The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  But when I come round to face the stage, I realize that I’m not alone. Thomas is lying down on the stage, his head resting in his hands, just like once before when I came upon him. The radio is next to him, but it’s turned off. He’s staring up at the ceiling, not moving.

  In an instant, the options flash before me. Tiptoe out and leave him alone; or should I stay and talk to him? My stomach takes a dive. What if he’s waiting for Stevie?

  Either way, I have to know.

  ‘Thomas?’ I say quietly. ‘Is it OK if I come in?’

  He swivels towards me. If he’s surprised that it’s me instead of . . . anyone else, he doesn’t show it. And when he smiles at me, my insides melt like butter. ‘Andy,’ he says. ‘Long time no see.’

  I walk over to the stage and sit on the edge. ‘I thought you were at work.’

  ‘Were you hoping to have the place to yourself?’

  I laugh at his insightfulness. ‘Yes, I was, but you being here – well, that’s OK too. You know – like old times.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. And I’m glad you’re here.’

  I take a breath. ‘You don’t have to say that. I guess you were hoping that it was Stevie instead of me.’

  He gives me a puzzled glance. ‘Stevie? Why?’

  ‘You two seem very close.’

  ‘Well, we are, I guess. I’m helping her with the walking. She’s your friend – my friend too, I think. She wants to be able to do the same things that you and Carrie can do.’

  I give a little laugh. ‘Don’t worry. I totally understand what you see in her. She’s smart and funny and sweet.’

  He scrambles up on to his elbow, looking surprised. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  Unconsciously, my hand goes to my cheek. The one where X marked the spot. Once. A long time ago . . .

  I shrug. ‘Just that I’m OK with it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He lies back again. For a long time, he’s silent. That in itself seems like confirmation.

  ‘I love this place,’ he says finally.

  I’m so preoccupied with my own thoughts that I barely realize that we’re not talking about Stevie any more.

  ‘From the moment I came in here – when it was practically a ruin. There was something about it that spoke to me, if that makes sense.’

  ‘I . . . think so.’

  He swings up and sits at the edge of the stage, his legs dangling over. As much as I’m happy finally to be alone with him again – like in the early days when we were painting the theatre – I’m a little bit scared too. Scared of the way he makes me feel. I sit down next to him – within arm’s reach, but with a space between us. I stare out at the serene white space of the theatre, but inside, butterflies tickle my stomach.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Andy.’

  I don’t move – don’t look at him; don’t even breathe. No one ever says those words if they’ve got something good to say.

  ‘What?’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you before, but there’s another reason I wanted to get the theatre sorted for my uncle.’

  ‘So that it looked good for the estate agents?’ I try to make a joke but it falls flat.

  ‘No.’ I feel his hand inch towards mine. ‘It’s not that.’ He traces a line down the top of my hand, to the tip of my finger. My skin feels like it’s sparkling.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s because I’m leaving,’ he says.

  ‘Leaving? What do you mean?’

  He turns to face me, still keeping hold of my hand.

  ‘I’m moving to Paris. I’m going to finish the term out there so I can settle in to the new school. I didn’t want to tell you . . .’

  My mind is a whirlwind of confusion and hurt. He’s not interested in Stevie – or any of us. He’s leaving. Going away. I fight back the urge to grab my hand away, stand up, run off. I want to do those things – anything to escape the cracks that I can feel forming in my heart.

  But instead I sit there, paralysed, gripping his hand in mine and not wanting to let go.

  ‘Why?’ I say finally.

  ‘It was my uncle’s suggestion. He says I should finish school in Paris. I’ll have a better chance of getting into uni there if I do. For now, I’m going to live with his brother, my Uncle Jules and his wife. They’ve got a really big apartment on the Left Bank.’

  ‘That makes sense . . . I guess.’ I try to keep my voice steady. ‘And is your uncle going too?’

  ‘He hasn’t decided yet. He has a friend who’s offered him a job managing a restaurant – like he used to do. It was his passion before my aunt died. But he’s not sure yet if he wants to sell the chippie.’ He lowers his voice. ‘And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there might be another reason he wants to stay.’

  I laugh, but my heart’s not in it. ‘Yeah, I’ve noticed. Mum and your uncle. It’s a little weird, but kind of nice for them too.’

  ‘I agree,’ Thomas says. ‘Anyway, he’ll probably come with me to Paris for a little while and decide what he wants to do.’

  A swell of pain rises up in my chest. Just like I knew that for Mum and me, revamping the shop was the right thing to do, I know equally that Thomas and his uncle need to do the right thing for them.

  ‘But what about The Polka Dot Shop?’ My voice cracks. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Oh, Andy . . .’ Thomas swallows hard. ‘I’m going to miss all of this – so much. Your friends, this place. But most of all . . . you.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘You, Andy.’

  When I see a tear rolling down his cheek, I can’t hold back any longer. My eyes erupt like a leaking water fountain. And at that moment, I would give anything – all the vintage designer clothing; a shopping trip to Westfield; a whole wardrobe from Topshop – to have him stay. Except that would be wrong.

  I lean over and dry the tear with my finger. ‘Thomas – I’m absolutely sure you’re doing the right thing. Go to Paris – that’s where you should be. You’re going to make a fantastic architect.’

  His smile is like the sun bursting through rainclouds. ‘I’ll come back to visit – I promise. I’m definitely going to be here for the grand opening.’

  ‘You’d better,’ I say. ‘I’m going to need some help setting up the catwalk.’

  ‘And you can come visit me too,’ he says. ‘In Paris. The fashion capital of Europe.’

  ‘I’d like to,’ I say sadly. ‘But for me, the fashion capital is right here.’ I gesture around me. ‘Or at least, some day it will be.’

  He laughs. ‘Of that I have no doubt.’

  We sit there holding hands. I want to stay like that for ever – lock the pain outside the door, and out of my life. But I know that’s impossible.

  ‘Thomas?’ A voice filters into the theatre – it’s Mr LeBoeff.

  ‘Coming,’ he calls back. He lets go of my hand and stands up.

  I stand up too. He turns to me, and I try to memorize his face. There’s a shyness about him all of a sudden that I’ve rarely seen.

  And before I can even think about what I’m doing, I reach out and put my arms around his neck. The world shrinks to a bubble around us. My lips brush his, and we hold each other close. I close my eyes to blink back the tears.

  When I open them again, he’s gone.

  ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Carrie says. ‘We haven’t even had the grand opening yet.’ We’re sitting at the back of Mum’s shop two days later, making price tags. I’ve broken the news about Thomas. Stevie knew already – that’s what she meant by wanting to walk before he left. But even she had no idea how soon it was going to happen.

  ‘I guess Andy’s attitude of getting on with things inspired them too,’ Stevie says, sounding falsely cheerful. ‘Why wait? Mr LeBoeff isn’t getting any younger. They should move back to Paris if that’s what they want.’

  ‘It just won’t be the same without him,’ Carrie says.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ I say, swallowing hard. ‘But
Stevie’s right. They’ve got a good opportunity – they should take it.’

  I’ve thought a lot about Mr LeBoeff over the last few days – probably to keep my mind off . . . someone else. I’ve thought about how generous he’s been in helping me and Mum by investing in the shop, when he could have just sold the theatre for a gym and left it at that. I’ve thought about how he came here to help his wife, and when she died, the dream died with her. He could have gone back to Paris at that time, but he stayed. I guess at first he wanted to be close to her memory. But as time went on, it just became too hard to change. I don’t know if he felt depressed himself, or if he was just in a rut. But either way, it took Thomas and me – our help in clearing out the old to make room for the new – that helped him move on too. Just like with Mum and her shop.

  I guess if I’ve learned one thing from the last few months, it’s to try not to be afraid to change things that aren’t working. Without warning, my eyes fill with tears. Carrie’s right – it’s not fair. With Thomas here, things were working.

  ‘Hey,’ Carrie says, noticing that I’m upset. ‘He’ll be back – I mean, they own part of the shop, don’t they? I’m sure Thomas will want to keep an eye on their investment.’

  I smile. ‘You’re right, I’m sure he will. Especially since I’m not sure his uncle is going anywhere.’ I’ve told them my suspicions about Mum and Mr LeBoeff. Stevie was surprised, but Carrie not so much. In any case, we’ll all have to wait and see.

  ‘And who knows?’ Stevie says. ‘Maybe some day you’ll visit Thomas in Paris. Hey, maybe we’ll all go.’ She smiles. ‘I can picture the three of us, walking through the station to get the Eurostar.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Carrie says. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. I mean, just imagine . . .’

  I nod, allowing myself to be swept up in their enthusiasm. Paris. Who knows? They have more than just good schools for architecture in Paris. And Mum is always banging on about me going to uni. But for now . . . that’s a long way off. I’ve got a shop to open, a mum to manage, and Ms Cartwright wants us to write a whole report on our ‘transformation’ for her class. Because it seems that more people in the school than just us took the project seriously.

  One boy sent a short story he wrote to a BBC contest, and two other girls are organizing a charity bake-off at school to raise money for refugees. Another girl is training to run a 5k race, another boy is earning pocket money by running errands for elderly people in his neighbourhood. The class is buzzing with ideas, and even if we have to write a report, it’s still been worth it. Ms Cartwright said that Carrie could change her goal – from losing six kilos to learning how to cook healthy food. And Stevie . . . well, her goal was always going to be ambitious to do in one term. I can see from the dark circles under her eyes that she’s not sleeping well and is still in pain, but she’s refusing to give up. That in itself is inspiring.

  ‘Paris would be fun,’ I say, ‘but right now, I’m glad I’m here – I mean, there’s so much to do before we open—’

  The bell tinkles on the door at the front of the shop. I go through the curtain from the back to see who’s there. Mum goes to open the door – even though we’re not officially open yet, lots of people have seen our advertisements and are bringing clothing by for us to take ‘on consignment’. She greets a middle-aged woman wearing a baggy cardigan, a tweed skirt and sensible shoes. The woman is carrying two huge ‘bags for life’ that are brimming with clothing. I eye them, wondering if they’re filled with trash or treasure.

  ‘Come right this way, Mrs Sandborn,’ Mum is saying. She ushers the woman over to the new counter with the till. ‘Now, if you want to leave the bag, I can go through it and make sure everything gets labelled properly for sale. We’ve got a new system, you see.’

  I come up to them. ‘Mum, actually, I’ll go through it now if you like.’ I turn to the woman. ‘We’ve got a new system, as Eliza was saying. I’m afraid we’re only taking on designer labels at the moment.’ I go quickly through the clothing at the top of the bag. It’s mostly faded old T-shirts and floral print skirts. And down a few layers, I get to the pièce de resistance – a stack of shiny polyester pants. With a smile, I hand the bag back to the woman.

  ‘Sorry to waste your time,’ I say. ‘For your convenience, we’ve put a charity collection bin out the back in the alleyway.’

  The woman looks at me in shock. I stand up straight – I’m at least three inches taller than she is. Beside me, Mum looks like she wants to dig a hole in the ground and crawl inside.

  Then, to my surprise, the woman starts to laugh. ‘Quite right,’ she says. ‘And fair enough. I was having a clear-out, and didn’t know what to do with most of it. I thought of your mum’s shop. But next time, I’ll think twice.’ She points to the second bag. ‘You might be interested in that one, though. I’ve got a couple of nice suits from Joseph.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘I’ll definitely have a look.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ Mum begins. ‘It’s a new thing . . .’

  The woman holds up her hand. ‘If you’re now such sticklers for quality, I might have a little look around. I’m looking for a dress to wear for my niece’s wedding. And I love what you’ve done with the place. It looks really high-end. And I can actually see the clothing that’s for sale.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Mum ushers the woman over to a rack of dresses. ‘We do have some lovely things. You are very welcome to take a look.’

  Smiling to myself, I go through the second bag and ‘rescue’ the two Joseph suits, a dress from Whistles and a woollen skirt from Hobbs. I assign Mrs Sandborn a customer number in my consignment filing system, and write her number on the back of the price tag for the item. That way, when the item sells, she’ll be able to get her sixty per cent. In store credit.

  I glance over to where Mum is showing her some of the things we have hanging on the rack from La Belle Hélène’s collection. Mrs Sandborn takes a plain silk crepe dress in seafoam green off the rack and holds it up to her neck. It’s about six sizes too small for her, but the colour brings out the green of her eyes.

  ‘This is exquisite,’ she says. ‘But I don’t think I could get more than one leg into it.’

  I leave the till and come up to them. ‘This dress really suits you. It would be perfect, wouldn’t it? If you really love it, then one of the services we will be offering at The Polka Dot Shop is a customized design and dressmaking service. I can have Jolanta, our designer, take your measurements, and she can create something similar just for you. Would you like me to make you an appointment?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’ The woman looks at me, then at Mum, then at the dress. ‘I do love it. What would it cost?’

  Mum opens her mouth to speak but I cut her off.

  ‘For a dress similar to this in crepe-backed satin, it would be one hundred and eighty pounds plus VAT. That’s much less than you would pay on the high street for something of this quality, and it would be made to measure.’

  The woman looks at the dress, then only at me. ‘And when would it be ready?’

  ‘When do you need it by?’

  We discuss the details, booking her in for an appointment with Jolanta, and eventually Mrs Sandborn leaves me a forty per cent deposit on the dress, and leaves the shop with the items we’re not taking for consignment. On the way out she thanks me and Mum – who’s still looking like a deer in the headlights. But what makes me happiest is that the woman never once asks me how old I am, and I get the feeling that it never even crossed her mind.

  As soon as the door closes, Mum sinks down on the stool by the till. I’m aware also that Stevie and Carrie have come in from the back, and must have seen some of it too – because they start applauding.

  ‘Well done,’ Carrie says. ‘That was brilliant. You’re not even officially open yet and you’ve made a sale!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Stevie says. ‘And it’s good that you remembered about the VAT.’

  ‘I think I’m going to have
a heart attack,’ Mum says.

  It’s only then that I notice how fast my own heart is beating from the adrenaline of making a sale. It’s kind of like the rush I get when I find something exciting in one of the consignment lots (especially things that are new and still have the tags on!) Only, it’s better than that. Because clothing seasons come and go, but what I’ve done – and what I’ve learned – will last.

  ‘We’ll get there, Mum,’ I say. ‘Remember, it can be hard to have a go at something new.’

  ‘Well . . . you certainly have made me proud, Andy. And happy.’

  Hearing this, I feel a prickle of tears. I’m not kidding myself that it’s going to be easy to make our new venture work, but I know that it’s given Mum and me a new lease of life. For right now, that’s enough.

  ‘That’s good, Mum,’ I say. ‘Now, I’d better go and find Jolanta and tell her about the appointment. Wanna come?’ I smile at Stevie and Carrie.

  ‘Sure.’

  My two friends come up the aisle in the shop. I’ve made sure that the clothing racks are spaced wide enough apart so that wheelchairs and prams can get through easily. It’s interesting how having fewer things stuffed on the racks has made the shop seem much bigger. We go through the arch that leads to the theatre, and the designer studios in the back.

  As soon as I step into the main room, I miss Thomas. The room itself is still undergoing a transformation – the displays of Hélène’s best pieces that will eventually go to a museum, and the catwalk that’s being built out from the stage like a long pier in a calm white ocean. Some of Hélène’s things are hanging from the racks, still wrapped in their protective bags. I can hear the faint sound of a radio coming from Jolanta’s studio at the back.

  And at that moment, as much as I’m aware of Thomas’s absence, I feel something else too – something strange, but powerful. Stevie stops her wheelchair in the centre of the room and looks at Carrie, then at me. Carrie’s mouth opens and closes. Whatever it is, they feel it too.