The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  “Where shall we go now? Is there a Tube station nearby?”

  “We passed one on the way—it’s just at the corner. But would you mind walking for a while? If we go south it’s about twenty minutes to Charing Cross. We can get on a District line train there.”

  It seemed that nearly every other building they passed was a theater, almost all of them disgorging hundreds of patrons, and before long it became an effort to stay together. Then it began to rain, albeit lightly, and the people around them became even more impatient to carve a path through the crowd, never mind how many others they had to shove or elbow out of the way.

  They were crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, heads down against the rain, when a man bumped into Miriam, his shoulder catching hers and all but spinning her around. She stumbled, almost dropping to her knees, but managed to take an unsteady step forward. She was almost at the curb and out of harm’s way, but with her next step she felt her heel sink into a hole of some sort. She looked down to discover that her shoe was stuck fast in a metal grate.

  “Ann!” she cried out, and her friend, turning, crouched to help her. They tried to wrestle it loose, all the while enduring the complaints of passersby, but it was no use. The shoe would not come free.

  “You’ll have to undo the strap,” Ann said. “Then we can at least stand on the curb. No sense in getting knocked down for the sake of a shoe.”

  “But these are my only good—”

  “May I help you?” came an unfamiliar voice.

  Miriam looked up, and then farther up again. A rather enormous man was standing next to them, his arms outstretched in an attempt to protect them from the passing crowds. “I saw you stumble,” he explained. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. It is only my pride that is hurting me.”

  She’d managed to undo the buckle at her ankle, but she was reluctant to give up on her shoe.

  “You ladies should stand on the curb,” the stranger suggested. “I’ll see if I can wriggle this loose. Any sane motorist would think twice before running me down.”

  “What about the mad ones?” she asked.

  He grinned. “There’s not a thing I can do about them,” he admitted. Kneeling down, he took hold of her shoe and began to twist it back and forth, pushing it down and sliding the heel along the grate. “Almost there . . . aha. Here we go.” He held up the freed shoe triumphantly.

  “Thank you,” Miriam said, taking it from him. “It was very kind of you to stop and help.” She hopped to the corner and, after slipping on the shoe, crouched to fasten the buckle.

  He was still there when she straightened. Not a handsome man, not compared to Ann’s mysterious aristocrat, but there was something compelling about him all the same. His appearance was the furthest thing from chic she could imagine, for his clothes, though evidently of good quality, were ill-fitting and marked here and there with blotches of ink, and the knees of his trousers were stained with mud from where he’d knelt in the street. There was a button missing from his vest, which did not match his coat at all, and his bow tie was almost comically lopsided. If he were to tell her it was his habit to dress in the dark, and furthermore that he liked to choose his garments from the nearest pile of laundry, she would not have been surprised in the least.

  He was very tall, for the top of her head only came to his shoulders, and his hands, as ink-stained as the rest of him, were similarly enormous. Yet he wasn’t the least bit intimidating. Perhaps it was his pale eyes, much magnified by his spectacles, and the way they seemed to radiate kindness. Or perhaps it was the way his sandy hair, silvering at the temples and dampened by the rain, so badly needed a haircut. Whatever other failings might afflict this man, vanity was not among them.

  As grateful as she was for his help, and as pleasant as he seemed at first glance, his failure to simply disappear into the crowds made her uneasy. Whatever did he have to gain from lingering?

  “Thank you again for your help. I am certain you will wish to—”

  “You’re most welcome,” he said, and held out his hand for her to shake. She did so, unable to ignore the way his hand enveloped hers so surely. “I’m Walter Kaczmarek.”

  “I am Miriam Dassin,” she said. “This is my friend Miss Hughes. We are on our way home,” she added pointedly. “Ann?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course,” Ann agreed. “On our way home. Shall we . . . ?”

  They began to walk, side by side as the crowds were thinning, and Mr. Kaczmarek, moving to the curb side of the pavement, fell into step beside them. “Were you at the theater tonight?” he asked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to make conversation with strangers. What sort of Englishman was he?

  “No. We were out with friends. Dancing.”

  “I went to see 1066 and All That at the Palace Theatre. Second time I’ve been. First time I was laughing so hard I missed half of it.”

  She smiled despite herself. “Ten sixty-six? What is it about, this play? I have not heard of it.”

  “It was the year of the Norman Conquest. The year a Frenchman, or something near enough to a Frenchman, conquered England. Of course it’s all been downhill since then.”

  “Do you consider yourself an Englishman?” she asked, all too aware of how rude she must seem. But he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Despite my un-English name? I do. My parents were Poles but I’ve lived here since I was a boy. I’m not sure I’d feel at home anywhere else.” He reached into his breast pocket and, after extracting a card, handed it to her. “Just in case you’re worrying I’m waiting for the perfect moment to make off with your handbags.”

  PICTURE WEEKLY

  WALTER KACZMAREK

  EDITOR IN CHIEF

  87 FLEET STREET • LONDON EC4

  CENTRAL 7050

  VERBA DOCENT, EXEMPLA TRAHUNT

  “Picture Weekly,” she read aloud. “You are the editor of this magazine? You are a journalist?”

  “Yes. And I do realize that my profession might lead some to accuse me of criminality. I hope you believe me when I say I’m neither a confidence man nor an ambulance chaser.”

  “And this magazine? It is a successful one?”

  “Miriam,” Ann said, elbowing her gently. “It’s on every newsstand. You must have seen it.”

  “Perhaps I have,” she allowed. “What sort of magazine is your Picture Weekly? Is it full of scandal and film stars?”

  “And scandals about film stars?” he offered. “No. They do grace our pages from time to time, but in the main I’m interested in more serious things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The future of Britain in the postwar era. How the welfare state is changing the fabric of society. The dangers we face at the dawn of the nuclear age. Things like that. With a smattering of lighter fare to leaven the mix.”

  “I suppose I shall have to purchase a copy. Is it expensive?”

  He grinned once more. “Fourpence an issue but worth every penny.”

  Ann nudged her again. “We need to cross the street. For the station.”

  “And I need to go the opposite way,” he added. “It was a pleasure meeting both of you. Will you be all right from here?”

  Miriam nodded, though she felt strangely reluctant to say good-bye. “We will. Thank you again.”

  “Think nothing of it. I do hope you’ll ring me up. For lunch one day, if you like. My offices aren’t far from here. Just so you know.”

  She searched his face, still uncertain as to what, precisely, would lead him to suggest such a thing. What did he know of her? What did he see in her that made him wish to learn more?

  “Good night, Monsieur Kaczmarek,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Dassin, Miss Hughes.”

  She watched until he was out of sight, and then she turned to Ann, wondering if her friend was as surprised as she. “Are all Englishmen so . . . so . . . ?”

  “Practically never,” Ann admitted. “I’m starting to wonder if that
fabric Milly sent along was sprinkled with stardust.”

  “Perhaps it was. It has been an unusual evening. Very much so.”

  “But a good one?” Ann asked, her voice threaded through with hope.

  “The very best.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Heather

  August 12, 2016

  The streetcar was only a block from Heather’s stop when her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her pocket, hoping the driver wouldn’t choose that instant to hit the brakes, and frowned when she saw the sender. Brett only texted in emergencies. Maybe the laser printer had run out of toner again.

  BRETT: where are you?

  HEATHER: on my way. what’s up?

  BRETT: something’s up. richard’s here. looks like he never went home. in boardroom w guys in suits. they don’t look happy.

  It took her a few tries to type out her response.

  HEATHER: anyone else we know in there?

  BRETT: gregor and moira.

  The magazine’s publisher and the head of ad sales. At eight o’clock on a Friday morning.

  HEATHER: be there in 5.

  The streetcar lurched to a stop, bell clanging as some jerk in a Hummer tried to inch past the open doors. As soon as she found her feet again, Heather pushed her way through a sea of backpacks and down the steps to the street. The magazine’s offices were on the south side of King Street, just at the end of the next block, and as she grew close, and then walked up the stairs to the second floor, she had to remind herself to breathe. Brett might have got things wrong. Gregor and Moira and Richard and a bunch of cranky-looking guys in suits didn’t automatically equal a catastrophe.

  Kim wasn’t at her desk in reception. Not good. And the office was weirdly quiet. They all shared one big open-plan space, with shoulder-height cubicles that gave the illusion of privacy and towering plastic ficus trees that gave the illusion of a bright and healthy workplace, and most mornings everyone congregated in the break room for a solid quarter hour before drifting to their desks. Not today.

  Heather made it to her cubicle, stowed her bag under her desk, and switched on her computer. Only then did she turn to face Brett, Bay Street’s other staff writer, whose desk faced the opposite wall of their three-sided pod.

  “What’s the deal?” she whispered.

  “Check your email,” he whispered back.

  It took a minute or two to pull up her email, long enough for her heart to try to hammer its way out of her chest.

  “The one from Richard?”

  “Duh,” Brett hissed.

  Richard had sent it at 4:20 that morning. Brett had been right about the all-nighter.

  Heather,

  I need to speak with you this morning regarding some alterations in our corporate structure. Please remain at your desk until I call, and refrain from unnecessary gossip and speculation with your colleagues until everyone has been briefed on the changes.

  Richard

  Editor in chief

  Bay Street

  Mitchell Media International

  “And?” Brett prompted.

  “I’m supposed to stay at my desk until he calls me in. Something about changes to the corporate structure. Does your email say that?”

  “Yeah. But it also says I’m supposed to go to the boardroom at eight thirty.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else?” He didn’t answer, so she swiveled to face him. “Brett?”

  “I, uh . . . yeah. Most people are getting called into the boardroom. I’m sorry. This sucks.”

  It was as good as an actual pink slip.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice, and turned away to stare sightlessly at her monitor. One by one her colleagues arrived and read their email from Richard, and most of them, Brett included, tiptoed to the boardroom.

  The office grew quiet again, and when her phone finally rang Heather nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “It’s Richard. Could you come to my office?”

  “Sure.”

  Her hands sweating like crazy, her mouth so dry she couldn’t even swallow, she walked to his office on leaden feet. He’d left his door open, but she knocked on it anyway.

  “Hi, Heather. Come on in. Take a seat.”

  She sat, and waited, and eventually he dragged his eyes from the sheets of paper spread out on his desk. As if he was dreading what came next. Or, rather, wanted her to think he was dreading it.

  “So. Heather. The people at MMI have been concerned by our drop in ad revenues for a while now. Very concerned. Now, they could have just shut us down, which would have been a disaster. Instead they’ve decided to start up a Canadian edition of Business Report, and Bay Street will be folded into it. Each issue will include eight to ten pages of purely Canadian content.”

  Heather nodded.

  “I’m sorry to say that the restructuring will involve some redundancies in our editorial staff here, and I’m especially sorry to tell you that your position has been eliminated.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. Not the most articulate response, but it wasn’t as if Richard was really listening.

  “I want you to know that I’ve insisted they give you a very attractive package, very attractive, and I’ll provide a glowing reference. Absolutely. As well, MMI also offers career counseling and a variety of transition resources. Kendra in HR will be furnishing you—”

  “So I’m out.” Finally she’d found her voice.

  “Yes. I wish I could—”

  “What about the offshore banking piece? I only just started digging in.”

  “We’ve got it covered. And, well, I hate to do this, but MMI is asking that redundant staff vacate the premises as soon as possible.”

  “Okay. I guess I had better get on it.” She stood, went to his door. “Good luck with everything,” she said, not bothering to turn around.

  Since she routinely sent blind copies of all her emails to her Gmail account, all she had to do was copy her contacts list, send it and a handful of story ideas she’d been developing to her private account, and erase a few hundred personal messages. Easy enough to sort out before they sent in security to frog-march her out.

  “God, Heather. This sucks.” Brett flopped down on his chair and let out a long, lingering, highly annoying sigh. He wasn’t the one who’d been canned.

  “That’s okay. It’s not your fault.” Her voice felt weird. Robotic, if she had to describe it.

  “Do you want me to get you some boxes? There’s a whole pile of them already set up in the hall.”

  The suits had thought of everything. “Sure. But I only need one. I don’t keep much stuff here.”

  It took her another ten minutes to pack up her things—some pictures in frames, her aloe vera plant, a handful of pens and sticky notes—and she was done. The box held before her like a shield, she said good-bye to her friends, promised she’d stay in touch, and retreated to the safety of the cab that Brett had called for her.

  Not to cry. Not even to fume. She couldn’t be sure about it yet, but she wasn’t all that upset. A little unsure about what she’d do next; a little embarrassed, too. But her main feeling was relief.

  Maybe this would give her a break. A chance to step off the hamster wheel and think about what she really wanted to do with her life. She hadn’t stopped scampering on that wheel for years. From high school to university to internship to job to job to job, she’d always said yes to the offers she’d been given, always convinced that forward was the only way to go. She’d had her head down for more than a decade now, staring at that wheel beneath her feet, so sure she’d trip and fall if she ever looked up.

  Screw it. She was going to stop, and breathe, and let herself think for a change. And she was going to take a vacation before she set foot in another office.

  SHE SPENT THE afternoon napping, only waking when a text from Michelle set her phone buzzing.

  MICHELLE: hey you. still up for dinner tonight? where are you anyway?

  HEATHER: upstairs. came home early. long sto
ry.

  MICHELLE: ok. didn’t hear you. do you want to walk? reservation’s for 7. tanya’s meeting us there.

  She didn’t say anything to Michelle and Sunita on the way over. Better to wait until they’d all had at least one drink, and then she’d get it over with. By the time Tanya arrived, a solid half hour late as usual, Heather was on her second glass of sauvignon blanc and was feeling a little punchy.

  “So I lost my job,” she said as soon as Tanya was settled and their starters had been delivered.

  “Whaaaat?” her friends chorused.

  Sunita was shaking her head. “How is that even possible?”

  “Corporate restructuring. I’d go into the details but it’s actually pretty boring.”

  “Tell me they gave you a package,” Michelle implored. She was an accountant and the most practical person Heather had ever met.

  “They did. Three months of pay, which isn’t bad. They also threw in career counseling, which, let’s be honest, is a total lie. They’ll probably just give me a pamphlet that describes how to write a winning résumé.”

  “You’re not panicking, are you?” Tanya asked worriedly. “Because you really shouldn’t panic.”

  “Of course you shouldn’t,” Sunita agreed. “You were the smartest person there.”

  “Your stories were the best thing about that magazine. Everyone knows that.”

  “Tanya’s right. They’ll be lost without you,” Michelle said. “And you don’t have to stay in magazines. You could try public relations. Or corporate communications—those jobs pay really well. You’d be making twice what Richard was paying you.”

  “And you wouldn’t have to deal with his tit-talking at the office Christmas party,” Sunita added. “Or his awful neck massages when you’re working late.”

  “There is that,” she agreed. And then, through a mouthful of fried calamari, she added, “I’m thinking of taking a vacation.”

  “That’s the spirit! Where are you thinking?” Michelle asked.

  England, she thought.

  Until that very moment it hadn’t occurred to her. Thirty seconds ago she’d been thinking of the beach, or maybe a few weeks at her parents’ cottage up north.