Made in Heaven

by Adale Geras

  *

  Zannah sat in Phyllis Hayward’s living room and looked about her. It was the cleanest room she’d ever seen in her whole life. The skirting-boards were pristine and the carpet looked as though it had never had a speck of dust settle on it since the day it was put down. Miss Hayward’s decor wasn’t to Zannah’s taste – cabbage roses on the overstuffed sofa and armchairs, china shepherdesses on the mantelpiece – but she herself was a gently spoken, smiley person with gold-rimmed specs and permed white hair. She was dressed in an immaculately tailored blue suit, and although she might have put on this outfit because she was expecting visitors, Zannah had a strong suspicion that this was what she wore every day.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to see me,’ she said.

  ‘A pleasure, my dear,’ said Miss Hayward. ‘I’m happy to help a friend of Verity. I knew her grandmother, years ago. I made her wedding dress, and one for Verity’s mother too. Please help yourself to shortbread. It’s the Prince of Wales’s brand, you know, with lemon in it. Quite delicious, I think.’

  A picture of Prince Charles in a flowered pinny, rolling out shortbread in the Highgrove kitchen, came into Zannah’s head and she smiled/Thank you, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Now what’s Verity told you about me?’

  ‘That you were the best dressmaker in the country. She said you used to work for Norman Hartnell.’

  ‘Dear Verity is exaggerating, but how kind of her. Hartnell’s name isn’t on everyone’s lips, these days, but his standards were very high. Very high indeed. We made outfits for the Queen, you know. And the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret. I was there for twenty years. Then I started my own bridal dressmaking service, but of course I retired officially a few years ago.’

  Miss Hayward put her cup on a highly polished occasional table that stood beside her armchair. She said, ‘Have you an idea of the sort of thing you want? I have albums you can look at with photographs of dresses I’ve made. I don’t take on many commissions, because I find I get tired much more quickly these days. I’m nearly eighty, you know.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Zannah. ‘You seem much younger.’ Zannah meant what she said. Miss Hayward was clearly someone who’d found her look a long time ago and stuck to it. But nearly eighty … Could she still manage what she used to? What about her eyesight? As though she were reading Zannah’s mind, Miss Hayward said: ‘My eyesight’s as good as it ever was, and my hands are still steady. Have you set a date for the wedding?’

  ‘May the twenty-seventh, next year.’

  That’s good. Lots of time. You’d be amazed how many people think you can run up something in a day or two. Now, what have you been dreaming of when you think of your wedding dress?’

  Zannah took the photocopy she’d made of her sketch out of her handbag. She’d had it folded in the pages of her wedding notebook for a couple of days, and now she opened it up and held it out to Miss Hayward, who took it and inspected it for a long time without a word. ‘Most beautiful!’ she said eventually, and Zannah let out the breath she’d been holding. She used to do that as a child, waiting for a teacher’s verdict on her work.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Will you … Could you?’

  ‘Make it? Oh, yes. It won’t present too many problems, I don’t think. You’ve chosen such a simple shape. crêpe de Chine lining, I think, in the same colour as the lace. I’ve got a box full of bits we can search through for things like lace for the edges of the sleeves, the neckline and so forth. This is lovely. Very 1920s. The whole effect of a dress like this depends on the fabric. You’re going to need the perfect lace and the exact shade of … you’ve not said, but I think cream, écru or ivory, something like that, to go with your colouring. Not white, in any case.’

  ‘No,’ said Zannah. ‘I had been thinking of it in cream … thick, clotted cream. A touch of buttery yellow in it.’ She was babbling about the colour because she didn’t know how to broach the subject of money. What if Miss Hayward charged more than she could afford? She had to mention it before she committed herself. And she’d have to find out where one was supposed to buy ‘perfect lace’ to say nothing of crêpe-de-Chine for the underdress. She was about to speak, when Miss Hayward stood up. ‘Come with me, dear. We’ll go and have a look in my cupboard.’

  Zannah followed her upstairs.

  ‘This is my sewing room,’ said Miss Hayward, leading the way into a bedroom at the back of the house. The window looked out on to a small and extremely tidy walled garden. A fearsomely modern sewing-machine stood on a table under the window and a fitted cupboard took up most of the longest wall. Miss Hayward opened it wide and said, ‘There’s sure to be something here that’ll do.’

  Astonished, Zannah gazed into the cupboard. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting but it wasn’t shelf upon shelf of neatly stacked rolls of material. They were lined up in order: palest colours on the left, darkest on the right.

  ‘I try to have a bit of everything,’ said Miss Hayward, ‘but of course the paler shades are more popular with brides and bridesmaids. Are you having bridesmaids?’

  ‘Two. My daughter and her friend. They’re both eight.’

  ‘How lovely!’ Miss Hayward turned back to the cupboard. ‘There’s a bit of everything here, silk, satin, velvet, chiffon and even … ’ she paused and walked along the massed ranks of fabric, like a general inspecting his troops. ‘Lace,’ she said with an air of triumph, pulling out a roll carefully. ‘Most of this,’ she added ‘is what was left over when I retired. I won’t use even a fraction of it in my lifetime, but I can’t bear to part with it. And sometimes it comes in handy. Like now. What do you think of it? It’s vintage, of course. I found it when a reputable wholesaler closed down … oh, years and years ago. You won’t find anything like it nowadays. I won’t work with nylon lace. This is more expensive, of course, but well worth the extra money.’

  Miss Hayward spread it out over the table. Zannah picked up a corner and it felt soft to the touch, not scratchy at all. The pattern was an intricate mesh of small flowers and … Could it be? Yes! Tiny butterflies that appeared to have been caught up in the design. You wouldn’t see them if you didn’t look carefully. Zannah regarded butterflies as her emblem and finding them here, in this lace, was an omen.

  Zannah noticed that her heart was beating fast, and that she was feeling most peculiar: moved and suddenly almost tearful. Em would say: Cool it … It’s only a dress, but her sister didn’t understand. No one did. The dress, now that she could see the fabric in front of her, would be the embodiment of everything she hoped for from her marriage to Adrian. A strange feeling came over her, which she’d never articulated before: that the sheer contrast between this dress and the one she’d worn to marry Cal was a symbol of how differently the two marriages would turn out. She and Adrian would be happy. What she wore would underline that more than anything. The colour was precisely what she’d been dreaming of: a pale, creamy shade that reminded her of old parchment. She held the lace close to her cheek and glanced into the mirror that hung on the inside of one of the cupboard doors. She wondered whether perhaps it was the pleasure she was feeling that was making her skin glow, but no: it was definitely the colour. She’d known it would suit her as soon as she saw it. She said, ‘It’s exactly right. The perfect lace. I can’t tell you how I feel … It’s beautiful. The colour is glorious. I love it.’

  ‘I’m very pleased. It’s always a relief to have the main decision taken care of. And we’re in luck with the trimmings I think, too.’ Miss Hayward was searching in a chest of drawers that stood against one wall. ‘This is something I bought to make one of those enormously long veils that turn into a train … Do you know what I mean? Never used it in the end. We can cut off the lace borders and put them round the neckline and sleeves. And here we are: I knew I had some scalloped lace somewhere. And in just the right colour. Perfect.’

  I have to have it, Zannah thought. That lace. That colour. I don’t care what it costs.

  *
r />   ‘Okay, let me get this right.’ Adrian leaned forward and Zannah could see by the set of his mouth and by the way his forehead was furrowing that he was making an effort to keep his temper. ‘You’ve just been to see an eighty-year-old woman in a small terraced house in Highgate. You’ve asked her to make your wedding dress. You’ve agreed to pay a thousand pounds.’

  ‘That’s a bargain,’ said Zannah quickly. She wasn’t telling him the whole truth. She’d agreed to pay fifteen hundred, but that included the bridesmaids’ dresses. Surely, she reasoned, I’ll be able to rustle up five hundred pounds from somewhere? Of course I will. She was so determined to have the dress made up that she would have agreed to almost anything. She added, ‘There’s a tremendous amount of work involved. Also lots of stuff that can only be done by hand. There are going to be tiny pearls scattered here and there. And she’ll do the bridesmaids’ dresses too, she said.’ She could see that Adrian wasn’t mollified by this information. She added: ‘It’s vintage lace, you know.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant.’

  ‘It’s not irrelevant. It’s amazingly beautiful. And it doesn’t come cheap. We’re talking about my wedding dress. It’s going to be our wedding, Adrian. You should be pleased. I was sure you would be.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. My mother came all the way up to London to help you choose and you just set your face against her. You’d decided long ago, hadn’t you? I think she deserves an apology, frankly.’

  ‘She does not!’ Zannah tried, but didn’t manage, to keep the indignation out of her voice. ‘I never asked her to come up to London. I didn’t ask for her help. She … offered it.’ That had nearly come out as: she pushed it down my throat, but she managed to control herself just in time.

  ‘You should’ve listened to her. Anyway, what does it matter? Honestly, I can’t see what you’re making such a song and dance about it for. It’s only a dress … and you’ll look great whatever.’

  ‘Mummy, you and Adrian mustn’t fight!’ Isis had come into the room from the kitchen. ‘If you’re getting married, you’re not allowed to quarrel.’

  ‘Shut up, Isis.’ Adrian spoke curtly. ‘Go and find something to do. We’re talking.’

  ‘We’re not really fighting, Icepop,’ Zannah said, pulling her daughter to her and kissing the side of her face. ‘But we are having a discussion. We’ll be finished in a minute but can you go and find something to do in your room for a bit?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Isis. She made her way to the staircase and Zannah could see from the way she walked that she was sad and confused. I’ll talk to her at bedtime, she resolved and then turned to Adrian again.

  ‘You shouldn’t have shouted at Isis,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t shout. I told her to shut up. She’ll have to get used to us having the odd fight.’

  ‘Will she? Why? Are you planning to quarrel with me on a regular basis once we’re married?’

  ‘Oh, God, don’t deliberately misunderstand me, Zannah. You know I don’t mean that. Not at all. I just think it would make things easier if you let my mum handle all that. Save you trouble and money, probably. I just think you’re barmy running off to some second-rate dressmaker when you have the pick of the London shops.’

  ‘You’re the one!’ Zannah was shouting now. ‘You’re the one who’s misunderstanding! I’ve got a picture of the dress I want and your mother’s poncy shop didn’t come anywhere near it, so I’ve found someone who’ll make me something that’s exactly what I want. For less money than anything at that ridiculous Dreamdress place.’

  ‘It’s not about the money,’ Adrian said, also shouting now. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about the money.’

  Zannah was still furious and had no intention of stopping. ‘And she’s not second-rate, she’s the best there is. She worked for Norman Hartnell, not that I’d expect you to know who he is, but your mother will. What part of that is barmy? Makes perfect sense to me, and in any case, it’s none of your damned business. The wedding dress is my department. You stick to what you’ve been given to attend to – the rings, the honeymoon, and the stag night. Okay?’

  Adrian said nothing. Zannah went on, ‘I think you should apologize to Isis.’

  ‘No way,’ said Adrian. ‘I’ll try not to yell at her in future, but she’s got to learn she’s not the only person in the world. That’s her problem. You’ve spoiled her.’

  ‘Oh, go home, Adrian! I can’t deal with this tonight. I’ve got a ton of work to do and I’m not spending the entire evening squabbling.’

  ‘We were going to have a bite together.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘I’ve driven all the way up here from work, without changing or anything. What am I supposed to do about food?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Adrian, you’re perfectly capable of finding yourself something to eat, aren’t you? Phone a friend. Get a takeaway. Something. I don’t feel like going out. Sorry.’

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ Adrian stood up, ‘there’s no point in staying, I suppose. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  He turned back at the front door to see if Zannah would weaken, she knew, but she made sure she seemed entirely absorbed in the headlines of the newspaper lying on the table. He left without another word. Zannah put her head in her hands and tried to calm down. Perhaps, she thought, I shouldn’t have lost my temper with him – but he could be so annoying. She’d only just stopped herself throwing something at him. He’d phone her later, she thought. He was probably regretting their quarrel already.

  ‘Mum? Are you okay?’ Isis had crept downstairs, and put her arms round her mother without Zannah noticing.

  ‘Icey! You’re supposed to be in your room.’

  ‘I didn’t go. I stayed on the stairs to listen.’

  ‘Naughty girl! That’s eavesdropping.’

  ‘But,’ Isis said, ‘I wanted to see if you made friends. You didn’t, did you? Are you still getting married?’

  Zannah laughed. ‘Of course we are! People often get cross with one another, you know. It doesn’t mean anything, really.’

  Isis went to sit on the sofa, curling herself round one of the cushions. She didn’t look entirely reassured, so Zannah said, ‘Next time I go to see Miss Hayward, you must come with me. She’s got lots of lovely ornaments and a cupboard full of gorgeous materials. When we’ve decided what sort of bridesmaid’s dress you want, and Gemma, of course, you can help choose the fabric. That’ll be fun, right?’

  Isis nodded, glumly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want it to be very pale pink.’

  ‘We’ll have to be careful with that, darling. It’s got to go with my cream. Don’t worry, though, we’ll find something fantastic. Okay now? Ready for bed?’

  ‘I’ll go and get ready.’

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

  Isis turned as she reached the stairs. ‘He doesn’t like me very much, does he?’

  ‘Adrian?’ Zannah was shocked. Where had Isis got that idea? She made a note to tell Adrian in the strongest terms that he really mustn’t shout at Isis ever again. ‘Of course he likes you, darling. He’s told me lots of times, really. Don’t worry about him shouting at you. He honestly doesn’t mean to be horrid. Would I ever think of marrying someone who didn’t love you?’

  Isis shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘S’pose not.’

  ‘Go on, then. Get ready for bed and stop worrying.’

  When Isis had gone, Zannah picked up the newspaper and folded it up to put away. She tried to recall the occasions when Adrian had mentioned liking Isis – actually said the words, rather than let the assumption stand on its own. She remembered him saying how talented Isis was, when he had been admiring her artwork, attached to the fridge. He’d said how pretty she was at their engagement party. He’d pronounced her clever when Zannah had shown him her school report, but had he ever said he liked her? In so many words? She couldn’t bring a single instance to mind. But that doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. I know he likes her. He wouldn’t want to m
arry me if he didn’t … No one marries a mother unless they’re sure they like her child. I’ll ask him. I’ll make sure, she thought, pushing this new worry to the back of her mind. She stood up and tried to think herself into bedtime-story mode.

  She came downstairs just as Emily was letting herself in.

  ‘Hi, Zan,’ she said. ‘Isis in bed?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zannah said. Emily threw herself on to the sofa and sighed. ‘God,’ she said, ‘I’m finished. Just been to the opening of the most hilarious exhibition. Couldn’t make it up. Camembert boxes turned into sculptures. Cheese City. I kid you not.’

  ‘Could be good,’ said Zannah. ‘Depends how it was done.’

  ‘Trust me, this guy wasn’t a what’s his name? Pizza-thingie?’

  ‘Paolozzi. Em, can I ask you something?’

  Emily sat up at once, frowning. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. I’ve just had rather a … well, a bit of strange conversation with Isis. She reckons Adrian doesn’t really like her. That can’t be, can it? Can it? I’d have noticed if … ’

  ‘What did Isis say exactly?’

  ‘Well, he shouted at her so she asked me if he liked her and I said of course … you know. But she didn’t seem all that reassured. He did say he was sorry for shouting at her. I tried to explain that sometimes you do just shout at people and it doesn’t mean you don’t like them. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Have you asked him what he thinks of Isis?’

  ‘Not directly. I’ve always assumed … How could anyone not like her?’

  ‘You’re her mother. Of course you think that. So do I. We all do, in our family but … well, she’s someone else’s child, isn’t she? Not his. That’s the point. She’s a reminder of Cal.’

  Zannah ran her hands through her hair and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t need this. Really. I will ask him but I just cannot believe that this incredibly primitive stuff about whose child she is operates in the twenty-first century. It’s ridiculous.’