The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  “That’s how she knew I had the dress. I met her in Hampstead.”

  “Stop dragging her into this. You’ve seen how fragile she is.”

  “I know. I wasn’t trying to cause her any upset. I just wanted some background that you weren’t willing to give. I never thought I’d get so caught up in the story…or in you.” Her eyes fill with tears. She doesn’t want to ruin it. Despite everything, she wants to be close to him. She wants his love.

  “Janey admitted your family life wasn’t a happy one,” she whispers. “She made it clear she blames her upbringing for her drinking problems.”

  Rafael shudders.

  “There’s no need to hide from it,” says Fran. “I get it. We all have our complicated pasts. God knows I’ve got mine. One way or another, we’ve either screwed up or been screwed up. That’s life. But maybe it does us no good to keep running away?”

  Rafael sighs, the worst of his anger now drifting to the sky, somehow severed by Fran’s patient words. She speaks wisely for one so daft. She speaks like a person who has counseled a thousand bridal parties. He would like not to run away, he thinks, he just doesn’t know how.

  “I know you have your reasons to hate the dress,” Fran continues. “But for me, coming here, it feels like an opportunity.” She pauses, looks down at her feet. “Mick and I advertised the dress online. I had a call from Fabian Alexia not long after. I practically collapsed when I realized who he was. Back in the ’50s, Garrett-Alexia, it was fashion royalty. Fabian was very keen to talk more about the dress, but then he said something about having a score to settle. He said he lives in Paris, and when you told me you’d take me anywhere, I just…dived in.”

  “You do a lot of that.”

  “Yup.”

  “Sometimes, Fran, it pays to hold back, be a bit more measured, think before acting.”

  “I know.”

  She glances at her watch, gives Rafael a small, hopeful smile. They both look up at the shop front, eyes widening as they trace the grand stonework and the baroque carvings above the arched windows, achingly elegant.

  “Amazing to think this is the very place, sixty years ago, where the dress was made,” says Fran. “Now that we’re here, couldn’t we just have a peek inside?”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  “Which is,” says Fran smartly, “interchangeable with ‘driven.’”

  * * *

  The door chimes. As they enter, the tall windows spread a river of light across the marble floor. The scent in the air is jasmine, delivered from a reed diffuser that sits on the reception desk alongside a carafe of iced water made from fine cut crystal. The sales assistant, effortlessly chic, dressed in a simple black shirt and pencil trousers, nods a greeting.

  “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour…um…we’d like to…nous voulez…if at all possible…parlez avec Monsieur Fabian Alexia?” Fran stutters through her effort, until Rafael takes over in fluid French.

  The sales assistant responds with fast, lilting vowels, leaving Fran clueless but hopeful that progress is happening. The receptionist then turns to a leather-bound diary, scans the dates and days.

  Fran presses her hands to the desk and leans forward. “C’est très important,” she says. “It’s about a wedding dress. Tell him we talked on the phone.”

  The assistant backs away.

  Rafael placates her with his charm, delivers another string of flowering French that is lost on Fran, due to all those days and weeks of school she missed because her mother thought she’d get a better education in the company of various touring theater troupes than in a dull, artless classroom. Thankfully, whatever Rafael says works, because the receptionist picks up the phone, makes a call, and bids them to wait.

  While Rafael chats on, Fran takes a turn of shop. She spies the old sewing machines from the Garrett-Alexia heyday mounted in glass boxes at the back of the room. She presses up to them, draws their history into her veins. As tools of design, they are impeccably elegant, their shapely black bodies and floral gilded inlay testifying that beauty can and should be everywhere.

  “What did you stitch?” she whispers, her imagination unfolding, rejoicing in the air of the past.

  She turns and gazes around the rest of the room, removes all the sleek chrome rails, the designer lighting, the high-tech air-conditioning, and the electric shutters. She covers the white walls with wainscoting, decorates them with framed fashion prints from Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar, lays a plush carpet across the marble floor and leans rolls of fabric, sourced from the finest ateliers in Paris, against a streamlined countertop, upon which she conjures a box of feathers. Tiny filaments quiver all around her, the finest plumes from the best male birds, destined for capes, trims, fans, and boas. There should always be feathers, she thinks, feathers for fun, feathers for love—look what they did for Melissa West.

  She gives the back half of the shop a pair of noisy sewing machines, worked by two women with finger-wave hairstyles, but this clattering mirage doesn’t hold her attention for long. She is only interested in one thing: the imminent union of bride and dress. Gasp-inducing aisle walks have their place, as do admiring glances from sweetly nervous grooms, but the moment, the one moment that truly ignites wedding-day fire has to be the bride’s first encounter with her gown: the icon of matrimony, all conjugal hopes formed at once within those swathes of fine fabric, for better or for worse. The brass bell above the shop door tinkles. She stills, holds her breath.

  “Here she is!” says Gilles Alexia, who in Fran’s vision is much like Errol Flynn. “Our bride du jour…Janice. Come here, darling, let’s get you out of that coat—”

  Janice is flawless, bright skinned, red lipped, dressed in a crimson sheath dress with matching jacket and pillbox hat, accessorized with pearls and a pair of dainty wrist-length gloves. She is a goddess, tall and shapely, with an impossible wasp waist. Her initial demeanor is commanding, but her expression softens when she spies the feathers on the countertop. She is here for joy. The moment has come. The dress is in front of her, hidden beneath a cotton sheet. Fran moves closer, teasing the vision toward clarity. She wants to see everything—the crease of Janice’s eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the twitch of her mouth—every nuance will tell her something new about the emotional ascent of the Colt family wedding dress.

  “Ready?” says Gilles, fingers poised at the sheet.

  “Of course.”

  The sheet drops. The dress meets its owner. The silk skirt is so full, it rises like a white mountain, but its drama is perfectly counterpoised by the sweetheart neckline and delicate lace overlay. The pearls and bugle beads shimmer in the sunlight, imbuing the bodice with otherworldly brilliance.

  A smile blooms across Janice’s face. She steps forward, shuts her eyes, and touches the silk, takes in the spread of the train. The dress, the wedding, the marriage—it is all ahead of her.

  Fran holds her breath, squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them again. More—she needs more.

  She looks to Rafael, who is still distracted, practicing his French with Fabian’s sales assistant, then dives back into her ’50s reverie. Entranced, she conjures the scene of the first fitting. Janice, aided by half a dozen French sewing girls, stands in the center, in front of a floor-length mirror. The dress fits her perfectly, but then of course, Garrett-Alexia are famed for their brilliance in fitting the hourglass form. The sewing girls chatter among themselves, proud of their weeks of pinning, threading, stitching, and pulling. So much optimism, so much delight. A dress of hope and promise. How, thinks Fran, did it go so bad? How did its energy become so torturous?

  Janice turns to Gilles Alexia, the dress designer of choice, and smiles with her eyes.

  “It’s breathtaking, Gio. You’re a genius. There isn’t another gown in the world I’d rather wear. You’ve given me everything I asked for. I’ll be Sammy’s queen. And when all those crit
ical eyes are on me as I walk up the aisle, staring me up and down, no one will be able to doubt it. In this dress, I’m worthy of every second of his attention.”

  “Samuel Colt is a lucky man,” says Gilles, taking her hand and squeezing it.

  Janice looks down at the train. “Are they hummingbirds?” she asks.

  “They are.”

  “Why hummingbirds?”

  Gilles pauses, exhales slowly. “A symbol of infinity,” he says. “I suppose one hopes they might…enchant the marriage.”

  Janice’s face sours. “And you still have reason to believe my marriage needs enchanting, Gio? What have you heard now?”

  Gilles leans forward, whispers something into her ear, and a furrow of rage shadows her eyes.

  The vision shatters.

  No!

  Desperate to know what was said, what was whispered, Fran stares into the space ahead of her, tries to reclaim her daydream, but too late. Just the glossy white walls and the hum of the air-conditioning. She looks to Rafael, but he is oblivious, lost in French small talk.

  Surely Janice Colt didn’t doubt her husband mere days before the wedding? And for what reason? Bad behavior? Infidelity?

  Fran’s head starts to thump. She tries to rub the pain away, does her best to remember what Janey had said about her grandmother, that Janice was a social climber, an attention seeker drawn to extravagance. She’d painted a picture in which Janice was the problem—the reason why Samuel Colt had started his foundation, to prevent her from “blowing his entire fortune on gambling and parties”—but now Fran can’t help wonder if there is more to Janice’s story.

  In 1954, the public would not have been ready for romantic indiscretions. The sexual freedoms of the ’60s and ’70s were still in the ether. Extramarital relations would have been scandalous, better suppressed, concealed from public knowledge. Which didn’t mean they didn’t happen. Oh, Janice…

  “Fran? Are you with us?”

  “Uh, yes.” Fran blinks.

  “You’re in luck,” says Rafael. “Fabian Alexia is able to meet with us.”

  “Oh.”

  Moments later, Fabian Alexia bursts through the door, with silver hair slicked back, a deep tan, and razor-sharp cheekbones. His eyes are keen despite his advancing age, and he observes Fran and Rafael with a mix of delight and conceit.

  “You came all the way to see me?”

  “Sort of,” says Fran.

  “We happened to be passing,” says Rafael for Fran’s benefit.

  “I was so intrigued to find out what you know about the dress,” says Fran, still startled by what she’s just seen. “I couldn’t wait.”

  “Is it here?” says Fabian, suddenly tense.

  “No. It won’t travel with ease. It’s enormous.”

  “Thank goodness,” says Fabian. “I must say I’m not quite ready to face it yet. Anyway”—he ushers them forward—“you are here. And that is a start. Shall we convene in my office upstairs?”

  A wrought-iron spiral staircase leads them to a narrow corridor, which then gives way to a vast double-height hall with glittering views of the city.

  “Some office,” whispers Fran.

  The walls are adorned with art of all kinds, from enormous eighteenth-century pastoral oils to nudes to portraits to modernist gray oblongs. A brief glance tells Fran she is in the company of more than one Picasso, a Munch, a Klimt, and a selection of Turner watercolors. There are sculptures of bare-buttocked Grecian boys and cast bronze horses. And among the art, there are gatherings of exquisitely dressed mannequins. They stand alone and in groups, almost as though they are visitors in a gallery, there to peruse the masterpieces, unaware that they are, in fact, masterpieces themselves. The finest-clothed mannequins have the honor of standing on plinths or behind glass cases. Fabian smiles, takes delight in his guests’ awe.

  Fran is less certain. She tugs Rafael’s arm, digs her heel into his toe. “We need to talk,” she whispers.

  “Not now,” he whispers back, smiling to cover himself. “Did no one ever teach you that whispering is rude?”

  “But I’ve seen something, something disturbing—”

  “What? Where?”

  “I—I had a vision of your grandmother.”

  Rafael sighs, grits his teeth. “Not now, Fran, please,” he growls. “You brought me here. Let’s just show some polite interest, then leave.”

  Fabian approaches. “Welcome to my vault,” he says, sweeping them into the center of the room. “If you’re lovers of art, then I have plenty to show you. If it’s fashion that interests you, I have collection pieces from the world’s top designers, past and present—some classic, some rare, some historic. Do you know Lanvin?” He points to a stunning black satin evening gown. “This one was worn by a well-known opera diva.”

  Fran stares, mesmerized.

  “I have been collecting for many years, but I take a particular interest in the Garrett-Alexia label, for obvious reasons.” He leads Fran to a cluster of ’50s ball gowns, each as elaborate and elegant as the next, three of them in jewel-colored satins with drapes and gathers and large cascading bows, one in black with a long tulle mermaid skirt, and two more in ice blue, both tiered with lace, bearing the same nature-themed embellishments as the wedding dress.

  “I—I’ve never seen so many of their dresses together in one place,” says Fran, entranced. “They can’t have made that many…before… Oh, the shapes are so beautiful, I could cry.”

  Fabian smiles. “You have taste.”

  “I’ve built my life around vintage dresses. This is…heaven.”

  “Please,” says Fabian. “Take your time. Enjoy my gowns.”

  He pours sparkling water into crystal goblets and hands one to Rafael.

  Rafael notes that the goblet is monogrammed in gold leaf: F. A. He gives Fran a smile, but she doesn’t notice. She is too busy circuiting the room, drinking in the color and texture.

  She finds it hard to believe that Fabian does not want the Alessandra Colt wedding dress. Clearly he isn’t short of money, and it would be such a rare and defining asset to his already remarkable Garrett-Alexia collection, perhaps one of the best in the world.

  Over the years, Fran has learned to tune in to the thought patterns of vintage fanatics and fashion collectors. Their appetites are more than just surface. The desire to gather and possess runs deep into the core. They get territorial, competitive, obsessive even. There is much prestige involved, a lot of feather fluffing. But in her own heart, she is clear: Clothes are clothes. They don’t need idolizing. They need handling, wearing. That’s where they get their energy from.

  “You told me you don’t want the wedding dress,” she says. “But it would be such a boon.”

  “You, sir,” says Fabian, sidestepping Fran’s inquiry, addressing only Rafael, casting his gaze down the length of his trousers. “I sense you have an eye for men’s tailoring. Are you a fashion connoisseur too?”

  Rafael laughs. “Arguably no.”

  “Well, you know the right trouser cut for you at least.” Fabian prowls around him like a stalking cat. “And your name?”

  “Rafael,” he says, wondering whether to offer the Colt appellation, or whether such an utterance will tip the man’s ego over the edge.

  “A fine French name, but you’re not.”

  “My family liked to think of themselves as old English, but I believe there was some more exotic blending down the line. And my mother was Italian…so I guess that makes me a mix.”

  “Your surname?”

  Rafael pauses, holds his nerve. He knows Fabian’s curiosity in him is more than just flattery. “Colt.”

  Fabian stills, takes a moment to gather his thoughts. The ornate clock above the mantel chimes three. Outside, the traffic along the Champs-Élysées gets rowdy.

  “And so you are,”
he says eventually. “Well, we are in hallowed company. I think, therefore, we should drink more than water. This requires a proper toast.” He presses a buzzer and instructs a maid to bring a bottle of champagne and three flutes. He then invites them out to an elegant balcony with views across the Parisian rooftops. “So,” he says, utterly poised as Fran and Rafael take their seats, tense with anticipation.

  They both know, in their ways, that there is unspoken history between the Colts and the Alexias and that, perhaps, it is about to unravel.

  “We have much to talk about,” says Fabian, turning to Rafael. “What exactly do you know about the dress and its origins?”

  “That your father designed it for my grandmother, Janice.”

  “That is the fact. Did you also know they were close friends?”

  Fran flinches but realizes this is not her conversation. Hold back—be a bit more measured. She sits on her hands, resists the urge to jump in with her questions. Rafael, she notices, is sweating a little, his usual cool demeanor showing cracks.

  “It is not my intention to offend you, Monsieur Colt, but I heard she was a vile woman.”

  Rafael shrugs. “She had that capacity, yes. No offense taken.”

  “I am only sad that my father, Gilles, wasted his life and his brilliance on someone like that. Had she been a sweet, warmhearted creature, like our Francesca here, I would have understood.”

  Fran blushes.

  “But it was not so. She allowed him to get caught up in her mess, and it cost him dearly. He was just twenty-two when he created your grandmother’s dress. Did you know that?”

  Fran and Rafael both shake their heads.

  “His designing partner, Monsieur Garrett, was in awe of his natural talent. Together they could have been up there with the likes of Lanvin or Lacroix or Dior. Instead, it all fell apart…before it barely began.”

  Rafael hardens, waits for the blow.

  Fran sits up. It is coming, she senses, the undoing of a long-held legend. She leans forward, listens intently, hanging on every word that slips from Fabian’s lips.

  “Falsity is a deeply destructive force,” he says, pouring the champagne. “Living with a truth when no one else knows it—or cares to know it—is a terrible way to frustrate the nerves. It gnaws through the day, through the night. I have a hunch, Monsieur Colt, that you know the same story I know, but let’s see, shall we…who destroyed my father’s career?”