Sally twirled slowly round, looking at herself in the long mirrors.
‘I just can’t wait for Chris and Dad to see me in this dress.’
Constance was momentarily stunned. So far all she had been thinking of was Sally and Chris’s day; now she realized that, as the father of the bride, Shay would have to be involved in a little more than just bankrolling the wedding.
‘Chris will think you even more adorable than ever and your father will be proud as punch, I know that.’
Marcus wanted to shorten the sleeve a fraction, have a little more lace detailing on the back panel.
‘People will see it as you walk up and back down the aisle after the ceremony,’ he advised, scribbling in his notepad and pinning the sleeve.
Sally and herself agreed to return in two weeks to collect the dress. Constance’s heart gave a lurch when she saw the bill, relieved that Shay was the one paying.
Afterwards they had walked over to Avoca for lunch. Both of them ignored the temptations of the menu and desserts and opted for chicken salad and a glass of wine.
‘Mum, I don’t know what I’d do without you helping me,’ confessed Sally. ‘I’d never get it all organized.’
‘That’s what mothers are for,’ Constance said, laughing, so pleased that the bond between herself and Sally was so strong and that they had such a close relationship.
‘Mum, have you got your outfit for the wedding?’
‘Don’t worry, Sal, once we have you fixed up I’ll go and look for something for myself.’
‘It’s just that since Dad left you haven’t hardly bought a stitch.’
Constance had no intention of enlightening her daughter to the fact that her precious father was reluctant to give her a euro more than he had to. She was managing to pay the bills and save a bit for a wedding present for Sally but the likelihood of his forking out for an expensive outfit for his ex-wife to wear was slim.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’
They were sipping their frothy cappuccinos when Sally broached the subject of the invitation list.
‘Mum, there’s no way of getting round this so it’s better I say it out straight to you.’
Constance looked up. Sally seemed serious, hesitant even. What could it possibly be?
‘Dad wants to bring Anne-Marie to the wedding.’
Constance felt like she had been punched in the stomach.
‘When did your father tell you this?’
‘He called round to the flat last night. Chris and I . . . we tried to talk him out of it, Mum, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ she gasped. ‘Your father wants to humiliate and embarrass me on your big day. The most important day of his daughter’s life! What kind of man is he?’
‘He says Anne-Marie is his new partner. They live together, share everything, and that she is entitled to be there for his daughter’s wedding.’
‘That pig of a man! I can’t believe he would even think of such a thing. Has he no sensitivity?’
Sally looked uncomfortable. ‘He’s set on it, Mum. He says if Anne-Marie can’t go he’s not coming!’
‘Not coming to your wedding? I don’t believe it!’ she blurted out. ‘Your father has to walk you up the aisle. Are you telling me he’s prepared to give up that privilege for that little . . . I wouldn’t let myself down by saying the word.’
‘Mum, he’s serious. He really is.’
‘Will he still pay for the wedding?’
‘He says he will pay for it but he won’t come.’ Sally’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I love both of you and I want both of you to be at my wedding. I couldn’t bear it if one of you wouldn’t come.’
Constance felt so angry she could have throttled Shay if he had been in the vicinity. She was furious that her husband would even consider holding them to ransom like this just to satisfy his whim of introducing his new lover to their close family and friends.
‘He can’t do this to me,’ she said forcefully. ‘It’s your wedding day, Sally, and your father can’t just go and ruin it for us.’
‘It’s only a day!’
‘A big day!’
‘That’s what Chris says,’ whispered Sally. ‘A day to bury the hatchet, forget the past.’
Constance knew that there was absolutely no chance of burying the hatchet unless it involved sticking it into her husband’s skull.
‘Over my dead body is your father bringing his girlfriend to your wedding.’
‘I understand how hard it is for you, Mum,’ said Sally, ‘being left on your own, but it’s just that Dad . . . well, you know how stubborn he is.’
‘Like a mountain goat! You tell your father to take a running jump along with that girlfriend of his,’ said Constance sarcastically as they gathered their things together and paid the bill.
Back at home in Blackrock, Constance O’Kelly had collapsed into bed, overwhelmed. She knew she shouldn’t let the mention of Shay or Anne-Marie reduce her to this stupid quivering mess of a woman, but she couldn’t help herself. She had never imagined herself alone in this house, scrimping and scraping to pay the electricity and the gas bill. She didn’t know what she was going to do next month when the insurance on her car was due for renewal. Shay had paid all the bills year in year out but now she had to do it herself.
‘You’re daft, Constance,’ advised her friend Helen Kilmartin, ‘rattling around in this big house with the boys gone and Sally getting married.’
‘I know, but it holds far too many memories. Why should I agree to sell it just so that Shay and his fancy woman can get their hands on some money?’
‘Selling it would sort out your finances too.’
‘Helen, this is my home,’ she retaliated. ‘I’ll not let Shay and his girlfriend drive me out of it.’
‘Forget that pair,’ urged her best friend. ‘If you sell the house, do it for you! Think of the extra money you would have. The security you’d have, the savings.’
Constance knew that a large family home on Cross Avenue with a generous garden would fetch a premium price. Over the past few years Shay had fended off approaches from a number of Dublin’s top auctioneering firms. But the thought of selling and moving out was too scary. She couldn’t do it. How could she bear losing the home she had lovingly created and kept for the past twenty-five years?
Despite what Shay said, she had made economies. It had almost choked her the day she had to give notice to Annie Finnegan, their home help, after years of loyal service to the family, but there was no way Constance could justify the cost of someone coming in to clean the house and do the ironing and laundry now that she lived alone. She had also dropped the expensive gym membership that she rarely used – besides, the very thought of facing the ladies’ dressing room and meeting people who would be curious about her business made her shake.
‘You can’t hide away and pretend this isn’t happening,’ cautioned Helen. ‘You have to go out and face people.’
Constance didn’t want to face anyone. As far as she was concerned, if Shay had dropped dead or been killed in an accident she would have had all the sympathy in the world from her neighbours and acquaintances and distant family. The fact that he had run off with another woman was a severe embarrassment. Everyone was reluctant even to mention her husband’s name. God blast him, she thought to herself – he couldn’t even do the decent thing and die!
Her best friend had proved a tower of strength over the past year and had helped her keep her sanity.
‘You are not going to let Shay think that you are utterly hopeless and can’t manage on your own, Constance. It’s high time you showed him that you are your own woman, not some stupid cast-off.’
Constance had washed her hair and blow-dried it with the utmost care, put on her good beige suit and a black top and a comfortable pair of black court shoes, ready for the trip to town to get a wedding outfit. She studied herself in the mirror: she looked and felt like a sensible middle-aged woman. Runnin
g into the church in Clarendon Street she had just caught the end of Mass and lit a candle to St Teresa to give her the strength to stand alone, like so many other women.
Helen was waiting for her outside Brown Thomas’s with a determined expression on her face.
‘Will we go for a coffee?’ Constance suggested.
‘No,’ insisted her friend, ‘it’s much better to start now while the changing rooms aren’t busy and the assistants can give us their time.’
‘Perhaps we should look somewhere else first?’
‘No, we’re starting at the top – Louise Kennedy, Paul Costelloe, John Rocha . . .’
Constance’s heart gave a lurch as she followed Helen on to the designer floor of Dublin’s most exclusive fashion shop. She had always considered herself a good dresser but the sophisticated and expensive clothes all around her seemed made for catwalk models, not for ordinary women.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think they are just beautiful . . . but not for someone like me.’
‘They are especially for someone like you,’ contradicted Helen, lifting four items off the rails and passing them to her. ‘Now go and try them on.’
In the privacy of the changing room she leaned against the mirror and tried to compose herself. She must be gone mad.
‘Have you got the cream on yet?’ ordered her friend.
‘In a minute,’ she said as she eased the cream suit trousers up over her thighs and hips, amazed at the beautiful cut and fit. Carefully she lifted the silk jacket off the padded hanger and pulled it on. It felt good, every seam and hem perfect.
‘Hey, that looks good, Constance. It makes you look taller and slimmer.’
‘You don’t think the cream makes me look too drawn?’
‘No.’
‘I like it but I’m not sure about wearing a suit . . . well, trousers!’
‘It looks amazing but you’re right, something that will show off your legs and a bit of flesh would be even better.’
‘Helen!’
‘Well, you know what I mean!’
After sifting through the rails they decided that black, though classic, was not suitable for the mother of the bride, pink was too girlie and the more exotic designers were just not her.
The Louise Kennedy designs were simple but stunning. A black linen dress with a white band and a neat co-ordinating white fitted jacket; a champagne satin coat worn over a sleeveless cream and champagne dress with a low neck and a skirt that skimmed above her knees; but her favourite was a stunning jade silk boxy jacket and dress.
Standing observing herself, Constance suddenly felt attractive and young and light-hearted.
‘Wow!’ Helen complimented her. ‘You look wonderful.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘You know so – it’s just your colour and shape and perfect for the wedding. Why don’t you bring Sally in to see it on you? I’m sure the girl will hold it for you if you ask.’
‘It costs a fortune,’ she worried.
Helen raised her eyebrow, daring her to say one word more.
‘You’re right. I’ll organize to meet Sally tomorrow.’
Sauntering round the store, Constance admitted to feeling more relaxed than she had in a long time and agreed after a little persuasion to lunch in Bang.
‘Now that it looks like you’ve got the outfit for the wedding, we have to think about the rest,’ cajoled Helen, sipping her chilled wine. ‘Have you ever thought about highlights? They would give your hair a bit of a lift.’
Constance could see her reflection in the mirror behind Helen. Her hair had been practically the same light brown colour since she got married, except for the odd layering or light fringe. Maybe she’d been stuck in a time warp?
‘And you’ll need shoes and a bag, and a hat!’
‘A hat?’
She hadn’t thought about it, but a hat – that would be lovely! As she sat sipping her wine and eating her tossed chicken salad, Constance O’Kelly realized that for the first time in a very long while she was feeling happy.
Chapter Thirty-three
Constance spotted the little hat shop on the corner immediately. The shop had utterly changed. The classic powder-grey and blue paintwork had been replaced by a bright cream colour. The floor was now sanded wood and the heavy mahogany furniture had disappeared. She supposed everything changed, the old giving way to the new. It was fresh and bright, with a striped sun canopy, two lavender plants at the door, sprays of scented stock in a modern glass vase on the counter.
The few hats on display held the attention within the simple elegance of the room, their colours reflected in the mirrors on the wall.
Sally had thoroughly approved her choice of wedding outfit, complimenting her madly and insisting that she must accessorize it with a hat. Constance’s own mother had always been a firm believer in the merits of a perfect piece of millinery to set off an outfit. It was just the thought of the expense and the whole rigmarole of it that made her hesitate.
‘I’m not sure, pet . . .’
‘Mum, it’s your day too,’ argued her daughter, blue eyes flashing. ‘I want you to look beautiful and enjoy it all as much as I do.’
Constance suddenly felt such a rotten killjoy. It would be wrong of her to dampen Sally’s high spirits and enthusiasm.
‘You’re absolutely right, darling – a hat is essential.’
The pretty young woman who sat behind the counter hand-sewing the edging of a ribbon to a hat welcomed them.
‘Oh Mum, look at this one. Isn’t it simply divine?’ enthused Sally, popping the daisy-covered straw on to her own blond head.
Constance looked around her. Perhaps the shop was like so many others, catering only for the younger clientele, no longer interested in dealing with women of a certain age. She struggled to mask her disappointment.
‘It’s beautiful, Sally, just beautiful.’
‘Yes, but I’m not the one that needs a hat. You are!’
‘Can I help?’ offered the girl.
‘Yes, we’re looking for something for my mother,’ explained Sally. ‘I’m getting married in a few weeks and she has got a gorgeous outfit for the wedding but needs a hat to go with it.’ She produced the Brown Thomas bag with a flourish.
‘Congratulations on your wedding,’ smiled Ellie, taking a peek, ‘and I’m sure we can find or make something that will be perfect with this. The colour is exquisite.’
Constance tried on one or two hats, lifting them carefully on to her head and tilting her neck from side to side. The larger-brimmed ones did nothing for her but the smaller, neater ones made her feel sophisticated and polished.
‘A taller crown might work well,’ suggested the young woman, handing her a yellow one off the stand. ‘Don’t mind the colour or the little details of all these because I can make exactly what you want.’ She passed Constance a white cartwheel hat with a simple black ribbon trim. ‘It’s just we need to decide what shape suits you and what you feel good in.’
‘I love this,’ admitted Constance, ‘but I think it is a wee bit too young for me!’
A topper, a Mont Blanc, and a large down-brim in bright pink with a purple satin trim were all rejected straight away. A fun feather mix in various tones also did nothing for the older woman.
‘No, not right at all,’ agreed Ellie, moving them aside.
A double crown in sand and black was much too heavy and made Constance look shorter and dumpier.
‘Try this one,’ suggested Ellie.
It was a two-tone concertina topper that suited most women, as it was not too wide or overwhelming. Constance settled it gently on her hair.
‘I don’t like these colours but the shape is good and I like the way the band wraps over on it.’
Ellie could see that the style would work and put the hat to one side.
Next there was an aubergine-coloured up-brim.
‘It’s certainly stylish but I just don’t think it’s me,’ admitted Constance, s
tudying it in the mirrors from every angle. ‘Maybe it shows off too much of my face and it’s not balanced properly.’
‘That one is too big for you,’ laughed Ellie, passing her a red sinamay disc with a bold decorative black feather, which looked stunning on.
‘I’d never be brave enough to wear this,’ Constance admitted ruefully, ‘but it is lovely.’
The orange sidesweep with its taller crown, slightly upturned brim, contrast cream band and festoon of feathers that Ellie lifted from the window looked the part and Ellie could tell the client was happy the minute she sat it on her head.
‘Oh, this is gorgeous. It’s not too big or too small.’ Constance burst out laughing. ‘I must sound like I’m Goldilocks testing out beds and chairs! But this one fits perfectly and is just that bit different. I do like it!’
‘So do I,’ agreed Ellie. ‘It really suits you. It’s elegant and fashionable without being over the top. Let me see what other versions I have of it. I have it in black with leather flowers somewhere, and a pure white version. I’ll get them for you to see.’
Constance tried them all on. ‘I do love this shape and style,’ she enthused.
‘Yes, the taller crown and slightly shorter brim with even a slight upturn or sweep works well,’ mused Ellie, taking in the customer’s square face.
‘I really like this one,’ admitted Constance, putting the orange back on again and staring at herself from all angles in the shop mirrors. ‘But it’s the wrong colour.’
‘We could either try to match the colour of your suit or provide a contrast,’ offered the hatmaker, ‘or we could just pick up a tint of it, a certain hue.’
‘Mum, go and try your new suit on,’ urged Sally.
Although she had dropped almost a stone and a half with the stress of Shay walking out on her, Constance wasn’t sure about parading around the small shop showing off her slimmer figure.
‘It would help if I could see you in it,’ said the hatmaker.
Constance disappeared into the changing room.
‘We could pick up the jade and try and match it exactly,’ suggested Ellie when she emerged. ‘I would probably have to dye the colour for you. Or we can go for a total contrast, perhaps bring out another colour and blend or mix them with trims and bands or two tones, whatever style you like. Perhaps if we took another shade and then brought in elements from this and combined the two it would look even nicer. The suit and hat not just the one block of colour.’
The Hat Shop on the Corner Page 17