All Dressed Up

by Lucy Hepburn

  “I’m the bride!” Gabriella’s squeaky, accented English was filled with excitement.

  Molly looked, and almost fainted.

  The little girl was standing, beaming with joy in the middle of the room, wearing Caitlin’s wedding dress, which billowed out along the floor at least three meters behind her.

  But as if that wasn’t bad enough, she was also holding a large slice of chocolate cake in her hand, dancing from side to side, a picture of birthday bliss.

  “Mon Dieu,” Pascal said. “Non, non…”

  He took a staggering step backwards and looked as though he might pass out as well. Molly caught his arm. Pascal seemed, if anything, even more panicked than she was. His hands had traveled to his face, which was ashen, as he stared, huge-eyed, at the vision before him.

  “Let’s play cops and robbers,” Molly said, thinking fast. “Put your hands up!” Molly barked, advancing towards the child. “Go on, hands up? Please?”

  Gabriella looked uncertainly at her mother, who gently took the cake from her daughter’s hands, and producing a cloth from seemingly nowhere, wiped her hands clean.

  “I…I must go outside,” Pascal stammered. “This is too much. I must phone…” he stumbled from the room, scrabbling in his pocket for his phone, muttering in French.

  Molly looked from him back to the dress. There were no chocolate stains that she could see, so she allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

  Julien carried Gabriella’s real present into the center of the room. “My dear,” he said, kneeling down in front of his granddaughter, “this is your real gift from me. I am afraid your silly old Opa made a mistake and the dress is not for you.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  “It’s my sister’s wedding dress,” Molly said gently. “The two got mixed up.”

  Elizabeth seemed to immediately understand. “I thought it was an unusual choice,” she whispered before going over to her daughter. “Darling,” she said gently, “this wedding dress is not your present. A little mistake has happened! Your real present is over there.” She indicated the box which was so large it all but obliterated Gabriella’s grandfather from vision.

  “But I like this dress!” Gabriella complained. “I am a princess! And please may I have my cake back?”

  Amidst all the drama and confusion, Molly was beginning to take in the details of the dress. Ivory satin, it was encrusted with beads and pearls, with a tight, plunging bodice. There was no doubt it was stunningly beautiful and exquisitely put together—she could see as much even though it was being modeled by a tiny person who was almost disappearing inside it—but nonetheless, it was nothing like what she had been expecting.

  Showy and opulent, it was a dress for a movie star, not a pretty, clever Yorkshire lass like Caitlin. It certainly made a statement. Molly shook her head. Wow. Caitlin had changed, that was for sure. Or perhaps Francesco had changed her? She was going all out to wow the paparazzi tomorrow, that was for sure. Well, so be it. She was going to have to accept that it was Caitlin’s day, and she was entitled to make her own decisions about how it was to play out. She hoped she’d recognize her sister when she saw her.

  “Gabriella?” Molly ventured, “you do look very pretty, and you’re very lucky to have had a chance to try on this lovely dress, but it has to go to its proper owner for a wedding tomorrow. Do you know it’s made by a famous designer? Delametri Chevalier!”

  The information was lost on the little girl and her mother, judging by the two confused faces which greeted her revelation. Molly tried another tack.

  “Will you take it off please? Shall I give you some birthday money to take it off now? And oh, look!” She pointed to the box with the bear in it. “Another present to open!”

  “Gabriella’s bottom lip was beginning to tremble. Desperately, Molly looked to Simon for help.

  He stepped forward and was kneeling in front of Gabriella.

  “Sweetheart,” he said in a soft voice, “you look very, very pretty in that dress. Just like a princess!”

  Gabriella beamed with delight.

  “But you know what? This dress has been made for an actual, real princess, can you believe that?”

  Princess Caitlin, that’s what Simon thought. Molly caught the cheeky glance that Simon threw in her direction and smiled despite her anxiety.

  “A real princess,” Simon went on, “who’s getting married tomorrow.”

  “In a castle?” The little girl’s eyes had grown huge.

  “Think so,” Simon said, darting a quick quizzical look at Molly, who shrugged—she didn’t know for sure either. “Don’t you think she’s going to need her dress?”

  Gabriella was thinking hard.

  “And I know your grandfather’s got a lovely present for you in that box over there that’s going to need a lot of love and cuddles from you.”

  “Cuddles?” Gabriella looked at the box and after a moment, began to walk toward it. But first she had to try and bundle the dress up so that she didn’t trip over it. Molly held her breath.

  “Oh dear, that dress is just going to get in the way, isn’t it?” Simon said gently, scratching his head as though puzzling over the conundrum.

  Gabriella screwed up her face as she thought hard.

  “Why don’t I bring it to you,” Julien said, crossing the room and laying the box on the floor at her feet. “Happy birthday, sweetheart, this is your real present from your old grandfather.”

  Solemnly, she lifted the lid and gasped—a gasp of pure, innocent joy when she saw the bear inside. Julien wiped away a tear as his granddaughter threw herself upon him, squealing with happiness.

  Then she pulled away, looked around the room, and pronounced:

  “Now can we have more cake, please?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Elizabeth nodded fervently. “I am sure our guests would love to have some birthday cake after we’ve got you out of this dress—you can show them your new pink party skirt!”

  “I can’t think of anything nicer,” Simon proclaimed, getting to his feet.

  Molly looked at her watch. They’d still make it, so long as they didn’t spend much more time here…

  But they sat for what seemed like an eternity waiting for Elizabeth and Gabriella to come back. Pascal had returned and seemed only a little relieved when Molly explained the happy outcome. He still wore a taut, preoccupied expression, even though the worst of the crisis was over.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  “We must get out of here,” he snapped back.

  Molly and Simon exchanged looks.

  “Well, we are pushing it a bit for time,” Simon whispered, just as Gabriella came back in, mercifully wearing a different dress, dragging her new bear by its giant ear.

  “I am going to call him Felix,” she announced. “Don’t you think he looks like a Felix?”

  “Why, yes, Felix is perfect,” Molly agreed.

  Gabriella nodded then said firmly, “Now, I think we should all have some cake.”

  They ate their cake as quickly as good manners allowed and guiltily allowed Julien to once again leave his family to return them to the station. Molly and Elizabeth had carefully re-packed the dress, and after apologies, warm handshakes all round, and solemn promises that they would send Gabriella a photograph of the princess bride wearing the magical dress, they were finally off.

  “We’re still okay for time,” Simon said as the van made its way back toward Domodossola station. “I think I’ll sleep on the train, I’m knackered.”

  Molly was far too keyed up to think about sleep. It had been such a day. She felt a little queasy from eating so much cake having missed lunch, but she had to make cheerful conversation with Julien as Pascal seemed to have descended into an almighty huff. Molly decided he was probably in shock at seeing Caitlin’s dress so nearly ruined by chocolate cake and let it pass.

  Julien attempted to apologize one final time about th
e mix-up as they said their farewells at the door of the station.

  “It’s fine, I promise,” Molly assured him. “We couldn’t have gotten this far without you. Thank you for everything. I won’t ever forget you—or Gabriella. And when I see my sister in that dress tomorrow, I’ll let you know who suited it more!”

  “Goodbye my dear.” Julien kissed her on both cheeks. “I wish you and your sister all the happiness in the world.”

  Pascal and Simon had loaded their bags onto a trolley and were inside the station, gazing blankly at the information board.

  “It’s gone,” Simon said as she reached them. “The train has gone.”

  “Not remotely funny, Simon.”

  Molly looked at Pascal who, still ashen-faced, said nothing. His eyes were darting from side to side as though he was planning his escape.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Molly cried. “We checked! We’ve got half an hour to spare!”

  Simon shook his head. “We’ve been idiots. Look.” He pointed to the board. “We were looking at the arrivals board—not departures. The train from Venice arrives here in half an hour. The train to Venice left ten minutes ago. And there isn’t another until tomorrow.”

  “That’s my fault,” Molly groaned. “I checked the board. Oh, guys, I’m so sorry!”

  “We should have all checked,” Simon said gently. “But I’ve no idea what we do now.”

  Still, Pascal said nothing. He was busy sending another message on his phone. And Molly could only let her bag fall to the floor and do her utmost not to burst into tears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hours until wedding: 25

  Kilometers to wedding: 394

  “Somebody, somewhere, doesn’t want me to get there. Ever.”

  Pascal had disappeared into the small shop beside the station, as Molly and Simon stood helpless near the entrance, wondering what to do next that didn’t involve throwing themselves under the next train.

  Simon did not respond. He was busy sending texts—to Yvonne, probably. Molly wondered what he would be saying. ‘Am trapped in middle of nowhere with dressmaker and crazy woman, may never see you again…’ perhaps? She was suddenly overcome with guilt.

  “Simon?”

  He didn’t look up. “Uh-huh?”

  “This is probably a good time to apologize to you.”

  “Forget it,” he said, though he still didn’t so much as glance at her.

  “If you hadn’t been so…well, so kind, you’d be on the Venice train by now. Pascal and I could have gone back for the dress.”

  He sighed and finally returned her look. “Yeah, maybe. It’s a bummer, I can’t deny that. But what sort of man would I be if I’d let you go through all that panic on your own?”

  “Pascal was there,” Molly said with a sigh, then immediately wished she hadn’t as Simon dropped his gaze and began studying his phone again. “I mean, well, what I mean is…what I’d like to say is…you’re…”

  She tailed off. What was he? He was kind-hearted. He was caring. He was definitely hacked-off at the madness of their situation but she could tell he was trying to hide it. He was lovely.

  “Whatever,” Simon said after a long while, sparing Molly from having to finish her sentence.

  “Well,” Molly was floundering for something else to say. “So. We’ve established that the only car hire company in the whole place is closed, yes?”

  “Correct.”

  “And there are no buses?”

  “None that gets us to Venice before Christmas.”

  “Right.”

  Molly looked around. The town seemed eerily quiet. A few cars passed by, a local bus, a man with a dog. Then, all of a sudden, a huge pack of cyclists, each dressed in lurid lycra and wearing sharp wraparound shades, flashed by with a buzz of tires and a rush of air. It was a dazzlingly continental scene, but one which Molly was too strung-out to appreciate.

  “Going to be the most expensive cab ride in history,” she decided.

  “Only I can’t see any cabs,” Simon pointed out.

  “Wonderful.”

  Pascal emerged from the shop, hidden behind a large map of Italy, which he had evidently just bought. He joined them without a word, concentrating hard on the map, tracing roadways with his fingertip, his tongue poking out.

  “Too far to walk,” Simon deadpanned.

  Pascal nodded but said nothing.

  “At least we’d be moving,” said Molly.

  Without any better ideas, they began to walk down the street toward the center of the town. A chilly wind had crept up on them, and Molly shivered. She looked over at Simon, cosy in his terrible sweater, and couldn’t help but smile.

  Okay. Fashion—nil. Bad knitwear—one.

  They shared the burden of the enormous dress box, but Molly knew she wasn’t going to be able to walk much further. She was about to ask if they could stop and rest when she suddenly caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye in a field off to their right.

  “Whoa!” she cried. “Look!”

  It was a tiny little car, a vivid blue Fiat Cinquecento, with patches of rust above the wheel arches, and it had a cardboard sign on the windscreen which read: ‘Vendita, 150 euro.’

  “It probably died and got dumped there,” Simon said. “Or perhaps it’s being used to scare birds off the crop.”

  “There is no crop. Look again.” Molly felt a surge of hope.

  He scratched his head. “For sale?” Molly could see him racing up to speed. “No way Molly, you’ve got to be kidding! I’d need to amputate my legs below the knee to get in that thing.”

  “Got any better ideas?” she challenged.

  Pascal was frowning. “I agree that it displays a certain…chic kitsch.” He stroked his chin, “But still. Non. I could not be seen in such a car. It is out of the question.”

  Molly and Simon exchanged glances. And then, without another word, Molly set down her bag and went to knock on the door of the nearest house, a small wooden chalet by the roadside. Beside it lay a ramshackle barn, its doors dangling open on their hinges, revealing a graveyard of ancient, beaten-up cars inside.

  She was lucky. The young, wiry man who answered was indeed the owner of the car, and although he was surprised to see such a motley crew on his doorstep, laden with luggage and an enormous cardboard box, he clearly had ‘businessman’ written all over him. In no time, he had dashed back indoors for the keys and ownership documents and was instructing Molly in how to get the car to work. Unfortunately Molly’s Italian wasn’t up to his bullet-fast delivery, and she could only make out a small fraction of what he said.

  “He says it needs a little work,” Molly called over to Simon and Pascal. “Either of you any good with engines?”

  “Some,” Simon admitted. “Though I’m more of a bike man.”

  “Mais oui,” Pascal nodded. “My father was a mechanic. Shall I take a look?”

  “Was he really?” Molly exclaimed then immediately felt ashamed of herself. Why on earth shouldn’t his father have been a mechanic? “That’s wonderful!”

  They clambered into the field, and with the car owner explaining something about the ‘belt,’ Simon opened the bonnet and Pascal peered inside.

  “Well, it needs a new fan belt for a start,” Pascal pronounced without laying a hand on the grubby vehicle. “Can we get one?”

  “A moment,” the car’s owner said and sped off into the tumbledown outbuilding adjoining his chalet. Molly could hear the sound of another car bonnet being lifted.

  “He’s taking the belt off another car,” Molly whispered. “Will that work?”

  Pascal shrugged. “We try.”

  Simon was prowling suspiciously all around the car, kicking the tiny tires and pressing the brake pedal, frowning at the rust patches, and shaking his head in disdain.

  “It’s not a Porsche,” Molly said, “but if it wa
s, we couldn’t afford it.”

  “It looks sound, more or less,” he said, grudgingly. “But I still think it’s a miniature death trap.”

  “From the man on the skidoo,” Molly teased.

  Simon grinned, and Molly felt color rising in her face.

  The owner returned triumphantly a few minutes later, waving a tatty-looking replacement fan belt in the air. Then the four of them stood in a square formation for a moment or two, uncertain who would make the next move.

  “Money, please,” the owner eventually said, dangling the belt just out of reach.

  Molly, her face flushed, rummaged in her bag and began pulling money out of her purse.

  “We should probably share the cost,” Simon said doubtfully.

  “I think I’ve got it,” Molly said.

  She counted up all her notes and even had to include some coins too. It was everything she had, but with a sigh of relief, she closed her bag and handed over the cash.

  In return, the owner handed the keys, ownership papers and fan belt—to Simon.

  Bloody cheek!

  “Why, thank you,” Simon said as the man wished them good-day and turned to go back indoors. “But I think you’ll find it was the lady who purchased the car, not me.”

  “So much for equality,” Molly shrugged.

  Simon offered the fan belt to Pascal. “Could you do the honors, mate?”

  “Non, I am afraid not,” Pascal muttered. “Do you not know that traces of engine oil can remain on the skin for days, no matter how well one washes the hands? If I am to be able to fit the gown on Mademoiselle Caitlin tomorrow—if we ever reach Venice, that is—then I am afraid you will need to do it.”

  “Ooh, good point,” Molly agreed. “Engine oil on the dress wouldn’t be a good look.”

  “You have to remove the casing there,” Pascal said, pointing to a spot deep within the engine. “It should thread itself round quite easily.”

  “Right, thanks,” Simon muttered, bending to work. “Sheez, it’s a tight fit—motor bikes are completely different animals from this pile of junk.”

  “I am sorry too,” Pascal added. He pushed Simon to one side and rolled up his sleeves. “Forget the oil. What is the point of having me here at all if I cannot make everything perfect for the bride? I may as well return to Paris.”