The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  “What was her name, your grandmother?”

  “Janice, my namesake.”

  “Was she…like you?”

  “A drunk, you mean?”

  “No, I mean chatty, friendly.”

  “Hardly. I’d say waspish at best. We were all terrified of her.”

  “But she got a heck of a wedding dress.”

  “She loved attention and extravagance. And, yes, if you must know, she liked a drink. The rumor, on the inside, is that she was the reason my grandfather set up a charitable foundation, so he could stop her from blowing his entire fortune on gambling and parties.”

  Fran nods slowly. Usually the challenge of slotting the pieces of a wedding dress puzzle together is the most thrilling part of her work, but this, this feels daunting.

  “The footage was definitely from your mother’s wedding,” she continues. “But she wore the same dress.”

  “I expect she didn’t have a choice in the matter. Old Janice trying to live out her past glories via her poor, put-upon daughter-in-law. Janice was a control freak. They all were.”

  “I noticed your mother had a bandage on her hand. I think she might have hurt it the night before the wedding.”

  Janey shrugs. “So?”

  “Did your parents…did they have a difficult marriage?”

  “Well, generally things are difficult when you’re in the Colt family. Are you sure you’re not press?”

  “I promise. I’m only asking because the dress is worth a lot of money, thousands possibly.”

  “Is it, now?”

  “Yes. And I hope to restore it and give it a new life with another bride, but in my line of work, I can’t pass it on unless I know its true provenance, the energy it’s inherited.”

  “Inherited?” says Janey. “If that dress has inherited anything from my family, I’d say it’s better off locked away.”

  Fran stills.

  “Oh, look at that…we’re two minutes over. Well, thanks for the smokes. I better go, otherwise I’ll miss my appointment. Maybe see you around.”

  She walks away, but a few steps in, turns back to Fran, gives another of those strange, unreadable smiles.

  “All of us have our pasts, right?”

  “Of course,” says Fran, unsure whether she is being teased or consoled.

  chapter 5

  Cedars is everything a Georgian country mansion should be—harmonious lines of stone stucco fascia and large, well-proportioned windows, capped with a parapet roof, all neatly positioned within an elegant landscaped park. They knew, thinks Fran, those old-day aristocrats, fresh from their Grand Tours and handwritten pages of romantic poetry, how to extol the natural virtues of their surroundings. The grounds have suffered a multitude of insults including car parking, a gym complex, and the scourge of too much low-maintenance ground cover—purple slate chippings, bark mulch, and pea gravel—but the lawns and tree-lined vistas retain the essence of sweeping eighteenth-century garden design. Up the hill behind the house, she spies a mock ancient temple and, to the side, a lake with an island. She would like, very much, to step inside the silk slippers of the past, to see girls in empire-waist day dresses and men in boots and breeches, on their way to a Regency ball, but instead, she is greeted by a parade of glitter-covered human statues.

  The estate itself has been harried into the modern era with a glass extension and multicolored LED downlights that bathe the aged sandstone walls in magenta, turquoise, and neon yellow. A full bar has been fitted in the former ballroom; a bowling alley, game room, and cinema in the cellars; a basketball court in the drawing room; and the upstairs chambers have been turned into spa suites of various sizes.

  The theatrics build to a crescendo at the entrance gates, where waiters in clip-on bow ties hand out pink champagne against a backdrop of illuminated fountain water. The bride, Rachel Joseph née Pointer, and her groom, Elijah, proceed up the drive applauded by their guests and flanked by two stout miniature ponies wearing glittery bridles and fake unicorn horns. Rachel and Elijah both smile continuously, but neither look comfortable.

  “What were we thinking?” says Rachel, nudging her new husband.

  “Don’t look at me,” he says. “This was all your idea.”

  “I think,” she whispers, as a flock of white doves flutter overhead. “I think I might have gotten a bit carried away. I told the planners to go all-out, but…did I really agree to these funny little horses?”

  Elijah shakes his head and smiles. “Good thing I love you, Mrs. Joseph.”

  “I love you too, Elijah. But I tell you what. When we renew our vows in ten years’ time, let’s hire a room in a pub, drink some cider, and eat pies.”

  “That,” says Elijah, squeezing his bride around the waist, “sounds like a great idea. You look lovely by the way. Not the kind of dress I thought you’d go for, but…it’s charming.”

  “It’s vintage,” says Rachel. “Chosen especially for me.”

  They kiss, too love-bombed to resent the crazed pomposity of their day. The guests cheer, over three hundred of them, mostly adults, all in for a night to remember. Thankfully the weather gods have smiled and Rachel has been granted her wish of sunshine.

  “This is a wedding venue on steroids,” whispers Rafael as he and Fran find a peaceful corner of the knot garden to sip their drinks and watch the procession.

  “It takes all sorts,” says Fran. “You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve been—barns, backyards, beaches, pub back rooms, forest glades, muddy fields. These days, anything goes.”

  “I didn’t know there were so many ways to use crushed velvet and zebrawood veneer. And if I see another drop crystal chandelier, I think I might need a migraine tablet.”

  Fran smiles, nervous of his sarcasm.

  “In fact, the only thing that doesn’t scream bling is…the dress.”

  “Thank you,” says Fran, gazing at Rachel as she parades up the drive, the blousy Victorian gown fluttering in the breeze, its cut so pretty and honest. “That’s the point. I matched her with a dress that provides the antidote to her fixation on…excess. To be honest, she resisted when she first saw it, but as soon as she tried it on, its energy enveloped her, brought her back to the heart of what really matters in life.”

  “Which is?”

  “As if you don’t know.”

  Rafael shrugs. Somewhere in the distance, a string quartet starts rehearsing Puccini. The music drifts toward them, wraps them in its tremulous, soaring joy.

  “Love,” says Fran as though it is obvious. “True love. The dress that Rachel is wearing came from a girl who married for nothing but.”

  “How romantic,” says Rafael drily.

  “Isn’t it?” says Fran, hopeful she can raise Rafael’s opinion of betrothal. “There are many reasons why couples decide to tie the knot, but from my experience, the marriages that last and work have love at their core.”

  “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  “You’d be surprised how confused people get. Some brides fall into the trap of thinking they should marry because it’s ‘the next step’ or because everyone around them is doing it and they don’t want to get left behind. Some do it because they believe it’s a mark of success or that it might prove a point to an ex. Others hope a marriage will mean they’re provided for. Or that a sealed deal will give them more control over their partner’s behavior. Some simply don’t want to let their partner down. And some, some are forced.”

  “When you put it like that…”

  “Whispering dresses have a lot of work to do.”

  The sun arcs over them. As the party expands—photographs on the lawn, a sweets cart and Pimm’s, the string quartet playing rock ballads—Fran and Rafael huddle closer. Within so much spectacle, their number one interest is each other.

  “My mother,” says Fran, smoothing
the skirts of her blush-pink organza dress—one of her favorite wedding guest efforts, originally worn to the first ball of the season by a debutante in 1954—“used to say that time is like a limitless sheet of silk, spread across the universe, always happening at once and together. The past doesn’t stop existing just because we’re no longer in it. I believe my dresses carry their pasts within in them, like archives of life, and that they pass this energy on to whomever wears them next.”

  Rafael smiles. “Cute idea, but you’re crazy.”

  “Well, it’s better than being dull. And I make brides happy.” Her eyes brighten. “My job is to encourage good, healthy love.”

  Rafael stiffens, adjusts the collar of his shirt. How did he get here? How did he agree to attend not one but two weddings in the company of this otherworldly woman with her shop full of wedding sprinkles and absurd ideas about love and time travel?

  “The energy has to be right of course,” Fran persists. “There are challenges involved. I get particularly fretful about brides who try to marry under pressure, grabbing the hand of the nearest, next, or nicest available suitor because their family expects them to, or their friends, or their body clock, or their god. There are very few dresses that can ignite a love that simply isn’t meant to exist in the first place…yet still, the modern world is brimming with ill-conceived proposals.”

  She stares at Rafael now, his thoughtful eyes, his air rarefied, then sips the last of her champagne, musters her courage. “What would you say if I told you I’ve become rather fond of your mother’s old wedding dress?”

  “I’d say it will be a blessing when that damn thing is gone from my life.”

  “Along with every other trace of your family,” she whispers without quite intending to.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, it feels like you’re, I don’t know, blocked…that there’s a wall between you and your past.”

  “Is there, now?”

  “Just an observation.”

  Rafael shakes his head. “You’re one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

  A commotion on the lawn draws their attention. A group of men in gray-and-blue suits step aside as the women rush into the middle, studding the grass with their heels.

  “She’s going to throw the bouquet,” Fran exclaims.

  “Stand back,” Rafael suggests.

  “Believe me, I always do. Just because I sell wedding dresses, doesn’t mean…”

  The guests fall silent as Rachel takes her position at the head of the crowd and, picturesque in her cotton dress, waves her elaborate bouquet aloft. The women, a gaggle of floral prints and faun-colored bodycon, raise their arms. Fran ducks farther inside the cave of hedgerows.

  “Three, two, one…”

  Despite the vigor of Rachel’s throw, the weight of the bouquet sends it hurtling to the side. It skims a sea of eager fingertips, is nearly grabbed by a tall woman in cerise, then batted out of hand, onward toward the knot garden, where it crashes over the hedge and lands at Rafael’s feet. He and Fran look at each other.

  “Oh,” says Fran.

  “Oh dear,” says Rafael.

  He picks the bouquet up, stares at it, then offers it to her.

  “I think, by rights,” he says quietly, “this should be yours, but—”

  Five women with clawlike manicures come diving and cackling through the hedges.

  “Mine!”

  “No, it’s mine!”

  Peppered by a peculiar mix of fear and amusement, Fran throws it back to them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she says. “We have another wedding to attend remember?”

  “As if I could forget.”

  * * *

  Across London, on the fringes of Streatham, left to her own devices, Melissa West has taken her discovery of bold color to a new level. The community hall is an explosion of orange, green, and blue, with scarlet ribbons on every chair, to match her dress. Fran stands in the middle of this kaleidoscopic vision and grins. Who could deny her work has been done, as Melissa glides from guest to guest, brimming with confidence, telling them all about her wonderful dress and the slightly incongruous tropical theme she has last minute alighted upon? Meanwhile, the cousins and sisters scowl beneath a trio of fake palm trees and make a point of not catching Fran’s eye. They are, however, keenly interested in the tall handsome man at her side, who looks wealthy and slick and a little bit familiar, like a celebrity, but surely not, not on the arm of that weird, silly woman.

  There is a hog roast, a buffet of finger food, a photo booth, a slightly pervy magician, a fake ivy archway, a white chocolate fountain, fairy lights, and a light-up disco floor. The onslaught of wedding pizzazz—hit with everything Melissa and Rob can throw at it—is also overrun by children; a dizzying contrast to the Rachel Joseph née Pointer affair, in which under-sixteens, aside from a few carefully vetted bridesmaids, were notably absent. This one is a free-for-all. Everywhere Fran and Rafael look, they are there—by the buffet, chasing tangled strings of bunting; on the porch, throwing leftover confetti; and on the dance floor, teenage boys anguishing in three-piece suits while girls in taffeta minidresses make teasing moves to wind them up, the game of love in its infancy.

  This time, Fran and Rafael use the chocolate fountain as their refuge. They hover behind the veil of sweetness, their view of the festivities obscured by an enormous inflatable flamingo. Fran dips a strawberry, then a marshmallow, then a chunk of waffle.

  Rafael politely declines the offer of a skewer and, instead, makes an inspection of the cheese board. “Edam? I haven’t eaten that since I was at school.”

  Fran cannot tell whether he is being polite or sarcastic. She prods him with the point of her cocktail umbrella.

  “Be honest,” she says. “Do you hate it?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just…”

  A waitress comes by to refill their tumblers of “special cocktail.”

  Rafael offers his cup to Fran to say cheers. “Thank you,” he says, “for introducing me to the extraordinary world of provincial weddings.”

  After the buffet, the dancing begins. They watch the revelers shimmy in and out of the light. Melissa and her new husband are in the center of it all, waving their arms, swaying and singing. The husband, Fran notices, is drunker than he should be. He staggers more than walks and has spillages down his semi-unbuttoned shirt. A shame, thinks Fran, given how gorgeous and well turned out his new wife is.

  Eventually Melissa twirls over, the marabou trim of her stole fluttering like baby hair.

  “You look like you’re enjoying your day,” says Fran smiling. “I’m so pleased for you, Melissa.”

  “It’s all in the dress, you know,” Melissa whispers tipsily. “I’m never taking it off. Is this your plus one? Hello, sir. Don’t you two make a lovely pair? Any wedding bells on the horizon yet?”

  “Oh, no,” gasps Fran.

  “Maybe one day,” says Rafael, to her surprise—and his.

  Fran blinks at him.

  He just shrugs, the disco lights tracking in front of his eyes.

  “No hurry though, hey?” says Melissa, saving the moment with her witless excitement. “I guess you spend too much time dealing with other people’s big days? Puts you off. Like my Rob. He earns his living building houses, but will he put up a set of shelves for me on the weekend? Not a chance. I still love him though.”

  As Melissa spins away, Fran hugs her own waist.

  “So that was bride number two?” says Rafael. “And what was her whispering dress requirement? Don’t tell me…needs toning down?”

  “The opposite actually,” says Fran. “But you saying that makes me realize my success. Melissa was actually quite insecure when she first came to see me and now look at her.”

  “A red wedding disco diva with feathers.”

 
“Exactly,” says Fran, the zeal bursting out of her, filling the space between her and Rafael.

  She smiles, remembering a story she’d heard from one of Meryl Percy’s old friends of how Mr. Percy would walk to the end of their street every night to make sure Meryl got back safely, never mind the fact that she’d spent all day in a car factory handling dangerous engine parts. She hopes, in his way, Rob will do the same for Melissa. And perhaps Rafael might do the same for her.

  * * *

  The car enters the weave of Walthamstow streets. The non-wedding-day world is cognizant again, the close-packed coffee shops and bright boutiques all competing for attention through the traffic-clogged roads. Rafael pulls up outside the Whispering Dress. Fran is excited to see Mick has begun work on a new window display—art deco magnificence, an explosion of sunbursts, zigzags, and cocktail shakers to show off the fabulous ’30s fishtail with its flawless ivory satin, narrow sleeves, and floor-sweeping hem. It was designed by an Anglo-American designer who liked to drape tall women, but despite its cute story—a pilot and an heiress who fell in love on a transatlantic flight—she knows it will be a devil to match. Unless she can find an unusually tall woman in need of a shot of old-school glamour.

  “Here,” says Rafael, opening the car door for Fran, “your spiritual home.” He hesitates, not quite ready to separate or burst the Fran bubble. “I’ll see you in.”

  As they approach, however, they see that the front door is ajar, even though the shop should be closed. Rafael makes space for Fran to pass, but they both stop short when they notice gouges on the doorframe, as though the lock has been forced open.

  Dread forms in the pit of Fran’s stomach. The door swings wide. Her eyes survey the scene. “Oh…oh no!” She drops her keys and runs inside, falls to her knees. “My shop!” she cries.

  Rafael follows behind, blinks at the mess. The Whispering Dress, Fran’s vintage wedding wonderland, is now a disfigured muddle, furniture upturned, china smashed, pins and buttons and sequins everywhere, and white upon white, her wedding gowns pulled off their mannequins, thrown around like worthless rags. A shaft of anger slices through him. When she’d first showed her shop to him, he’d been dismissive, put off by such matrimonial excess, but now—now that he is tuning in to the nuances of her quirks, discovering what they mean—this…this is not just an attack on the Whispering Dress, but on her, his love, who she is, what she does. Who has dared to do this? He lowers to comfort her but knows there is little he can say.