for Eric. Unfortunately, her sleeping pills, Zolpidem, were in the bathroom cabinet and she could not bear to leave the warmth of her bed to get them. She sat up, switched on the lamp and picked up the bottle of wine, Feudi di San Gregorio, Patrim, from the bedside table. She filled the tall-stemmed wine glass and took an indulgent gulp. She turned the bottle over and observed the label on the back. She had been trying to learn his language to impress him and read anything Italian she came across. She enunciated the words loudly in her best Italian accent, taking sips of wine and re-filling her wineglass during her slow progression.

"Rosso rubino, limpido ed impenetrabile al tempo stesso. Evidenti i profumi di conferrura di piccoli frutti neri, spezie dolci, eucalipto, vaniglia è caff è. I tannini sono dolci, fini e morbidi, l’equilibrio totale va verso l’aromia. Il finale e una lunga persistenza di sensazioni di frutta, spezie e torrefazione." (Feudi di San Gregorio, Patrim)

Translated: Ruby Red, clear and impenetrable at the same time. Obvious perfumes of blackberry jam small black fruits, sweet spices, eucalyptus, vanilla and coffee. The tannins are sweet, fine and soft; the balance total goes to the harmony. The finish is a long persistence of sensations of fruits, spices and roasting. (Feudi di San Gregorio, Patrim)

Raye was thrilled with how well her Italian was improving; but in the meantime, felt it was all in vain. She rested the bottle down, and pulled her knees to her chest. She ran a hand over her bare leg and fleshy arm, feeling the softness of her skin. She outstretched her hand in front of her and examined her French manicured fingernails. She giggled at her stubby toes painted blood red.

Alcohol made her less critical of her body and, at this very moment, she felt warm inside, sexy, desirable for any man. She smiled at the thought and reached for the wine bottle.

It was completely empty.

She set it back down and glanced at the clock, then focussed hard in disbelief. Oh my Goodness!

She switched off the lamp, eased down under the covers and drifted into a semi comatose state.

«Chapter Two»

The following morning, the radio-alarm clock jolted Raye from sleep at six thirty a.m. She forced her eyes open and straight away felt wretched. A guttural noise escaped her throat. Sluggishly she pushed herself into a sitting position, pushed messed-up hair from her face and reached for her white dressing gown at the foot of the bed.

As a business owner, she could have easily slept in until noon and leave it in the hands of her staff;  but she was eager to get to her dress shop located in the heart of downtown Toronto.

Pushing her feet into her white slippers, she moved slowly into her white-tiled en suite bathroom, trying not to aggravate her sore head too much. She had the usual hangover symptoms: dehydrated, parched mouth and a raging headache to boot.

She stared at her face in the oval mirror, a self-conscious critical habit. The thought of waking up next to Eric on a daily basis looking the way she did haunted her. And by God, she looked terrible - like Dracula’s mistress. One side of her plump face heavily creased, her eyes were bloodshot puffy and tinged with purple. A tendril of pseudo-blonde hair, clung to the berry-red lipstick smeared all over her mouth, a distortion of former glam self last night.

Sleeping Beauty… not! she muttered, and sat down on the toilet, peeing copiously.

Drinking solo has got to stop.

Afterward, she set the bathtub, added a liberal Klug of bath oil, and made her way down the hallway to the kitchen, but on a whim, bee-lined to the front door. She shifted her five-foot-four, 175-pound frame to the balls of her feet and spied through the door’s peephole. Like an obsessed stalker - a stalker preoccupied with its prey - she waited to see any signs of Eric.

Several seconds went past and not even a ribbon of sunlight spilt under his front door. Even so, she waited and waited and waited. Her calves that once ached like hell, felt strong as boars from this habit. When it seemed as forever had gone by, she banged the door with a fist. Where the hell is he? Where?

This was not the first time Eric had gone out of town on business, but this was definitely the longest period. And she was damn certain he had not moved out of the building. She of all people would have seen removal men carrying carton boxes, heavy furniture and huge framed artwork in out of his apartment and down the service elevator. Four months ago, before she realized he had gone AWOL, she had him sent umpteen text messages to his cell phone without a response.

Wrote a zillion emails.

Rang his landline off the hook.

She hammered on his door with a clenched fist, crying out his name, Eric, Eric, repeatedly, while ringing his doorbell, one long peal after another.

If Eric had been in his condo, he ignored this crazy madwoman constantly pounding on his front door.

In the end, all had gone unanswered.

If only she had been engaged to him... his fiancé… or his next of kin or even had concrete evidence that he was in danger, she would have gone straight to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters and demand a manhunt: national and international.

Raye sat at the kitchen table eating a jam ball donut, her hazel eyes boring holes in the white linen. As she sipped her steaming coffee, somewhere in the back of her mind it pained her to imagine Eric, the man she loved more than life itself having intercourse with other women -women performing a lot better than her in bed – those easy, skinny foreign bitches in strange cities, falling for his charms.

The random thought repulsed her, made her lose her appetite. She dropped the half-eaten donut on the plate, got up and left the table. In the bathroom, she stripped down and lowered herself in the hot herbal bath water.

Subsequently, she paid special attention doing up her hair, applied meticulous make-up and swallowed two Xanax tablets to compose herself for the day before.

While making the bed, she spotted red wine spillage on the satiny white sheet and tutted. It looked unsightly like period stains.

Quickly, she changed the bed sheets, chucked the empty wine bottle in the recycle bin and dumped the uneaten fruit in the garbage. She grabbed her handbag, slammed the front door and took the elevator to the underground car park.

«Chapter Three»

The two-storey dress shop was an hour and half drive away in heavy traffic. Raye arrived anxious, excited, and expectant. During the journey, her gut instincts - woman’s intuition you could say- told her Eric would come by to see her. Usually, after short business trips he had a mischievous habit of turning up unannounced to surprise her - specifically on a Friday. Nonetheless, this whole thing was such a farce now, even risible, to put it succinctly. After five long months, she still expected the same scenario.

For the past twenty minutes, she paced up and down her office, peeking through the blind, twisting her chubby fingers - back and forth, her shell-white stiletto heels clicked the polished floorboards in a mournful cadence like a madwoman locked-up in a sanatorium.

Either the two Xanax tablets had not kicked in or she was immune to the pharmaceuticals. Nostalgia ripped at her pining heart like unwanted paper in a shredding machine. A part of her wanted to curl up on the white three-seater sofa and bawl like colic baby. But business sense, her reputation, was on the line. How would it look if a client should walk in?

Purposefully, she ignored her morose reflection in the mirrored wall behind her PA’s empty chair and desk.

She consulted her Hermes watch.

Nearly nine-thirty a.m.

Where the hell is that girl? she muttered under her breath. Her PA was tardy again.

A direct drop below the first floor landing rail was her own Pinewood desk. It looked out onto Queen Street West. Visibility through the white slats of the bay window was that dreaded streetcar shelter. The Plexiglas, spray-canned in burnt-orange and black graffiti.

From the get-go, Raye hated the eyesore. She had often wished some feral gang wielding crowbars would rip the fucking thing down, banishing it from her sight. However, the only gang in the area was the harmless New-Age-Goth-do-nothing-bunch, tripping out on ecstasy, crack cocaine, heroin, Quaaludes, magic mushrooms, only the almighty God knew what. They stumbled about in their steel-tipped Doc Martens, jet-black garbs, obscene multiple body piercing, gaunt, chalk-white faces as pale as a Geisha, freaking tourists and hard working people out.

Within weeks of occupying the property, Raye had written to City Hall, which housed the local planning authorities to file her complaint.

Raye Anne Dawkins

1599 Queen Street West,

Toronto, Ontario,

Canada

M5L 9N3

Telephone: [phone]

Fax: [phone]

www.dawkinsdressdesign.com.oc

Dear Mr Günter Reeves

I would like to make a formal complaint regarding the Queen Street West Streetcar Shelter right outside my dress shop, Dawkins Dress Design.

Since opening my business three weeks ago, I have noticed that some people waiting for the streetcar loiter in my alcove blocking the doorway. On a few occasions while obstructing the entrance, they intimidated potential clients, causing them to walk away. Also, when the streetcar arrives, they drop their disgusting half-smoked cigarette butts on my doorstep. I refuse to tolerate this any further.

As a young woman building a new business, I would appreciate it if the streetcar shelter could be re-located further up or down the street where it was less of a nuisance for me and other businesses. Please rectify this situation as soon as possible.

Sincerely yours

Miss Raye Dawkins

PS. As an astute businesswoman I have enclosed several of my business cards to distribute to your colleagues.

Frankly, Raye did not give a damn where as long as they removed it.

It was nearly a month when she had received an official document from City Hall. It had refused her request. She tore the pages savagely, and then fed it through the paper shredder. In any case, she bought a pre-made sign from George’s Hardware Store, which stated in bold, black letters, KEEP DOORWAY CLEAR, and tacked it eye level on the wall in the alcove.

Raye watched the morning mail come through the letter slot in the door and then it snapped shut. Anxiously she rifled through the letters one by one. In amongst the monthly utility bills, were a few thank you post cards from clients, a speeding fine, and of course, the ubiquitous junk mail.

Not even a single fricking postcard from Eric.

Disappointed, she flung the letters in the air and they clattered around the tiered rack of accessories close to the staircase.

A loud thuck on the ceiling made her jump involuntarily. It sounded like heavy pinking shears had fallen to the hardwood floor. Raye tilted her head to the second storey and tutted.

Behind one of the three doors along the landing was her cutting and sewing room. Amalia Vas de, her head seamstress, and three others: Sofia, Carla and Eunice, produced custom-made clothes.

All finished garments had a personalized label stitched unnoticeable: Dawkins Exclusive Collection.

Once upon a time, throughout the entire week, Raye took great pride in her appearance by modelling her own bespoke business suits. She swept her hair up into chic dos’ to give off the air of respectability.

Nevertheless, on Fridays now, she dressed similar to the perfumed Madams that ran the dimly lit brothels over on Jarvis Street. Today she wore a froufrou, low-cut white polyester blouse, which revealed her plump creamy cleavage. Her tight-fitting skirt hugged her curvaceous hips and stopped mid-thigh. Her peroxide platinum locks teased into a spectacular bouffant - in the style of a glamorous 1970’s celebrity. And her make-up, oh so very dramatic - electric blue eye shadow tailed off, Cleopatra-style, loads of black mascara, heavily rouged cheeks, and glossy red crimson on her full lips. And the office reeked of a rich, musky scent. She was dead certain when Eric arrived today and got a good look of his woman, his tongue would drool with lust.

Beep Beep… Beep Beep… Beep Beep… Beep Beep, came from outside.

Oh my God! Eric! She bolted to the front, slanted the white slat and then tutted.

It was not Eric.

A cantankerous driver was attempting to barge through the usual congestion. Inside the green Volvo, a pregnant woman squirmed in agony in the passenger seat.

The boyfriend?

Husband?

Father?

Brother?

Uncle?

Next-door neighbor - only the good Lord knew - leaned halfway out the window, hollering and waving one arm frantically.

With his free hand, he jammed the car horn persistently making a ruckus.

Everyone along the busy sidewalk: business people, tourists, shoppers, slowed their pace to see what was going on.

The traffic - four-by-fours, vans, taxis - pulled to one side to make a gap as if for a blaring police car or ambulance.

The Volvo weaved through, on the way to Toronto General Hospital, located at Gerrard Street West and University Avenue.

No doubt, Maternity Unit.

Now that the impromptu dramatics was over, Raye swept her gaze from one direction, then the other, hunting for Eric. To her dismay, he was nowhere to be seen.

Damn you Eric Mandini; where on earth are…?

Gooseflesh broke out along the back of arms, her hazel eyes holding such intensity.

A dark-haired businessman carrying a black briefcase caught her attention. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Eric: tall, olive-skinned and gorgeous.

The nearer he approached, she realized it was not him, perhaps ten years his junior.

As she watched him pass by her shop door, she stuffed her fist into her mouth, desperately trying not to cry - just sick of the unstable state she got herself on Fridays and wished she would stop torturing herself.

«Chapter Four»

The pained look on her face switched to anger. She spotted Archie Wegan across the busy street, goofing off beneath the candy-red striped canopy of the Frieda’s Flower Shop. Archie was sucking on a lollipop - like Kojak the bald lollipop-sucking detective - while flirting with a beautiful young woman. Her body was lithe like that of an effeminate fifteen-year-old boy. Striking wavy red hair flowed way down her back. The sleeveless red cat suit she wore had detailed sequined trim, and halted just above her knees. Her tomato-red killer heels made her gazellelike legs appear even longer. She was overtly animated while clutching an exotic bouquet to her chest – vibrant yellow lady hellebores, tiger lilies, bougainvillea, and narcissi with yellow spider. Together, they gave off the air of a simplistic life: fun, free and careless abandon.

Shielded behind the door, Raye ogled the attractive pair with envy. Archie Wegan, her part-time employee, was supposed to be distributing flyers to drum up business for her dress shop. The forest green canvas tote slung over his shoulder was where he kept a batch to replenish his idle hands.

Raye had hired him because of his good looks to attract potential clients, but she wished he would quit flirting with this skinny slut in dagger heels, whatever the gender, and distribute her goddamn flyers.

It was barely 10 a.m. in the city and, despite the hour, the hustle and bustle was vibrant, colorful and exciting. This part of town - the Fashion District - was exceptionally trendy. Far East foreigners, stylish Europeans, pompous Americans of an ethnic stew all arrived in droves to wallow in this eclectic hotspot of the great city.

Throughout the four seasons, fashion buyers scoped the globe for cutting-edge styles - modelled on international catwalks - and introduced knockoffs to the many shops in the area. Shoppers felt compelled to gaze in awe, just mesmerized at the fashionable mannequins in display windows of modern chic shops and vintage boutiques. The inspiring clothes were nothing like the mass production in the mainstream department stores: The Hudson Bay Company, Simpson Sears, and the famous Eaton Centre on Yonge Street, which took up an entire city block from Dundas Street to Queen Street West.

This was the main reason why Raye chose to open her dress shop: DAWKINS DRESS DESIGNS, in the vicinity, specializing in bespoke clothes right on the premises, unlike her competitors. Archie’s job was to intercept and steer business her way.

Yet, he stood there flirting.

Feeling a pang of jealousy increasing, Raye felt compelled to go out on the doorstep and wave Archie on his way. She took hold of the door handle to confront him when the phone rang, startling her.  Eric! It’s Eric! An inner voice taunted her with false optimism.

On the second ring she picked up the receiver. Dawkins Dress Design, Raye speaking, she said, infusing a fake cheeriness to her tone.

Hi Miss Dawkins, it’s me, Poppy, I’m going to be half an hour late…

Late! barked Raye, twisting her plump face like an angry wasp. Where the hell are you Poppy?

Poppy Zaza, a bona fide rock groupie, was her PA-cum-sales-clerk-cum-bee in-her-bonnet. Although Poppy’s tardiness was habitual, she was like a breath of spring air and a credit to the shop. She had a happy-go-lucky sweet disposition, optimistic, especially proficient with computer programs and packages.

However, Raye had assumed, by her curriculum vitae, she was proficient in IT, information technology, but soon to discover it was with Facebook, MySpace, YouTube and Twitter.

It made Raye laugh thinking of her own naïve stupidity. Nevertheless, after consulting chat rooms and her Facebook buddies, Poppy managed to put up a blog to promote the dress store.

My dad’s in the…

Poppy! Do not talk crap. When are you going to grasp the concept of being at work on time, hmmm?

But my dad got arrested last night and I had to find money to bail him out this morning… Poppy sounded distressed; but Raye believed it was part of her conniving act.

You’re full of shit. You overslept, probably hung over again. Tell the truth for once.

"I’m dead serious; my dad was picked up by the police last night…

Poppy, Poppy, spare me your well-worn excuses. I need you here at your desk. I do have a business to run. Without so much a good-bye, Raye slammed down the phone, heartsick it was not Eric. God damn it! That silly girl thinks I’m an idiot. Next time just fire her on the spot…

The brass bell over the shop’s door tinkled. Raye swung round to see Archie Wegan entering. He hiked his canvas strap over his unruly blond curly head and laid it on the couch.

Raye folded her across her chest crossly. What are you doing back already, Archie?

I ran out of flyers, Miss Dawkins. He whipped off his shades, dragging his forearm across his sweaty forehead.

Despite her moody self, Raye appraised Archie, sweeping her gaze over his gorgeous tanned physique: toned biceps, defined pectorals rippled under an Abercrombie & Fitch yolk-yellow V neck T –shirt; knee-high Diesel jeans showed off bronze dancer’s legs, his bare feet in Peter Storm sandals, turned out arabesque like. Each time Raye laid eyes on this exotic creature, her ice-cold heart thawed a little. That was quick. Her gaze flicked to his face and took in his cobalt-blues eyes fanned by thick blond lashes; flitted over his two-day old stubble below those striking cheekbones, to his bee-stung lips.

There is a God with great vision, she was thinking. Did you dump the first batch in the garbage? she said accusingly. Chatting up women when you’re supposed to be working?

What? No! I didn’t chuck any away! I left batches with desk clerks in motels… some in cafes and restaurants. I didn’t dump any, I swear.

Raye knew it was pointless trying to figure out the truth. On some days she spotted her costly flyers fluttering in the wind, on some days, they littered the sidewalks and gutters or stuck to the back of a pedestrian soles. What about Poppy? Were you both out late last night… partying as usual in one of those Indie shindigs? Sarcasm, thick in her tone.

Archie gazed at his boss in confusion before replying. Um - no. He stole a glance over to Poppy’s desk. The can of red bull she usually sipped - instead of the ubiquitous cup of coffee or tea - was not there. Is she not here yet?

Dummy, do you see her in her chair? was her poetic response.

What? Archie’s boyish face flushed, her gaze unnerving him. I just thought maybe she was in the bathro …

Forget it! she flapped her hand, waving him away.

With steely blue eyes, Archie stared at his boss in amazement, gulping down his own insulting words: stupid, fat, manic, bitch.

However, words were powerful and he knew she was already on the edge, profoundly disturbed and vulnerable. So he bit his tongue, never forgetting the daily, cruel taunts he himself suffered being an effeminate, lanky, spotty, self-conscious teenager in high school.

The stupid, cruel taunts still haunted him: Hey fairy, don’t you like girls? Why do you walk on tippy toes, Archie?

Well… you know where to find the flyers. Go. She flapped a dismissive hand once more.

This time Archie’s brow shot up into his hairline.

Without another word, he charged up the stairs two at a time, his yellow locks swung against his shoulders.

«Chapter Five»

Up until Eric had materialized into Raye’s loveless life, her entire focus was on her career. She had spent long, gruelling hours just doing the groundwork to find a decent property to set up her dress shop. The two-story building situated at 1599 Queen Street West, a brownish-brick, circa 1940 - once a pet shop emporium - was sandwiched between George’s Hardware Store and the Westside Motel, a three star flea trap. With reasonably cheap rooms, hookers and Johns took advantage of the lower prices - alongside a dying breed of travelling salesmen and pimpled-faced backpackers drifting across the vast provinces, from British Columbia to Nova Scotia.

With an outstanding entrepreneurial spirit, Raye had approached her bank lending manager - Adam West of Toronto Dominion - with a well-thought-out business plan, requesting a commercial mortgage. After lengthy credit checks and having Brent Davis Chartered Surveyors appraised the commercial property, tying up all the loose ends, she had signed all the pertinent documents and legal papers. For operational cost: marketing, equipment and supplies, she had borrowed a substantial amount from her well-to-do parents, without having to pay exorbitant interest rates.

Reluctantly, her parents had given her a book of pre-signed blank checks, but no pressure or definitive time to repay the loan - at least not until her business was earning a steady profit. Proud owner of the property, she had one of the rooms off the landing rewired to house industrial sewing machines. Long cutting-tables set up. Deep shelves, glass and wooden built to accommodate various threads and fabrics. Along the landing, two other doors concealed a bathroom and a storeroom. Adjacent to the top of the stair was an open-plan consulting room laid out like a bachelor studio with the rudiments of furniture: three-seated sofa, refrigerator, lamps on two side tables, a decorative Chinese screen and a glass table with a stack of fashion magazines. Outside on the olive-green awning, however, the words, PETS, FOOD & GADGETS remained. She wanted her name branded up there: DAWKINS DRESS DESIGN - printed in bold white lettering.

After spending thousands of dollars in George’s Hardware Store, she had a word with the manager, a Mr Kellerman, about obliterating the misleading logo.

Mr Kellerman obliged and sent over one of his employees - a fossilized geezer nicknamed, Perky Percy to carry out the work free of charge. With the late afternoon sun hot on his wrinkled neck, Raye supervised the rack of osteoporosis bones in his white painter’s pants as he balanced precariously on

Reviews for Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker

[Elaine Petgrave · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is such a great read! It has very interesting characters and just when you think theres's no way the author can pull a story-line together, she does efficiently. A must read.