Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  ‘She wants everything you have,’ said Lizzie a little sourly.

  ‘And she shall have it.’

  Rose saw Lizzie’s surprised look and turned around. ‘But of course, my darling. Both of you will have all my precious things in due course. You’ll have all my dresses, and my furs, and all my jewellery, along with Aunt Birdie’s and your grandmother’s things – all the clothes up in the attic – for when you’re both grown. Then you’ll be able to add your own stories and adventures to them.’ She beckoned Lizzie to come closer and clasped a warm fragrant arm around her waist. ‘Remember, Elizabeth, the most important clothing in a woman’s life bears witness to that moment, the one where everything changes and nothing is ever the same again . . . We barely recognise how important it is until it’s gone, but we have our little souvenirs.’ She laughed, an odd smile transforming her face. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to understand,’ she said suddenly, planting a kiss on Lizzie’s furrowed forehead.

  Tori shuffled over.

  ‘One for you as well?’ Rose laughed, leaning down to press her lips to her youngest’s cheek.

  ‘But aren’t they just costumes?’ Lizzie asked, trying to understand. The clothes in the attic had been there forever, centuries upon centuries’ worth of them, hung upon racks or carefully folded and put away . . . She had always thought they were there for fancy dress, nothing more.

  ‘Of course they’re costumes,’ Rose said, suddenly serious, ‘but that’s all any clothes are, you know. An elaborate game for us to play. Clothes can be many things, my darling – never forget that. They can be used to charm people, or trick them. They can even be used as a weapon, believe it or not.’ She tapped Lizzie on the chest. ‘Sometimes clothes are a mirror, or simply a thing of joy.’ Rose leaned down, grabbing each of their hands in her own. ‘Today,’ she said mischievously, ‘we choose joy . . . What do you think of that?’

  ‘Good!’ said Lizzie, a little confused but glad. In her mind it was simple. If Mama was happy, then Farve was happy. And if Farve was happy, then everything in Bledesford was better. No Mama and Farve shouting at each other in the morning over breakfast, no slamming doors or angry silences.

  Rose gave her hand a little emphatic shake. ‘Always choose joy,’ she said again, then turned back to her dressing table.

  ‘Who else is coming tonight?’ asked Lizzie, standing behind her, watching her apply her makeup.

  ‘Well, Marguerita Whosit and her new fellow, that Hollywood actor, and Lord Mountbatten, and all the Churchills.’ Rose turned back to the mirror. ‘Mr Beaton will be there for photography. And Mr Telford is coming tonight too.’ She turned to smile at Lizzie. ‘I know how you love him, darling.’

  Lizzie smiled fondly. It was true – Barty Telford was her favourite. Built like a woodland fairy, Mr Telford was wry and light on his feet, always brightening up the room with a quick laugh or one of his sharp witticisms. They were thick as thieves, him and Mother, their heads always close together, gossiping in whispers – it annoyed Farve no end.

  Plucking a pretty diamante clip from a crystal tray, Rose slid the accessory in a curl and rubbed at the kohl on her eyelids to create a dark, smoky effect. She stood up and slipped off her dressing gown – a long, dusky pink affair with matching lace chemise, which Father had given her for their last anniversary. She draped it over the edge of the chaise as she pulled up her silk stockings, fastening them in place with little clips.

  As she bent over, her slip gaped and Lizzie gasped. ‘Mama, you hurt yourself!’ She pointed at a deep mottled bruise on Rose’s side. ‘What did you do?’

  Rose pulled down her slip and laughed. ‘Nothing, darling. I tripped and fell against the edge of the bedstead. So clumsy.’

  Standing in front of the mirror, Rose applied a coat of deep plum lipstick, before pressing her lips together. Crossing the room, she slipped her feet into a pair of dove-grey satin heels, then she took the dress from its hanger and slipped it over her head, careful not to mess her carefully arranged curls. It fell over the curves of her body, shimmering into place, and Rose smoothed it down over her thighs. Then, very carefully, she turned back to the mirror, lifting the sparkly, shiny star headdress off the dressing table and placing it onto her head. She turned her head from side to side to check the effect, and then turned to face Lizzie and Victoria.

  ‘What do you think, my darlings?’

  Beautiful, Lizzie thought, taking a breath. The dress was a gorgeous, shimmering grey, like the inside of an oyster shell, and as Mama moved, the beads on her dress clicked together, swinging and shifting, catching in the light from the dressing parlour’s softly flickering lamps. Lizzie’s breath stopped in her chest. She looked like a queen, and the ornate, glittering headpiece glowed like an aureole of stars.

  ‘You look lovely, Mama,’ she said. ‘You look like a film star.’

  ‘Star,’ Victoria echoed, looking up at her mother and clapping her fat little hands together.

  Rose crouched down in front of Lizzie and gave her a quick, fierce hug. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ She pulled back, holding Lizzie at arm’s length and suddenly looking serious. ‘And promise me. You’ll always look after Tori, won’t you? I’m depending on you, darling.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lizzie, feeling proud to be needed. She always looked after Tori. She looked after her better than Nanny Decker, Mama always said that, because she was more patient and kind, and loved her like a big sister should.

  ‘My beautiful girls, come here . . .’

  And with that, Mother swept them into a twirl, the three of them dancing around in circles, breathless and giggling until Lizzie thought she might turn an ankle. In that moment, her heart was so full, she thought it would burst. And then there was a knock at the door.

  Farve’s face appeared around the plaster frame. He was frowning heavily, but looked so smart, Lizzie felt proud. He took out his fob watch and tapped it impatiently. ‘Aren’t you ready? The guests have started arriving. For God’s sake, woman . . .’

  Rose pulled away from them abruptly.

  ‘I was late back from town. I had to pick up my brooch, remember? I had it cleaned.’

  But she was speaking to the empty air, as Archie had already turned and walked away. Lizzie hated it when he did that, leaving Mama just standing there, because it always made Mama look so sad. She almost wished she hadn’t confided in Farve last night about what she’d seen in the greenhouse. His face had crumpled, and he’d held her in a hug that was so close it was almost painful, assuring her that he wouldn’t say anything to Mama, that she was not to worry, everything would be fine. Lizzie knew she had done the right thing. Mummy shouldn’t have done what she’d done. But Lizzie couldn’t help feeling a little sick with anxiety. Perhaps she should tell Mama . . .

  Rose sighed and looked down at her shoes for a moment, before looking up and smiling brightly at her daughters.

  ‘Be good for Nanny tonight, won’t you, my darlings?’

  And just as Lizzie was about to open her mouth, to say something to her mother, to warn her – just like that, with an expensive clack of beads and a swirl of perfume, Rose was gone.

  19

  Sylvie was wearing a pair of bright red trainers, her white and gold-studded Lady Gaga headphones by Beats stuck firmly in her ears, and was in her workout gear. She’d finished a round of squats and lunges and was about to make her way down the drive for an early Saturday morning run.

  Just two laps, she told herself, feet pounding in time to Calvin Harris’s ‘Sweet Nothing’, enjoying the burning in her calf muscles.

  She’d been so rubbish at keeping up with exercise over the past six months. Well, she’d not been able to afford her Yogalates or Soul Cycle memberships after . . . after everything. Though, Sylvie reflected, she’d never actually made it to either enough to make the memberships worthwhile in the first place, even when she could afford it. Her hours were so antisocial that whenever she did seem to have some free time for training,
she’d always felt too tired. No wonder she was so out of shape.

  But what with being back home, getting more sleep, and eating more of her mother’s home-cooked meals than was sensible, she was beginning to feel a bit better and a little stronger. It was such a relief to feel the insane pressure she’d been under start to lift – the responsibility of a rapidly growing business as well as designing new ranges every three months. She hadn’t had a panic attack recently, and she could feel the energy flowing back through her limbs. Running made her feel good, and besides, it was free.

  Also, she told herself sternly, if she didn’t do something to get moving soon, she’d end up as fat as Gigi.

  She was still smiling to herself as she rounded a corner towards the gates and a man with a small rucksack and pen and paper in hand stepped in her path. Sylvie pulled up in surprise.

  ‘Sylvie? Sylvie Dearlove?’

  She tugged one of her headphones out. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?’

  Alarm bells went off inside her head. ‘This is private property.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. I was just wondering if you had anything to say about the new head designer they’ve appointed at Garçon? And the accusations against you of ripping off your competitor’s designs? What does your family have to say about that?’

  ‘Who— Where are you from?’ she asked with a strangled little gasp, pulling her headphones fully out of her ears and pressing pause on the music.

  ‘The Daily Mail. We’re running an article next weekend, but of course we’d like to get your side of the story first.’ He smiled, showing off a set of sharp teeth.

  ‘No comment!’ Sylvie said breathlessly, backing away. ‘And you’d better leave . . . My father has a shotgun, and he doesn’t take kindly to unwelcome visitors.’

  The man let out an amused little laugh. ‘Thanks, I’ll put that in my piece. We saw the place is up for sale . . . Good luck, Miss Dearlove,’ he said, throwing a withering glance over his shoulder at the manor on the hill. ‘Looks like you’ll need it.’

  She was still trembling by the time she got back to the house and shook Tabs awake – she and Penny were down for the weekend.

  ‘The cheek of him!’ Tabs fumed, sitting up in bed, her hair mussed and cheeks pink with indignation on Sylvie’s behalf. ‘And what’s he talking about – ripping off designs?’

  Sylvie wailed, burying her face in the pillow. ‘I thought you must know! I wondered why you hadn’t asked . . . Oh God, it was awful, Tabs. It all started when I went to this gallery opening last year . . .’

  ‘I’m so inspired by this one,’ her fellow designer, a thin, chain-smoking Scotsman who worked at Preston Blake, had said when they’d found themselves standing in front of a huge piece by the graffiti artist turned overnight sensation, Biggsy. He’d gone on to detail how he was planning to reproduce a similar print on a dress next season, as the focus of his collection. Sylvie – a bit drunk by this point, and stoned as well after having had a quick toke outside with her friend Bella – hadn’t given it another thought, and had gone out dancing until the wee hours after the exhibition. But when she’d woken up the next day, hungover and alone in her dusty flat, she’d been seized by the idea of making an elaborate evening dress, with the bodice and front panel completely taken up by graffiti art, like she’d seen at the gallery opening the night before . . .

  ‘They were so close to each other,’ she recounted miserably, ducking her head to avoid Tabs’s sympathetic gaze. ‘Virtually the same.’

  ‘It’s easily done, pet – happens more often than you think.’

  ‘I know! But they ended up just so similar . . . and then the both of us worked our designs into various pieces – bags and jackets and scarves as well – and bang, they come out right at the same time. Well, almost. Mine came second, of course. Followed by Preston Blake’s allegations . . . What the hell was I thinking? It’s not even my usual style, not at all.’

  ‘Sounds like you weren’t thinking.’

  ‘Hey!’ Sylvie said defensively. ‘If you only understood the pressure I was under, having to produce so much, and it’s not like I ever saw myself as a businesswoman, not before being a designer—’

  ‘I do understand, Sylv. God, it’s bloody hell running a fashion house. People think it’s all frocks and air kisses and launch parties, but it’s such hard work. Believe me, I see it every day! Why do you think I stick to my end of things? You’ve no need to turn on me, I’m the one who’s got your back.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Sylvie grimaced, then continued, ‘Of course the media got wind of it and they went crazy, pitting us off against each other . . . It was vile. I swear I only got raked over the coals because of all the media coverage . . . They were bloody loving it.’

  Sylvie buried her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with frustration.

  ‘Yes, I know. I read about it.’ Tabs touched her friend’s arm gently.

  ‘That’s when everything started to go so badly wrong. It probably didn’t help that I was hitting the clubs pretty hard and barely getting by on a few hours’ sleep. I was taking party drugs, and then I’d be so wired when I got home that I’d be smoking pot to calm down.’ Sylive finally managed to look up; tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘After that, I don’t know . . . I just kind of— I stopped trusting myself. I felt like such a fraud. And that I didn’t have any inspiration left. None at all. Like I was one of those pretenders who copy everyone else’s designs and pass them off as their own . . . Garçon fired me and my investors got cold feet. So, there you have it: the miserable tale of Sylvie Dearlove,’ she sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘Oh, come here,’ Tabs sighed, pulling her over and giving her a great big hug. ‘It can happen to the best of us, Sylv. Fashion is dog eat dog, and it’s not the end of the world – it’s not like we’re saving lives, is it?’

  Deep down Sylvie knew her friend was right – trust Tabs to put her misery into proper perspective. But there was something else, something she could barely admit to herself. She had sort of remembered the conversation with the Preston Blake designer, but she’d gone ahead anyway. Why? Was it self-sabotage?

  Sylvie was struck again by her idiocy in cutting out her friends just when she needed them most. Tabs always set her on the straight and narrow. Who else had she unnecessarily pushed away, she wondered, and why?

  After breakfast they were sifting through things in the attic again and Sylvie showed Tabs what she’d discovered over the last few weeks. Penns had come up as well after a lazy lie-in in one of the bigger rooms down the hall. She was reclining on the chaise longue, chain-smoking and gossiping, and pointing out one outfit or another which might be of use to the V&A – all without actually lifting a finger to help.

  They heard heavy creaks on the stairs, before Gigi’s kohl-rimmed eyes peeked over the edge of the manhole.

  Sylvie was surprised to see her. Her grandmother hadn’t been up at the house much since Sylvie had been home, and she wondered what she was doing here now.

  ‘Knock knock. Can I come in?’ she asked, pulling her considerable bulk up through the floor before Sylvie could answer.

  ‘Sure. You know Tabs. Penns, this is Gigi – my grandmother.’

  Tabs gave an excited little squeal. ‘Hello – lovely to see you again, Gigi!’

  ‘Hi,’ Penns drawled, trying to act cool but sitting up straighter in her armchair, eyes roving up and down, drinking in Sylvie’s grandmother.

  ‘Your mother said you were up here,’ said Gigi casually. ‘I thought I might come take a look. I haven’t been up here myself in years . . . Ooooh, it’s you!’ Gigi breathed, crossing the floor space towards a long suede shearling coat Sylvie had pulled off the rack and balanced upon a nail on the wall. Gigi caressed it like an old friend.

  ‘Is this one of yours then?’ Sylvie asked, pulling down the coat and passing it to Gigi, who bent over its intricate embroidery and inhaled deeply. S
he had thought as much – there was no way her mother would be caught dead in such a thing, and it was too modern to belong to any of the other Dearlove women.

  Just before Gigi had arrived, Sylvie had been poised to take a photo and post it on Instagram, loving the way the fur rose up from the embroidered maroon suede with a personality all of its own.

  ‘You betcha . . . Still smells of ganja, don’t you, old girl?’ Gigi laughed, patting the coat affectionately. ‘Do you know, I wore this backstage when I met Janis for the first time. She was absolutely amazing that night, although she collapsed on the stage after drinking a whole bottle of whiskey, singing “Piece of My Heart”. At least she made it to the encore for once, poor kid.’

  Penn’s head whipped around and Tabs’s sudden intake of breath was audible.

  ‘That must have been incredible! Were you friends?’ Tabs asked with wide eyes.

  ‘Me and Janis? Nope. Just acquaintances. We ran with the same crowd, shared the same dealer.’ Gigi laughed throatily, and Sylvie rolled her eyes. ‘She was so talented, but being the odd one out takes its toll. That’s one of the reasons you have to be tough in life.’ She wagged her finger at them. ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down. Be outrageous and set your own goals – the world worships the unique. It’s the followers who need to look at themselves more closely.’

  ‘Too true,’ said Penny, grinning smugly. ‘That’s what I tell my friends all the time.’

  Sylvie swallowed, avoiding Tabs’s gaze.

  ‘You know, I’ve always loved these old shearling coats,’ Tabs said, coming over to touch the soft fur. ‘You should have done a range of them for Dearlove, Sylv . . . Or did you?’

  ‘Just one version, a couple of seasons ago,’ Sylvie said, her voice feeling a bit hoarse. Was she coming down with something? ‘I wanted to do more – some shearling gilets as well – but they cost a fortune to make. We ended up having to recall them from the stores and re-cut them into scarves. They didn’t sell either,’ she said glumly, remembering how most of them had been too damaged to repurpose . . . that would teach her for falling in love with pure white.