The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  “She liked cars. She became an engineer. She won a global prize for services to her industry. I found photos of her and her husband at an award ceremony.”

  Fran glances up at her bulletin board of dead grooms. There he is, Meryl’s husband, James Andrew Percy, applauding his wife as she collects her prize. The photo is of poor quality, but his pride is obvious. How he loved her, thinks Fran, how he looked upon her with such deep, unfolding admiration, remembering the sight of her on their wedding day, in scarlet, striding up the aisle. Where are they now, she wonders, those noble, bighearted grooms like Mr. Percy?

  * * *

  “Mel! Mel! Let’s see you, love.”

  At the other end of the shop, the sisters and cousins are growing impatient. They have to be faced. One of them careers across the rug, brandishing an open bottle of prosecco.

  “Wait!” says Melissa, desperate to hold on to the soulful intimacy of just her, Fran, and the scarlet dress.

  Fran takes Melissa’s hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. “Go and show them,” she encourages. “Own it.”

  Together they pad the length of the floor to the tune of the wedding march—six drunk voices all at different speeds, tempos, and pitches, creating the ugliest version Fran has ever heard (and she’s heard many).

  “Eyes closed,” she says, announcing her charge above the din.

  To her surprise, the women do as she asks.

  Melissa steps forward. “Ta-da!”

  Six jaws drop.

  “It’s red!”

  “Are you sure it’s actually a wedding dress?”

  Fran watches for Melissa’s reaction, the uncertainty in her eyes, the worry lines, the tremble. What will she say? How will she conquer the criticism?

  “I like that it’s different,” says Melissa after a pause.

  “It’s different all right,” sneers the cousin with the booze bottles. “And tight.”

  “What are the other options?” says another cousin.

  Fran holds back. This is for Melissa to handle.

  “There aren’t other options. This is it. It’s the one. Look, I know it’s not traditional, but…I just know.”

  The sisters, clutching each other, are close to tears.

  “You can’t wear red, Melissa. If our mum were here today, she’d have a fit. You know she would. All she ever wanted was to see her girls go up the aisle in white. I did it. Jackie did it. And now you want to spoil the tradition with this. Unbelievable.”

  “But…you and Jackie are getting divorced,” says Melissa with a shrug.

  “Don’t bring us into it, Mel!” says Jackie herself, flinging her arms up in fury. “It’s the wrong dress, you know it is! Just wrong!”

  “Come on,” says Fran, leading her away.

  Behind them, the alcohol-fueled outrage expands, led by the sisters and their demand to know why little Melissa has suddenly grown the balls to reckon on a “bloodred” dress, that everyone, including their dead mother and the good Lord himself, will absolutely loathe.

  But despite the sniping, Melissa still smiles, the kind of smile that radiates from deep inside, the kind of smile that Meryl Percy would approve of.

  * * *

  The sun sets over Walthamstow, gilding the roofs of the mosques, the churches, the synagogues, and the temples. It spreads its warm glow over the cozy Victorian terraces with their glass extensions and zinc-clad loft conversions, over the refurbished Georgian mansion that was once home to William Morris, the tennis lawns of Lloyd Park, the ’80s-built shopping center by the bus station, the tarmacked roads, and the mile-long market on the main street with its end-of-day litter and clanking stall poles—the ebb and flow of hundreds of years.

  In the shop, working late, Fran sits among her sewing and sighs. She is hopeful that Melissa will gain both inner and outer confidence in the Meryl Percy dress. There is so much satisfaction, so much joy to be gained from witnessing others’ joy, but then…spurred by one too many sips of leftover prosecco, Fran finds herself staring at the flea-market art nouveau wardrobe at the back of the shop. The doors, with their carved bronze acanthus leaf handles, pester for her attention. They have been shut for years. She can no longer bring herself to look at the dress inside, although she’s always aware that it’s there, drooping from its hanger like a sad phantom, the ghost of a broken heart. Urged to distract herself from bad, destructive thoughts, she opens her laptop. The only worry worth having, she tells herself, is where to find good dresses, how to make sure that good love spreads. The hunt must go on. She trawls through her favorite vintage clothing websites, but as nothing comes forward, the thought of the extraordinary House of Garrett-Alexia dress lying abandoned in a dumpster crushes her anew.

  How could anyone throw away such a stunning and valuable creation?

  Curious, she reaches for her laptop, types the name “Rafael Colt.” Somehow it has resonance. The Colt Foundation website appears. There he is, in photo form—pale-gray shirt, immaculately smoothed hair, aristocratic nose and jawline, deep-set brown eyes—tagged as the foundation’s chairman. The notion soaks through her, that as well as being an angry, difficult, supercilious dickhead, he also happens to be in charge of one of the biggest and best-known private foundations in the country. An inherited role no doubt, but still, the cogs and wheels of her curiosity start to turn. There is something about his face that reminds her of a deer—that regal yet strangely vulnerable gaze. Fran looks to her wall of dead grooms. Wonderful and gentlemanly as they were, none of them ever had their own charitable foundation.

  So what of the dress’s wearer, his mother? Her curiosity unfurling, Fran searches for Alessandra Colt. It seems she married Lyle Colt—presumably Rafael’s father—in 1978. Her maiden name was Agnelli. Italian perhaps? A face, possibly twenty or thirty years old, appears on the screen in a grainy photograph portrait. While not traditionally pretty, there is no denying that Alessandra is striking: a long face, dark eyes, high cheekbones, olive skin, jet hair, confirming a Mediterranean heritage. It is always a thrill to see original brides for the first time. Somehow it brings zeal to the imagined life of a dress, anchors the vision. She stares at the photo, tries to read the inscrutable lines around Alessandra’s eyes, that unknowable almost smile. There is an enigmatic sorrow in her gaze that seems to echo her son’s.

  “Who are you?” she whispers, fearing she may never find out.

  She then searches the House of Garrett-Alexia but can find no record of the couturiers having a wedding collection. There are evening dresses in every style and color touted by private collectors or showcased in museums, dated from as early as 1951 through to 1954, when the company went into decline. There are shrugs, stoles, and capes—accessories of decadence. There is even a box of Garrett-Alexia clothing labels. But no wedding dress. Rarity will only add to its worth—and the pressure to do the right thing. On impulse, unable to contain her curiosity, she takes out her phone, dials the number from the house clearance advertisement.

  “You have reached Rafael Colt. Please leave a message.”

  She takes a breath, waits for the beep, then launches into a tangle of broken and unplanned sentences.

  “Um, hi…it’s me again—Fran…Fran Delaney…who found the dress. Big, white, fancy? I’m sure you remember it, not that you were all that happy about it, but, well, to cut a long story short, I’d really like to talk to you about it. You can call me on this number…or I’ll call you again…and then again…but not again because that might start to annoy you, but… Okay, bye… I’m not a stalker by the way…just a curious dress obsessive.”

  The voicemail cuts Fran off and she despairs, cursing herself for her erratic rambling. He will never reply now—of course he won’t. She slumps and berates herself for her impulsiveness. Suddenly, however, her cell phone buzzes, announces the call returned. In her excitement, she drops it into the folds of her skirt.

&nbs
p; “Hello?” she exclaims breathlessly after scrambling to retrieve it.

  “You called this number” comes a clipped and unexpectedly female voice.

  “I—I’m trying to get hold of Rafael Colt, but you’re not…”

  “My name is Mimi Mischler. I am Mr. Colt’s assistant. All unrecognized numbers go through me during work hours.”

  Work hours? But it’s the evening.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Fran opens her mouth, surprised, disappointed.

  “I—I have a question for him, about his mother’s wedding dress—”

  “Then I advise you contact him in writing or email.”

  “In writing? I just want a quick chat.”

  “Mr. Colt doesn’t chat.”

  “Oh. Okay. Right, well—”

  “You will find contact details on the Colt Foundation website. This is a personal line, so if you persist in calling, I will block your number. Goodbye.”

  Fran flops to her elbows. “And who exactly are you, Mimi Mischler?” she grumbles into the phone once she is certain the call has ended. “His guard dog? First line of defense? Well, I don’t give up that easily.”

  There is only one solution. That dress deserves a second life with a bride who’ll care for it and not stuff it in holdall in a wardrobe, or worse, in a dumpster. She looks at the clock on the wall—1950s, salvaged from the set of a rockabilly-themed TV pilot—and checks the hour. The sun is still high enough. There is time before dark.

  * * *

  Fran takes a cab to Epping Forest and asks the driver to drop her on the road. She doesn’t want the car on the drive in case the property isn’t empty. She is nervous about being caught; although, in her mind, it isn’t trespassing—merely a righteous liberation. With the silk of her embroidered kimono billowing behind her, she makes her way through the tunnel of willow trees, their acid-green fronds tickling her head. The frogs in the lake croak rhythmically, hailing her impish arrival. A warm breeze shushes the flowers of the rhododendron bushes, purple glowing electric against glossy, dark foliage. She feels safe around nature, no matter where she happens to be.

  The house is smaller than she remembers, but is even more magical in the early evening light. As she creeps across the weed-infested gravel to the porch, she can see through the windows, from one side to the other, right through the heart of the building to a streak of orange sky and the forested hills beyond. She stops for a moment and leans against the wall, the warmth of the sunbaked brick bleeding through her jeans, the thought of Alessandra Colt’s wedding dress feverish in her mind. What if it’s not there? What if the dumpster has already been emptied? She tenses, crosses her fingers.

  Grateful for the modern-world durability of denim, Fran hastens to the side of the house, climbs over the hedgerow and dives toward the rusting yellow dumpster. As she leans in, all she can see are piles of old carpet and trash bags. She shovels through the waste, fearful she is too late, then spies the handle of the holdall beneath a mound of cardboard. Her heart beats relief. She tugs it free, unzips it, presses the white lace overlay to her cheek. A light, breezy joy fills her senses as she brushes away the grit, gathers up the fabric, holds it to her body, and breathes. With each rise and fall of her chest, the energy once woven into those graceful lilies and appliqué hummingbirds now yields to her. She has it. It is hers, the dress of dresses. Hers? She means hers to sell. Rule number one: Never covet.

  Oh, what the hell.

  Unable to resist, she shakes the dress out, then pulls it up around her tiny frame. Surely a little “fieldwork” could be useful. Fueled by those strange, uncanny impulses to tease and conjure and brighten the scenery, she looks to the house. In her mind, she hears the trace of laughter echoing through the evening air. There are Singapore slings and prewedding high jinks—a perfect night before the loving, summer send-off for the darling couple of one of the most revered families in Britain. Cradling the train in her arms, she hastens to the flagstone terrace that surrounds the back of the house. She fills the deserted space with chaise longues and planters, beds of hydrangeas, lupins, and dahlias, then conjures two maids attending a large gilded cocktail trolley—multihued drinks in highballs and martini glasses, ice buckets and tongs, trays of nuts, stuffed olives, and unctuous little pastries. The patio doors, she mentally throws open, to welcome the early summer scents of lilac and rose, the coming moonlight, the nightingale, the good things in life, and, above all, love. She aches to linger and enjoy this reverie, but with the light fading fast, she has work to do. She pulls her trusty lucky hatpin from her hair and prods the lock of the patio doors. The lock releases with ease, and like a ghost from the future, she slips inside.

  She finds herself in a high-ceilinged salon devoid of furniture and carpets. Even the light fixtures have been stripped, but with some artful thinking, to her it becomes an elegant library, floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare, Dryden, and Milton; a vast sofa and a grand piano in the corner, where a suited musician cracks his knuckles over the keys. Swing music floats through the air, fills the space and the rooms beyond. The entire house echoes with the melody of joy.

  In the main vestibule, with its double-height leaded windows and heavy oak staircase—where Fran first saw Rafael Colt—she imagines a pair of young boys in sailor suits, chasing each other up and down the lower steps, crouching against the thick, carved banister. Along the upstairs corridor a repeating pattern of silk-curtained windows, family portraits and miniature palms alleviates the heavy oak paneling. The rows of doors hide bedrooms and dressing rooms and private quarters. Some of these doors still bear brass name plaques, but it isn’t until Fran reaches the very end of the corridor, the room where she found the dress, that she finds the name she is looking for: Alessandra.

  She turns the handle. The catch releases, and with a little push, the door gives way. Inside there is stillness, a secretive peace to mollify the jazz and laughter downstairs. A tangerine sky blazes through the window. With the dress shifting around her, she places teak dressers where she thinks they would fit, a wicker-and-bamboo-cane rocking chair, a dressing table, and then a bed—a solid four-poster heirloom made up with orange-and-brown floral drapes because the 1970s are in her head. She pictures a bout of prewedding pampering. Face masks and nail painting or perhaps a final private gaze in her mirror for the bride-to-be on the eve of her wedding.

  Fran tiptoes to the collapsed armoire. She stands in front of the broken door, which has been left propped against the wall, its mirror cracked from corner to corner, presumably from when it fell. With a shiver of anticipation, she stares at her reflection. How does she feel? Excited? Nervous? Extraordinary? Through herself in the dress, she sees Alessandra now, sees her face forming, those dark eyes, that uncertain smile, hand hovering over the lace of the skirt, daring herself to cherish it, adore it, possess it. She shuts her eyes and—Fran feels it—has The Moment, the ultimate bonding of a woman to her dress, herself refigured as a bride. The wedding, the marriage, the love, it is all ahead of her, a future of happiness and strength and heartfelt companionship.

  And yet…

  Something is wrong.

  The mood sours.

  All the joyful energy of the dress collapses.

  There is Alessandra, a faint imagining within Fran’s reflection, the dress shrouding her, shrouding them both. Fran stares wordlessly, feeling, fearing that Alessandra is frightened, scared by the sight of her marital form. The pair are still for a moment, then the torment surges. With a howl, Alessandra lurches forward, smashes the mirror with her fist. Red rivulets of blood stream down her arm and drip onto the dress.

  Fran stumbles back in fright, shuts her eyes, and blinks away the scene.

  Her visions have never been any more than daydreams, the hopeful vestiges of an overactive imagination, a way to bring fullness to the dots and dashes—the wed
ding certificates, old photos, and paper documents—of her research. But now, here, the intensity overcomes her. She scrabbles to loosen the dress, then steps out of it as eagerly as she’d stepped into it. And so it sits in a crumpled heap, pulsing with malignant energy. Not a dead dress, but something else—something she doesn’t yet understand.

  A thud breaks the trance. Someone is moving around downstairs. The slam of a door followed by footsteps brings the fear right into the moment, into real time. There was no one in the building when she’d entered—or so it had seemed. She scoops the dress up, heart pounding, palms sweating, and prepares to run. But the clumsy pattern of the footfall, heavy on bare floor, suggests more of a stagger than a walk—someone without grace or composure. She goes to the corridor, looks down through the banisters, and sees a dark silhouette heading toward the stairs. Moments later an almighty thud-thud-thud reverberates through the hall. Whoever—or whatever—has come to the stairs has now fallen down them. She listens again.

  Silence. Tense relief. What now? Does she flee undiscovered or check the situation? Oh why does she get herself into these scrapes in the first place? Curiosity killed the cat and the dressmaker—and her sanity.

  “Only I,” she whispers to herself, “could find an intruder while intruding.”

  Breathing deeply to induce bravery, she dismisses the shadow world of Alessandra and her prewedding anguish and creeps down the stairs. In the dim light, she sees a hump of a body, the person out cold on the hallway floor. When she realizes the body is a slight-built woman, her fears are quashed. The instinct to help takes over. She races down the last few steps and tries to stir her, but as she strokes a clump of dreadlocked hair, her memory spikes: Rafael Colt’s unwelcome visitor, who now has a nasty gash on her left temple and likely black eye. Fran checks her pulse, sighing with relief as she feels life within the woman’s painfully thin wrist. She then smells the odor of alcohol. Gingerly, she searches the duffel bag that is still slung across the woman’s limp shoulder: a half-empty pack of cigarettes, a bashed-up phone, rolling papers, a corkscrew, sunglasses, hair bands, pliers, and baby wipes.