Where There's A Will

by Mary Malone

  She hoped the exorbitantly priced dress would fit her as she envisaged.

  Dropping by her favourite hair salon, she treated herself to a shampoo and blow-dry.

  “Your usual, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte put down her cappuccino and flicked back through the pages of the magazine she’d been reading. Pointing to a chic up-style she’d noticed on one of the models, she asked if it could be recreated.

  “Hmm, perhaps a little less severe around the sides and maybe a little more body at the top. Special occasion tonight?”

  Charlotte was about to shake her head but then thought better of it. Why not assume Mia’s Saturday night for a change. “Drinks and dinner,” she improvised.

  “How nice. Dress formal?” The stylist eyed the shopping bag next to Charlotte’s chair. She had refused to allow the receptionist take it when she’d passed her coat over the desk. The coat she’d live without if somebody took it by mistake – or otherwise – but not the dress. Considering the difficulty she’d had finding the perfect design in the first place, she wasn’t about to lose it before she’d even had the chance to try it on.

  “Yes.”

  Paying little heed to the stylist as she applied her expertise and technique to her hair, Charlotte enjoyed her browse through the selection of magazines, delighted to notice the promotional material the store assistant had mentioned about the new label, her exact dress featuring as part of their top buys for the season. Leaving the glossies aside for a copy of a business magazine, she was a little surprised to notice the fashion label had also made its way into the monthly publication – not as promotional material, however, but about the label’s controversial background.

  Reading the article with interest, Charlotte sat up straight in her chair and gave the piece her full attention. It can’t be the same person, she thought.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but can I ask you to hold your head still, please?”

  “Oh dear, I’m a disaster for you! So sorry. I’ll take full responsibility if the style loosens later.” She glanced in the mirror. “Looks great. Sorry again.” She lifted the magazine this time instead of moving her head.

  Edward Giles Designs – Carl’s brother! He’s claiming credit for the label I just put on my credit card. On the verge of leaning toward the store bag to check, she felt the stylist give a gentle tug to a lock of hair she was trying to weave into her masterpiece, and thought better of it. Instead she noted the name of the magazine, pleased it was a current issue, and decided to buy a copy as well as taking a look on the Internet later to see what else was being said about the situation. Very interesting. She wondered why Beth hadn’t mentioned it. And if it turned out she had just bought an Edward Giles Design she’d be looking for her money back and asking her sister to get her brother-in-law to create a speciality of Charlotte Dulhooly style dresses. She revelled in the idea of having designer couture with the cut she required.

  “Charlotte, would you like it pinned back from your face?”

  Studying her reflection, she was thrilled with the outcome, watching with interest as the stylist demonstrated both looks.

  “Leave it hang down over one eye,” she decided eventually. “It’s got a sexier appeal, don’t you think?”

  Handing over an extra-generous tip, Charlotte left the salon, receiving admiring glances as she strolled down the street and wishing her Saturday night amounted to more than dinner for one in her apartment.

  Back home, Charlotte went in search of internet stories about the fashion-designer scandal. Flicking from one report to another, she pieced together what she could, going as far as translating a French newspaper article to English, seeing as the biggest uproar involved numerous Parisian houses. Quotations and accusations filled her screen as she read libellous comments from both sides. No two reports carried the same message, journalists alternating their loyalties and breathing life into Ed’s grievance for as long as they could use it to sell papers.

  Charlotte was perplexed. Assessing the truth was impossible.

  But one thing for sure, she thought, for the first time in an age I have found my ideal cocktail dress. Holding the dress against her body, she moved in time to the music blaring from the speakers on the wall. Pity it and so many more like it are at the root of a dying designer’s heartbreak.

  A young and upcoming graduate from Lyon – whose name was staring at her from the label on the dress she held in her hand – had bounced onto the platform of the fashion world during the past year. Launching a pre-Spring collection, organising fashion shows and issuing samples to stores in advance of most other designers, his sharp ideas had taken the world of haute couture by storm. Applying the same tactic to the next season, his summer pieces had been filling the European rails for weeks, vibrant colour and sassy cuts tantalising his unsuspecting public and offering a brand-new take on the original femininity of the fifties.

  Reading about his key looks in one of the articles, Charlotte was interested to discover that her dress was part of his first launch in the Canadian market. Not stopping there, the collection was also being revealed in Australia and the US. She wondered whether Edward Giles, or Ed as Beth referred to him, had created the original design. From the little Beth had told her about him, his passion and pride for his work flowed through his veins. And if the reports on the net were true, he’d been defending his company’s reputation, insisting the fraudster designer from Lyon had somehow managed to plagiarise months, possibly years, of his hard work, altering the tiniest detail in each piece to authenticate a brand-new label. Charlotte thought how unfair it was, and imagined that this stressful period in his life hadn’t helped his progressive illness and probably played a part in its escalation. Understanding the pain of losing face and reputation, her heart went out to him. Following his stringent fight, his relentless drive to reclaim his place in a cut-throat industry, she believed his argument.

  But those who made a difference didn’t agree and Ed’s popularity had faded before spring season even got under way. Already excited about the new arrival on the scene, stocking the newer label at keener prices, fashion houses and leading stores stripped his clothing range from their shelves and rails. Several went as far reprinting catalogues and replacing his newest look with that of the Lyon replicate.

  A furious Ed had his legal team retaliate on a giant scale, his attempt to clear his name achieving little apart from ostracising him in the fashion world entirely. Reading a statement from the man himself, she sympathised at his description of their devastating response. For over twenty years, his designs had sent upper-end clients swooning and submitting pre-season orders, giving stores cutting edge style and high-society status.

  Loading a video of Ed’s last Paris fashion show, the cameras flashed on his face as he focused intently on the catwalk. His unbridled passion, fire and limitless imagination shone through every creation, smashing boundaries and demanding a leading spot on the major fashion publications. But the newcomer’s keener price list had lost him his spot on covers of glossy fashion magazines, demoting him to the leading headline on trashy tabloids instead.

  It was time to try on her own Edward Giles copy, as she thought of it. She undressed in her bedroom, keeping her back to the mirror as she’d stepped into the dress.

  Ready to admire her purchase, she turned slowly toward the full-length mirror, a smile spreading across her face as she let out the breath she’d been holding. The expensive material clung to the contours of her body like a second skin as though it had been made to measure. The zip closed without effort. The fit was perfect. The halter neckline was perfect. She turned to either side, first the left, then the right, her smile broadening with every glance. Thank you, she said, offering a silent thank-you to the clever designer who’d drawn the pattern and another one to the machinist who had cut the bodice line to perfection. The bronze creation was the first sleeveless dress she’d considered wearing since her last meeting with Philip Lord.

  She twirled in front
of the mirror, delighted with the result. The hairstyle complemented the outfit to perfection, her naturally tawny skin glowing against the delicate bronze material. The jagged scar on her chest was completely covered. Coming to Canada and placing her trust in the hands of the best plastic surgeon Toronto had to offer had improved things slightly. But she still wasn’t comfortable enough to brave scooped necklines or open-necked shirts. Now, however, thanks to Ed Giles (as that’s whom she had decided to credit), her days of hiding behind shawls and shrugs were finally being left behind. She could return to the glamorous look she’d favoured, turn a corner. This dress would help restore the confidence she’d lost on that infamous evening when she and Philip Lord had their final showdown.

  Excitement buzzing inside her, she changed back into a comfortable leisure suit and went in search of her Uncle Seth’s phone number. She had mislaid the number Beth had given her but hoped she would find it in an old address book. No point wasting the way she was feeling now, a great time to channel her energy into something worthwhile – the perfect mood to take on her gangster uncle! I could take on the world this very moment, she thought, searching through a folder she’d brought with her from Ireland but had hardly ever opened. Spotting what she was looking for, she took out the shabby red address book and flipped it open to see her sister’s neat and childish writing, To my big sister, Lottie, Merry Xmas. The innocence of the dedication tugged at her heart. Years had passed since she’d unwrapped the gift, yet she clearly remembered sitting around the Christmas tree with Mum hurrying them to get through the presents before they left for morning Mass – a far cry from the solitary Christmas just gone. Delighted with her sister’s thoughtfulness, Charlotte had removed the matching diary and address book from its gift box, discarding the diary almost immediately, not really one for looking back, preferring instead to focus on the future and what it held in store. And her attitude hadn’t changed. The address book, however, had survived, storing her contacts in the old-fashioned way, knowing they’d have been deleted or lost in upgrades if they’d been keyed into a laptop or phone.

  But the number of entries in her little red book had expanded with each new phase of her life until finally it became surplus to requirements and was replaced by the contacts list in her mobile phone.

  Tentatively opening the pages, Charlotte experienced mixed emotions as she scanned some of the names entered there. Her handwriting startled her. So different from what she used now, a symbol she guessed of how her personality had developed over the years. These numbers are no longer relevant, she guessed, running her finger along the page where she’d written all of her school friends’ names, not bothering storing them alphabetically, lumping them together on one page instead. Remembering the tears shed on the last day of exams, she grinned at the solemn promise they’d made – vowing never to lose contact. “No matter what,” she mumbled, repeating their mantra. That promise hadn’t survived long after the first Christmas. Old acquaintances had been replaced with college classmates and her hectic city social life left little time for reunions.

  Reading through the names now, however, she wondered what they were doing and how their lives had turned out. Better or worse than her career-wise? Married with children, she supposed for a lot of them. Strange, she thought, her face breaking into a grin as she came to Josephine’s name – the girl she’d sat alongside for Leaving Certificate Chemistry. They’d been inseparable in that final year, neither hiding anything from the other, sharing a strong passion to leave the wilds of West Cork for the bright city lights of any city as soon as they possibly could. Determination spurred them to work harder in school, studying experiments together to strive for an extra few points, jumping for joy on the results day when they achieved a higher than expected Chemistry score.

  Neither friend pursued the science route, Charlotte following the financial route and Josephine leaving for Dublin to pursue a law degree. Hearing snippets through the grapevine of how well she was doing, Charlotte had no doubt but that Josephine’s sharp wit had put a smile on many a face in the otherwise serious environment of the law chambers.

  Her judgement clouded by nostalgia, she longed to be surrounded by people who knew her inside out, girls who’d grown up with her, sharing and understanding the embarrassment of cranky teachers and overbearing parents. Life had been so simple. If only she’d appreciated it at the time, she’d have made sure to enjoy it more.

  Seth’s name and number was at the top of the ‘S’ page, the name in neat legible writing but the number crossed out and replaced several times in accordance with the number of times her uncle had changed contact details to avoid somebody or other! Dialling his number, she waited. There hadn’t been a glimmer of news or progress on the horizon since she’d last called him. And her mother’s lack of contact was unusual too. All playing the waiting game, she assumed. As expected, these things moved at a snail’s pace.

  Her uncle’s gravelly voice came on the line seconds after the first ring. “Seth’s villa, how can I help you?”

  Love him or hate him, it was impossible not to smile at him.

  “You’ve downgraded since our last call,” Charlotte laughed, recalling his previous welcome note of ‘Seth’s mansion’.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure, my dear?” Seth teased.

  “Do I have to have a reason to ring you?” She stretched out on the couch and settled in for a chat with him. Gangster or not, he oozed charm by the bucketful, a loveable rogue under different circumstances.

  “Your mother tells me you’re thinking of coming home?”

  Charlotte winced. “I’ve nothing decided yet, just toying around with the idea. Weather’s still hot here so I may as well take full advantage. And my job’s a profitable number, difficult to leave behind, especially the way the banking world is back home.”

  “Chip off the old block!” he laughed. “Thank God there’s some Brixton blood in your genes and you appreciate a gift horse when you see one. Not enough of it around if you ask me. That sister of yours is an out-and-out Dulhooly.”

  “Seth,” Charlotte warned, “that’s my family – my nearest and dearest – you’re talking about.”

  “My family too,” he pronounced. “And speaking of them, I’m guessing I know why you’re calling – I’m doing my best but these things take time. Got some documents to the solicitor too – recent geriatric assessments.”

  “So your claim hasn’t been rejected?”

  “Of course not!” he said, his tone incredulous. “I won’t quit. And there’s always an alternative route. That solicitor’s a tough nut – a good-looking bitch into the bargain, I’m told, but too young for me now unfortunately.”

  She laughed at his honesty. “If it’s that much trouble, why bother?”

  “Mar has been good to me in the past,” he said, his teasing tone turning serious. “I like to see justice done.”

  Charlotte wasn’t privy to their brother-sister secrets but from the snippets she had overheard down the years she knew little would come between them. Regular contact always maintained, even during the periods he’d lain low and had even skipped his place at their Christmas dinner table.

  “And you feel the objections you have in mind are acceptable?” She inhaled sharply. Her tone would betray her intentions if she wasn’t more careful.

  “I’ve secured medical reports from the best and . . .” He paused to cough.

  Charlotte waited while her uncle tried to get his breath back. It was obvious from the seriousness of his breathlessness that he was still a heavy smoker. “Will I call you back, Seth?” she asked.

  “No need, but hold on while I get a drink.”

  She stared into space as she waited for him to return on the line, her mind working overtime. His persistence was admirable. Nothing new there with Seth, she supposed. Knowing her uncle, he’d stop at nothing until he had turned the original will on its head, pushed Kieran out and had it renegotiated.

  She brought a hand to her stoma
ch to stop it churning. Dad will go berserk, she thought. Despite his faults, he’d been a hard-working husband and father who valued his good name and reputation more than anything. There wasn’t a word in the dictionary to describe how he’d feel if the family name was dragged through the courts. As much for Frank as for Kieran’s sake, she knew she had to stop this nightmare, let Polly rest in peace and allow her decisions be accepted.

  Hearing Seth fumbling around, she turned back the pages of her address book until she reached her list of school pals. Looking around for a pen, she spotted her handbag and took out her ruby lip liner, circling Josephine’s name with it. Though it was her West Cork phone number, she doubted Josephine’s parents would object to passing on a message or better still would give her a current contact number. Having someone she could trust in the legal system (apart from her father whom she couldn’t involve) could come in very useful, and having a friend she could be honest with would be an added bonus.

  “Now, where were we?” Seth’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Polly’s geriatric assessments,” Charlotte prompted, flipping open her laptop to type up a few bullet points so she’d be able to relate it exactly to Josephine if the opportunity arose. “What geriatricians are you using?” She kept her tone light. “One from the hospital?”

  “Yes, he’s an acquaintance of mine from years back. Who’d have thought Polly Dulhooly –”

  “Digby,” Charlotte corrected.

  “I’ll always remember her as Polly Dulhooly.”

  Quite out of character for him to sound nostalgic, Charlotte thought, but didn’t comment, listening instead as he outlined his two arguments – the question over Polly’s legal ownership of the property and the state of her mind as she’d made the will.