by Laura Wood
“Of course,” I say hastily, fumbling with the buttons on my dress and battling the intense waves of mortification that I am feeling over the tattered state of my undergarments.
Madame Carradice makes no comment, but begins taking the measurements with cool, practised movements.
“Oh, yes,” she says, “I have quite a lot to choose from that will need very little alteration.” She looks pleased. “You may put your dress back on now,” she adds.
I realize I am still standing in my underwear. “Yes, of course,” I mutter, pulling the dress over my head in one jerky movement.
Madame Carradice sweeps the curtain aside and we emerge back into the room where Caitlin is waiting. A lot has been happening during the brief time we have been away, and we find her surrounded by bolts of beautiful fabric, their colours glowing in the lamplight, as though she is sitting in the middle of a rainbow.
I sit down next to her, my hand reaching out as if it has a mind of its own, to run the silky cloth through my fingers. “Beautiful,” I breathe.
“Which one do you like?” Caitlin asks.
“Oh, all of them,” I say. My eyes fall on a pale green silk organza. It is so delicate, so light, and it reminds me of the sea around the island. “I love this,” I say.
“Seafoam.” Madame Carradice nods approvingly.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Seafoam,” she repeats. “It’s the name of that particular colour. One of my favourites.”
“Oh.” My fingers linger here as I turn the word over in my mind. Seafoam.
“Now, I have some samples to show you, and some things for you both to try,” Madame Carradice says, and she claps her hands. A girl steps out from behind the pink curtain wearing a beautiful dress. It has a layered skirt of black silk and tulle, and a body of black-and-gold brocade with little gauzy cap sleeves. The dress is quite long, falling several inches above her ankles.
“I thought perhaps this might meet with your approval for this evening,” Madame Carradice is saying. My eyes are glued to the model as she walks towards us and twirls around. The skirt floats out around her, and the gold in the brocade shimmers. I sigh. It is lovely.
“Lou?” Caitlin asks.
“Oh, yes,” I say. “You’ll look wonderful in it.”
“Not for me.” Caitlin laughs. “For you.”
I turn to see that both she and Madame Carradice are looking at me.
“It will need hardly any alteration to fit,” Madame Carradice says. “You have almost identical measurements to Lacey.” She gestures towards the model, who has come to a stop in front of us.
I find this hard to believe. Lacey looks elegant and mature in the dress, as though she belongs in it, as though she belongs here in this shop. Is it possible that I could look like that?
“For me?” I say at last.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Caitlin rolls her eyes. “We can’t keep doing this. Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I reply, and the answer is a truthful one. “And…” My eyes gleam. “I could wear it for my birthday party as well!”
“Fine,” Caitlin says. “That’s decided, then,” and with that Lacey trips back to the changing room while another beautiful girl appears wearing another beautiful dress.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur, and by the time we leave we are followed out to the car by people carrying great piles of packages. I can’t tell you what we have bought, and how much of it is meant to be for me. (Although by the time we leave, my old dress has been consigned to the bin and I am wearing a new pale pink summer dress that makes me feel incredibly sophisticated.) Over the last few weeks I have resisted Caitlin’s offers to borrow her clothes, clinging stubbornly to my own scruffy dresses and shorts rather than risk feeling like a doll that she is dressing up. One afternoon in Carradice’s seems to have blasted these intentions to smithereens. I am a little uneasy about it, but at the same time I know that I can hardly run around London with Caitlin Cardew, and go out on the town this evening, in my own clothes. It’s easier to feel all right about it here, surrounded by so much, to feel that taking a tiny bit of it for myself isn’t so bad.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted,” Caitlin says, though the way she talks is anything but – it’s breathless and on edge. “We’d better go and have a quick bite to eat, then take a nap before this evening.”
“Where are we going this evening?” I ask.
“Oh, the usual,” Caitlin says, and her expression is one of, if not boredom, then resignation at least. “Cocktails first, then a club or two.” She drums her fingers on the seat beside her, an anxious tap, tap, tap.
“It sounds wonderful,” I say, and I wonder if her restlessness is part of being in London, if she’s as affected by the spirit of the place as I am.
“And Bernie and some of the others will be around, no doubt,” Caitlin adds brightly. “They’ll be thrilled to see you.”
“Oh, good.” I’m a bit relieved to hear this; here among this desperate press of anonymous people I’m beginning to feel just a little overwhelmed. It will be nice to see some friendly faces.
“Let’s have a quick lunch on the roof at Selfridge’s,” Caitlin says decisively. “It will be heaving, of course, but on such a beautiful day it’s a nice way to see the city. I think you’ll like it. That way we can order some party supplies on our way out. They know what I like.”
After we make our way through the store (where I manage to stop Caitlin only six or seven times to look at something extraordinary) and up in one of the mahogany-panelled lifts, the roof garden is a complete and utter vision. There are flower beds, and benches, and still pools of water, and stone urns full of a riot of tumbling pink and yellow flowers. Along one side of the roof is a long pergola covered in ivy, under which tables with white linen tablecloths are set up for lunch.
The view is extraordinary, literally stopping me in my tracks. You can see all of London laid out before you like an impossibly detailed map, and it seems to reach on and on for ever. I cannot believe the size of it, or the number of people it must hold. More people than you could imagine, all living their lives in this vibrant, bustling metropolis. I feel then, so sharply that it is a knife in my belly, that I want to be one of them. The life and the noise of the place is already getting under my skin, and it speaks once more to that restless feeling inside of me. Here, a voice inside me says, this place. In London I might find what I have been looking for. Here, I see open doors and opportunities that I could never have at home. The world is, after all, a lot bigger than Penlyn, and I am getting just the tiniest taste of it. And then it will be back to reality. Only a couple of weeks of summer remaining … how will I ever be able to go back?
“Thank you so much for bringing me here,” I say.
Caitlin reaches across the table and squeezes my fingers. As she pulls her hand back she knocks her glass, sending it crashing to the floor, where it shatters loudly. Several waiters leap forward at once. “Oh dear.” Caitlin smiles vaguely. “I’m sorry. I seem to be a little clumsy today.”
“Please, don’t worry, madam, I’ll fetch you another,” one of the men says, whisking the mess away so efficiently that mere seconds later it is as though the breakage never happened.
“Is everything OK?” I ask quietly. “You seem a little … on edge.”
“Do I, darling?” Caitlin lights a cigarette, but I notice that her hand is shaking, just a little. “I think I’m a bit tired,” she says. “And hungry. I’ll feel better once I have something to eat.”
Right on cue our food arrives, and although it is delicious Caitlin only picks at her plate. I rattle on and on, making conversation, but she is quiet, withdrawn, and certainly not herself.
When we arrive back at the house she goes to lie down for a while, and I decide to do the same. I don’t think there’s any chance that I will sleep, so I am surprised to find myself being woken up by Caitlin a couple of hours later.
“Co
me on, darling!” she sings. “We have to get ready for a big night on the town.”
“What time is it?” I ask groggily.
“Just gone seven,” she answers, “so we must get a move on.” Her movements are rapid as she flutters around the room, like a butterfly refusing to land in one spot for any amount of time. The nap seems to have helped, at least.
Caitlin helps me to get ready, and I slip into the beautiful black-and-gold dress, the whisper-thin silk stockings and the new black shoes as if I am in a daze. The dress fits perfectly. Caitlin pins my curls up, leaving a couple loose, curling over my shoulders, and she lets me borrow her red lipstick. I look into the mirror and see a girl I hardly recognize.
Madame Carradice had been right, the dress does fit me as it had fit Lacey, and when I move I know that I am walking differently – like someone who knows more, whose body belongs in a dress like this. I stroke the delicate tulle skirt, twirling around and feeling the material twirl with me, and I feel expensive and glamorous. I feel like someone else in this dress, and the sensation is at once liberating and unnerving.
Caitlin wears a gold, fringed dress that moves when she does, hugging her too-thin body and dazzling the eye when it catches the light. Around her head is a gold band, and gold bangles jangle on both of her wrists. Her eyes are lined with black kohl, and they dance wildly.
She is certainly full of energy, whirring around, playing records, mixing drinks and talking a mile a minute, but somehow she is just too sparkling. Her whole body sizzles with nervous excitement, as though she is readying herself for something – only I can’t work out what it is. I don’t know if I should worry, or if it’s just excitement at being in the city. I’m so turned around by it myself that I can hardly keep still.
My own excitement about the evening seems to feed hers, and we are both wound so tightly by the time we leave that I find I can’t sit still in the back seat of the car. As we pull away from the house my breath catches in my throat. It is getting dark and the street lamps are lit, giving everything – to my eyes, at least – the feeling of being in a story. “I wish it was foggy,” I breathe.
“What?” Caitlin asks.
“Like in a novel, you know,” I explain. “Foggy old London town, with the street lamps lit and adventure in the air.”
Caitlin dissolves into giggles over this, although I hadn’t really been joking. “Oh, there’s adventure in the air, all right,” she says at last. “Just you wait.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
“Caitlin looks on good form tonight,” Patricia says later, as we are shown to our table in the Candlelight Club, and we all look over to where Caitlin stands surrounded by men in glossy black dinner suits. She seems to be flirting with all of them at once, and they look at her with naked greed on their faces, as though they want to gobble her up. It makes me feel uneasy, protective. I don’t think that Robert would like it if he were here.
“Yes,” I say. “She seems very … energetic.”
“But who is it for, darling?” Bernie asks me in a low voice, waving a finger in her direction. “Who is this whole show for?”
“For?” I frown. “I don’t think it’s for anyone, is it?”
Bernie’s face is hard to read as he reaches for a cigarette.
At that moment Caitlin breaks free of her group of admirers and makes her way over. She shimmies through the crowd, the light bouncing off her golden dress. Heads turn as she passes and I note – not for the first time – that whatever “star quality” is, Caitlin Cardew has it by the bucketload. Eyes are drawn to her like moths to a flame, and she is a flame burning very brightly indeed. The room is smoky, and busy, and obviously full of money. The crowd around us are dripping with jewels and everyone seems to know each other. As she makes her way through the hordes, people keep catching Caitlin by the arm and squealing at the sight of her. Caitlin, for her part, delivers hundreds of crimson kisses on to waiting cheeks and makes fleeting small talk as she drifts by.
“Insufferable bores,” she whispers as she appears beside me. “The whole lot of them. Now I remember why we left London behind in the first place.” She slides into the red velvet seat that is pulled out for her and draws me down beside her.
“Well, Lou, have you invited them yet?” she demands.
“Invited us?” Bernie looks at me. “Invited us to what, might I ask?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to invite them.” I laugh. “It’s your party, Caitlin.”
“A party?” Bernie breathes, exhaling a cloud of smoke. His sleepy face perks up at this. After all, a Cardew party is not to be missed. Even I know that much.
“Yes,” Caitlin says, “and it’s not my party, it’s Lou’s party. Her birthday party. We’re throwing it at the Cornwall house on Friday.”
“Sounds delightful,” Patricia drawls, “and it’s always nice to get out of the city.”
“It’s going to be spectacular,” Caitlin says firmly. “My best work yet. A masquerade.”
“Ooooh, masks.” Bernie shivers with exaggerated delight. “Wonderful inventions,” he murmurs, turning to me. “They’re carte blanche for bad behaviour, you know.”
“So I keep hearing,” I groan. “It seems to be something that everyone finds exciting, although if you’ve all been on your good behaviour so far I dread to think what this party will be like!”
“Oh, it will be outrageous,” Bernie promises. “Quite the eye opener for you, my little daisy.”
“I think my eyes are pretty well open, thank you.” I bat my eyelashes at him, determined not to let my irritation show. These kinds of comments make me feel like I’ve been cast in the role of the unsophisticated innocent, and I hate thinking that this is my appeal. It cuts a little bit too close to Aunt Irene’s warnings.
“We’ll see,” he says, looking at me with his eyes half closed and a dangerous smile on his lips.
“Anyway,” Caitlin says, drawing the attention back to herself, “I’m telling you, Bernie, because it saves me having to do the rounds. All the right people will know within the hour, I’m sure.”
“Well, that’s charming,” Bernie pouts.
On a stage above the crowd of dancers a band are playing some of the foot-tapping jazz I find so irresistible. “You really do look gorgeous tonight,” Caitlin says, looking me over with a critical eye. “Doesn’t Lou look absolutely gorgeous tonight?” Caitlin demands loudly, looking around at the rest of the group, who are filling up the table.
All eyes turn in my direction, and I shrink beneath the attention. They voice their enthusiastic agreement.
“So why,” Caitlin cries elaborately, as though she is acting in a pantomime and riling up the crowd, “hasn’t anyone asked her to dance yet?”
“Probably because we just walked through the door,” I grind out from behind a fixed grin. I am not enjoying Caitlin’s campaign very much. But it is too late for that; three of the men who have been fawning over Caitlin leap to their feet, arguing over who will get to dance with me first. I try not to roll my eyes.
“Bernie?” I say, holding out my hand.
“I do love a woman who does the asking,” he murmurs, wrapping his elegant fingers around my wrist and guiding me to the dance floor.
“I don’t know why she’s making a fuss,” I grumble as he places his arm lightly around my waist.
Bernie is a graceful dancer, but then I can’t imagine him volunteering to do anything that he isn’t good at in front of an audience. His hand rests delicately on my back, barely touching me, and his steps are light and precise as he guides me around the dance floor without seeming to guide me at all.
“Is something … wrong?” he asks softly, his eyes straying towards Caitlin, the crease reappearing between his eyes. I am struck by how strange it is to see such worry in Bernie’s sleepy eyes, and I feel my heart quicken beneath my beautiful new dress.
“I don’t know.” My own eyes follow his. “I think so, but I don’t know what. She’s like a v
iolin string pulled too tight,” I say finally.
Bernie briefly closes his eyes, and I see him swallow. I am startled. Is it really so serious as this?
“She shouldn’t have come to London,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Not after what happened.”
“What do you mean after what happened?” I ask quickly.
The look Bernie gives me is enigmatic. “I don’t think that’s for me to say.”
I am quiet for a moment. I know that Caitlin has her secrets, but I’m sad that she doesn’t feel able to trust me with them. I feel as if Caitlin knows everything there is to know about me.
“Don’t frown, darling,” Bernie scolds then. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles.” He makes a visible effort to paper over the cracks in his smile. “I’m sure it will be fine. And you’re off home tomorrow … Robert will see her right, don’t worry.”
I feel myself relax a little at this. Like Bernie, I realize that my faith in Robert is absolute. Well, when it comes to Caitlin, anyway.
We dance for another couple of minutes, although I feel like I am hardly aware of the music or the steps. Poor Bernie winces more than once as I stand on his toes. When we return to the table Caitlin is still seated, and she is telling a story that has the rest of the group in stitches. I feel a further loosening in my chest. Perhaps Bernie is wrong, looking at Caitlin now she looks like a beautiful young woman enjoying a night on the town. She catches my eye and grins.
“Why are you wasting yourself on Bernie when you look so lovely?” she asks, gaily, spilling some of the drink in her glass as she waves her hand at me.
I slip into the seat next to her. “I’m not wasting myself,” I say. “Bernie is a lovely dancer.”
Bernie bows. “The lady is not wrong there,” he says, gesturing for the waiter and ordering a bottle of champagne.
“And I danced with him because he’s the only man here that I know,” I can’t resist adding.