Fran stifles a sigh. Bridezillas can be a little wearing. “Come with me,” she says.
She leads Rachel to the damask curtain, where Mick is hurriedly preparing the proposed dress. She offers Rachel a seat, but the offer is declined, which isn’t the best of signs. Normally by this point, no matter how demanding and high-maintenance, a bride is excited-apprehensive rather than irritated-apprehensive.
“Ready?”
“Obviously. I’ve been planning this wedding for ten months.”
“Just so you know, I traveled the length of Britain to find this gem. It might surprise you at first, but, well, you said you wanted something different, something no one else will have. After all, it’s your day. It’s only natural you’d want to stand out. Anyway, it may not grab you immediately, but once you try it on, trust me, I think you’ll find it will grow on you.”
“Just show me.”
Fran hoists back the curtain. Mick presents a simple, block-printed cotton Victorian smock dress. Its original owner, Sarah-Anne Bootle, was a laborer’s daughter from rural Yorkshire, a cheerful girl who rode horses, helped her mother bake bread, and played the recorder on Sundays at her local church. In May 1849, she married her childhood sweetheart in the village that raised her. Bunting lined the streets, the May Queen gave them her blessings, homemade cider was drunk straight from the barrel, and the dancing—wild and raucous—went on all night. Of all the weddings Fran has envisaged, she’d like to have been a guest at this one.
The dress sits sweetly, its full sleeves, high nipped waist, and billowing skirt, like a blossom upon a tailor’s dummy. It isn’t Vera Wang, Norman Hartnell, or Lacroix, but it has a kind, innocent, softening grace. Fran can almost smell the hay in the sunshine as Sarah-Anne Bootle and her beau take a stroll through the fields—a halcyon reverie where there are no daft delusions of materialism and no perversely glamorized social media profiles to keep up with. Sarah-Anne, she imagines, took pleasure in what was right there all around her, the simple things. Regardless of whether this is the dress Rachel Pointer wants, it is the one she needs—at least her future husband will think so when he is reminded that there is more to her than the Bridezilla she’s become—and that a moat full of gilded swans can be eclipsed by a pub garden, a mug of cider, and a pork pie.
“You’re kidding me?”
“Do you like it?”
“I hate it.” The horror in Rachel’s face is startling. “I absolutely detest it. It’s like something from a farmyard. I’m not wearing it. Oh, for god’s sake! I should never have come here. This is ridiculous, a total waste of time.”
Fran grits her teeth, fears she may have pushed the mission too far with this one. She shakes the skirt fabric, wills it to works its charm.
“Why can’t I have that lovely dress over there?” Rachel points again to the Alessandra Colt gown. “That’s a princess dress, but this…this is a peasant smock!”
“At least try it on. You might feel differently when you see it on your own body.”
Rachel huffs and grunts and reluctantly deigns to shovel the dress over her shoulders, giving little thought to the fact that it is centuries old. The moment she catches herself in the mirror however, she quietens.
“It’s—it’s flattering, I suppose. Really flattering. I didn’t realize my shoulders were that pretty. And I like what it does to my jawline and…” Her fury melting, she strokes her hands down the fabric, presses it to herself, smiles, and shuts her eyes, and then, out of the unlikeliest of reveals, has The Moment.
“Take your time,” whispers Fran. “Let it settle. I know it’s not what you were expecting, but really, it does something wonderful to you. The shape is so feminine. In fact, in that dress, I’d say you are the very essence of all that is charming and good.”
“Do you really think so?” says Rachel, a smile in her eyes—and her soul.
* * *
When Rachel Pointer finally exits, the Sarah-Anne Bootle dress packed in a ribboned box under her arm, Fran and Mick sit back in vintage splendor and toast their effort with a glass of champagne.
“That was a tough one.”
“Seeded by an all-too-common phenomenon: the bride who focuses too much on the wedding and not on the marriage itself,” says Fran ruefully.
She knows only too well the cost of allowing all rational thought to be obscured by the giddy prospect of bridehood. How easy it is to get distracted, blinded even, by the excitement of an unfettered wedding-day plan—especially if it’s a daydream that has been flowering since childhood. Never mind the rightness or niceness of the fiancé, just make the big day incredible. The rest will fall into place…won’t it?
* * *
The sun is radiant over Regent’s Park. The presentation in the boardroom, however, is not. Rafael finds himself staring sideways through the window, longing for fresh air and trees. Mimi keeps nudging his coffee toward him, a small hint to look more alert, more interested, more dedicated.
“We’ve been providing the elderly with a listening ear for over seven years,” says the woman in the loud cerise knit, pointing to her Glynda’s Listening Ear charity pin. “Our service users report a 73 percent increase in feeling happier, more energized, and less lonely.”
How do they measure so precisely? he wonders. With a machine? An algorithm? Do they have an app—an app that absorbs human emotions then turns them into a spreadsheet, squishing all those unfathomable layers of cruelty and deceit into a bunch of colorful pie charts, instant rationale out of something he’s never in his life been able to begin to face?
“We find that the service is particularly helpful for those who are separated from family or perhaps widowed.”
Rafael nods, heaves a breath. Each time Glynda opens her mouth to speak, her enormous earrings quiver and jangle. They are an awful distraction, he thinks, from the valid points she is making. Does she honestly believe her bid for money will be more appealing if she dresses fun and bubbly? He doesn’t need a clothing con. He doesn’t want to be schmoozed by wacky jewelry. If he likes a project or likes its possibilities, he makes a grant for it. It’s that simple. He doesn’t need to be visually assaulted so early in the morning. A plain shirt would do it.
He thinks of Francesca Delaney. Somehow she has managed to make him see clothes differently. He cannot look at his staff now without questioning their choices of apparel, even Mimi, in her stiff black suit dress, its razor-sharp tailoring and understated luxury screaming, I’m serious and deadly.
“Mr. Colt?”
“What? Sorry?”
Mimi gives him a glare. “Glynda was asking if you’d like to visit one of her weekend Listening Camps. I said your schedule is very busy, but that you’d consider it.”
“Very busy, but yes, thank you, Glynda, for the fascinating offer. And for presenting to us this morning. We’ll look at the figures, then…be in touch.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Colt. Thank you so, so, so, so, so much!” she gushes, earrings circling wildly. “You don’t know what this means to me. Just to stand here in front of you…it’s…awe-inspiring.”
When she is gone, Mimi fixes him with another glare. “What is wrong, Rafael? You are not focused, not your usual self.”
Tired, jaded, empty of spirit, no highs, no lows, just a flat wash of gray fading into the horizon.
“I need a holiday,” he says, pacing over to the window. Below, he can see a group of children scooting through the park, laughing and chasing one another.
“So go,” says Mimi. “I’ll clear your diary, book you a flight today, wherever you like.”
Rafael sighs. That isn’t quite it. He studies the children, the way they swerve and swoop around each other, occasionally colliding, then falling into a happy heap. A holiday alone would be just another stretch of time spent…alone. He looks at Mimi, attempts a smile.
“Would you come with me? Where would
you like to go?”
Mimi frowns. “No.”
“I didn’t mean anything—”
“I know, but I don’t wish to holiday with you. I will do that with my fiancé.”
Rafael blinks. “You have a fiancé?”
“Sure.”
“Who? Where? Why don’t I know this?”
“Because I didn’t tell you. Because I assumed you wouldn’t be interested.”
“But…”
Mimi turns her attention to a pile of correspondence.
“So, tell me,” he ventures, trying to embrace the matter. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“His name is Anton. He’s a surgeon at King’s. We get married in September.”
“Oh. Well, good. Good for you.”
“I hope so. I need a visa.”
At this, Rafael can’t help feeling relieved. The thought of his reliable equivalent, the cold fish Mimi, having a loving significant other is too disturbing. She is his. He wants her always to be his. She of all people cannot fall into the happy-clappy marriage trap. Nonetheless, he is rattled, sideswiped by a sudden clear vista into the chasm of loneliness that has become his daily existence. That his closest ally could have a life—a marriage plan, in fact—that she didn’t think he’d be interested in hearing about. Is he really that cold?
His concentration slips. He closes his eyes, and there she is again: Francesca Delaney—her face, her radiance, her romantic optimism—his mother’s wedding dress bundled in her arms, more startling and alive than anyone he’s ever met. He was rude, so unspeakably rude to her—all because she was scratching beneath the surface.
He needs to make amends.
* * *
Later that evening, amid bundles of white silk, Fran sets to work on the Alessandra Colt dress. There are other dresses that need repairs too, urgent ones, but its presence in the shop is too distracting. She feels compelled, even though she cannot imagine the kind of bride she would—or could—match it to. She stares at it draped across her sewing table, its secrets twisting and twitching within its threads. It has been a week since she brought it here. Every night, she has woken in the dark and found herself thinking about its moonlit folds, mesmerized, awestruck—and slightly terrified. Part of her wants to try it on again, but another part—a stronger part—is too scared of the awful dread it gave her, all that Colt family complication. Her conscience insists that she cannot sell it as it is, not without knowing the full story—too risky. Rule number two: never sell a dead dress.
Online, she finds endless pages about the good works of the Colt Foundation, a few tawdry gossip articles about Rafael’s ceaseless bachelorism and Janey’s yo-yo rehab habit, but otherwise, the family report is exemplary. Even adding the word scandal turns up no dirt. From what she can tell, the previous generation of Colts were bastions of all that is good in the world, role models for the rest. Their foundation is one of the queen’s favorite organizations. They were regulars at the palace. Not a hint of trouble or marital disharmony.
With a cluster of photos printed from the internet, she pieces together a family tree and pins it to the wall. Among the many Colt sisters, brothers, and cousins, it seems Samuel Anders Colt, who began the foundation, married Janice Eloise Tricklebank. She gave birth to Lyle, who married Alessandra in 1978, which led to Rafael and Janey—and everyone was rich, important, and happy. On the surface at least. Despite the money, the glamour, and the pristine philanthropic image, Fran understands there is something awry in that world.
The dress beside her, its provenance emerging, suddenly seems to glow—an it dress, the jewel of a society wedding, which perhaps explains the extravagance, not to mention the Garrett-Alexia label—an it dress with a secret. It is strange to her, however, that Lyle and Alessandra married in 1978, the era of the maxi dress, the bell-bottom suit, and jersey fabric, yet this garment is unmistakably ’50s in style. Wedding dresses have always had their timeless, fairy-tale qualities, but brides are not completely untouched by the movement of trend.
Fran’s fingers tingle, desperate to touch, to understand. She runs her hand across the bodice, feels the rise and fall of the cluster work, its pearls and bugle beads shimmering in the honeyed light. As she allows the weight of the skirts to slip through her hands, she notices some unusual stitching on the inner seams. She pulls the lines of thread closer, inspects the work. Some neat slip stitching and some less-refined topstitching, in mismatched thread, suggests the dress has been altered. Fran scrutinizes each section. It isn’t unusual for wedding dresses to require last-minute adjustments, but this looks like a major modification to accommodate a significant change in waist size. A pregnancy perhaps? Or to fit another bride?
With the dress against her, as if to test it, Fran stands bolt upright. She takes a deep breath, half shuts her eyes, and tries to dig back, to connect with what she sensed at Dryad’s Hall—Alessandra’s anguished cry, the smashed mirror, the blood—but there is nothing. No sorrow, no pain, just acres of fabric. The dress is quiet. Fran can only wonder if she made it up, another ruse of her fertile imagination—a touch, perhaps, of her own angst blending into the story, confusing the threads of fact and fiction.
A phone call to Mick is the answer. Mick has a friend who works for a newsreel archivist and is generous with favors on account of his love for antique radios, which Mick is more than happy to source for him. Within a few hours, the friend has managed to locate some old movie film of the “Society Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Colt, Marylebone, July 7, 1978.” He emails Fran with a download of the footage. She leans close to the screen and watches the grainy, colorized images flicker: crowds lining a London street, young men and women bearing shaggy, winged haircuts smile and wave. The reel is silent, but her imagination fills in the blanket of cheers and street noise. The camera pans and focuses on a columned, neoclassical portico with two huge doors behind it. She knows them well: Marylebone Church, where Charles Dickens baptized his son and Judy Garland married Mickey Deans. One of her favorite London wedding venues. The doors open. The bride and groom step out, Alessandra and Lyle, there on the screen, animated, moving, alive.
She zooms as close as she can, hovering the cursor over Alessandra’s face. Through pixelated tones, she studies the creases of Alessandra’s shy, self-conscious smile, her eyes peeping out from the hollows of their sockets, gaze shifting from side to side. She looks nervous, frightened almost, but who wouldn’t be? A bride at the center of a public spectacle, worthy of a newsreel and several inches of society gossip—it must have felt overwhelming. Lyle looks far more comfortable in front of the crowds. Dashing in an elegant three-piece morning suit, he smiles and waves, then places an arm around his new wife’s shoulders, and they proceed down the stone steps through a shower of white confetti.
Once they reach the flat of the pavement, Alessandra seems to strengthen. Her shoulders lift. She, too, begins to look out at the crowd, offering smiles and waves. The dress, thinks Fran, is working its magic. Four meters of embroidered train follow behind her, carried by a troupe of bridesmaids in powder-blue crepe maxis—the emblem of the ’70s, a shapeless foil to Garrett-Alexia’s feminine, fairy-tale silhouette. A bridal gown from the 1950s catapulted into a 1978 wedding? It doesn’t seem right.
Fran ponders the equation and wonders if Alessandra Colt is, in fact, not the first bride to wear the dress, which only makes it a more intriguing prospect—maybe a family dress, passed down through generations, mother to daughter and beyond. The family dress has the deepest whispers, imbued with the ions and atoms of every bride that has worn it, history upon history. Rare to find, usually kept close, it is a prized heirloom, too precious and resonant with memory to be given as merchandise to a love-obsessed dress enthusiast—unless, of course, the dress in question happens to have become the inherited property of a less-than-gracious male heir. Then it’s fair game.
Fran leans into the screen and soaks up the pomp of t
he procession. With the bridesmaids in rows behind the couple, the crowds are enthralled by the stately display. Each step makes Alessandra seem bolder, brighter, the embodiment of the wife she is becoming…but just then, Fran sees it—a slip of the truth. She pauses the footage, rewinds, and watches again. A girl in the crowd hands Alessandra a bunch of posies. As Alessandra receives them, her lace sleeve slips, revealing a thick strip of bandage on her left hand, her wedding ring hand…the hand that smashed the mirror.
Fran sits back, breath trembling against her heart, unnerved by her own acuity. She’d hoped that what she imagined that evening at Dryad’s Hall had been nothing more than a flight of fantasy. But this…this tells otherwise. She watches the footage again, then lets it play out, as more flowers are thrown into the path of the couple and the screen goes blank, the rest of the day consigned to the memories of those who were there.
It is not enough. No way. Fran stares at the dress and realizes she is now hungrier than ever to know, to understand, to feel the truth. Yet she fears the pursuit is an unhealthy one, especially since Rafael has shown his true lack of gentlemanliness. She looks to her bulletin board of dead grooms. There are seventeen now, prints in various tones of black, gray, and sepia, plus a couple of color Polaroids—the husbands of the brides of the dresses she’s sold. Not all of them make the wall, just the best ones. To Fran, they are the great romantics of history—real men with real charm, heart, and dignity.
“You’re all I need,” she whispers. “The only worthy suitors.”
She unpins James Andrew Percy’s photo and holds it to the light.
“It’s such a shame they don’t make them like you anymore. Instead, we have the discourtesy of the ‘enlightened’ metrosexual who thinks more about himself and his hairline and his wallet than anything else.”
She plants a kiss on James Andrew Percy’s sepia cheek, then pins him back.
Her contemplation is shattered by a thud at the front door. Despite the Closed sign being up, the knock thunders through the walls, shaking the crumbling mortar from the bricks. Her first thought is that it’s kids. It isn’t unusual for disturbances to occur at this time. Rishi’s Chicken Shop, the fast-food restaurant down the road, has its fair share of disobedient clientele. Weekends are particularly rowdy. Yet something about this knocking makes her instinctively alert. It is purposeful. She is wanted. She swoops her silk 1920s dressing gown over her shoulders, slips her feet into the marabou slippers she liberated from a derelict hair salon, and sneaks behind one of her mannequins, cautiously peering through the shop window. She sees a silver Jaguar E-Type parked on the curb—a car she knows. She remembers the sight of it gleaming in the moonlight, speeding away, leaving her stranded.
The Second Chance Boutique Page 8