“We can’t just bundle in—”
Another burst of screaming erupts through the mahogany veneer. Karina’s voice rings out: “It’s not working! It’s not right! Fix it, for fuck’s sake!”
“At this point,” says Fran, “I don’t think anyone will care how we enter, let alone who we are.” She pounds the door.
A weary-looking bridesmaid answers.
“Can we see Karina?”
The banshee wail again.
“I warn you, she’s in a right mood.”
“Let us help,” says Mick assertively, pushing into the room.
Once inside, they see Karina in the dress, sitting on the end of the bed, mascara streaked down her cheeks, face twisted in rage.
“You?” she sniffs.
“Hi,” says Fran, “I just wanted to check how you’re getting on, because—”
“It’s awful!” wails Karina. “Look!” She stands up.
To Fran’s horror, the dress has been butchered. Half of the skirt and all four meters of the train have been sheared off, in a botched attempt to raise the hemline. Emotions of all kinds rush through Fran, none of them good. “Oh god no! What have you done?”
“I couldn’t walk in it,” whines Karina. “I got Max, my assistant, to cut it off. He said he’d do it neatly, but he’s totally messed it up!”
“You don’t say,” says Mick, aghast.
“Now it looks like a scarecrow made it. They’ll tear me apart in the glossies. I’ll be ridiculed. This was supposed to be the making of me…and now it’s fucked!”
Her friends gather around, pat her on the shoulder, dab her tears.
Fran feels slightly queasy. She glances sideways at Mick, then begins tearing the cover off the alternative dress.
“Lucky for you,” she says, “I might just have the answer. I have this—” She offers her own old wedding dress.
Karina looks up.
“Now,” says Fran calmly, confidently. “Relax. Let me fix your dress disaster. If you wear this delightful number”—she presses the dress to Karina—“I think you’ll have a fabulous day. It’s a beautiful cut for you, and I can do all the required alterations right here, right now, so it will fit like a glove. The cameras will love it, full princess overload.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Oh, I’ve had it for a while. Never found the right bride for it. But you…you’ve got the exact attitude to pull it off.”
Karina sighs. “Okay,” she says, brightening slightly. “I suppose I could try it. I always look fierce in silver.”
Collective relief fills the room as Karina yanks off the remains of the Alessandra Colt dress, freely exposing her enormous silicone breasts to the room. Her entourage gathers around and helps her wriggle into the alternative dress. It is two sizes too small, but this doesn’t stop them squeezing and squishing, forcing buttons to fasten where they shouldn’t. Normally Fran would balk at such stitch-straining dress abuse, but it is weirdly gratifying to see her nemesis gown being punished in this way.
“There,” says Karina, gasping with joy—and the tightness of the corset, the flesh around her armpits spilling out. “I don’t think it needs altering at all.”
“It looks hot,” says her makeup guy. “Much sexier than the other one.”
“Totally. Thanks, babes,” says Karina, like she’d never shed a tear.
Crisis over. Her entourage regroups to begin fixing her eyelashes and rearranging vast sections of fake hair. Fran and Mick, meanwhile, gather up the Colt dress and the remnants of its train and make a swift but discreet exit.
* * *
The press attack dies away. The lawyers secure an injunction to stop inflammatory comments about Jane Carolyn Colt and peace is restored. All Rafael is left with, however, is a lake of loneliness. The loneliness itself isn’t the hard bit. He’s used to it. He knows how to fill the void with work and Netflix and books. It’s the not knowing when or if it will ever end. Especially since…since he has now had a glimpse of an alternative way to be.
Mimi struggles with his gloom. Bad business decisions are happening all around him, but he doesn’t seem to care—or even notice. He is limp. He has lost all interest in running the foundation, and she is tired of picking up the loose ends. She wants some time off for her forthcoming nuptials—she hasn’t had a chance to plan or find a dress—but every time she mentions it, Rafael gets grouchy.
“Does Anton really make you happy?” he demands, hunting for chinks.
“Happy enough,” says Mimi. “I find his conversation a little tiresome, but he works a lot, so I don’t think it will be a problem.”
“Do you love him?” he asks.
Mimi shrugs. “We get on. That’s enough.”
“Really? That’s it?”
“I need a visa and I want a child. I’ll love my child, of that I’m certain, but I have no interest in flowers and chocolates and flying cupids. I simply want a stable home and reliable genes for my offspring.”
“Okay, noted: never turn to Mimi for advice regarding matters of the heart, or she’ll cut you down with her emotionless scythe.”
“You can think I’m harsh if you like, but really, I’m only calling it how it is. Love is a bit of frippery designed to distract people from the dullness of their day-to-day lives. It’s a shiny coating and, let’s face it, shiny coatings are for shallow people.”
But he isn’t shallow, he thinks. And yet he has felt it sparking, crackling, burning through his heart.
“The moment I saw her,” he says, staring vacantly, “standing there in that damn wedding dress. We caught sight of each other and…I knew it then, right there and then, that I’d fall in love with her.”
He breaks down, sobs into his hands. With a grimace, Mimi strokes the tip of his elbow, hopeful that human contact might stop the outpour.
That night, as Rafael paces his empty flat, he finds a scrap of Fran’s lace on the floor. His big white box suddenly feels so sterile without her. He pours a glass of wine, places the lace in front of him, drinks alone. He thinks of Paris, of how they lost themselves in the city of light and felt like they never wanted to return to normal life. No good though, no good can come from ruminating.
* * *
The calls stop. No one seems interested in whispering dresses now that Karina T.’s hotly anticipated legacy gown has disappeared from sight. Karina even talks publicly, with strong emotion, about how she was let down by her supposed dress “expert,” that the gown she ended up wearing was nothing like the gown she’d always dreamed of. This has triggered a queue of online rants from sympathetic brides who’ve also been let down by their dressmakers. Hems cut too short. Extortionate alteration costs. Straps falling off. Plus all manner of stains, rips, snags, and botched fastenings. The Evening Standard runs a feature: “Wedding Dress Disasters of the Rich and Famous.”
Yet days later, all trace of the dress-swap fiasco is eclipsed by the gossip from the honeymoon. The internet is awash with photographs of Karina in a white bikini, posing with an unnamed millionaire. There is also some footage of her and Jez arguing in their Maldives hotel, throwing mojitos at each other: “Explosive celebrity bust-up, honeymoon cut short.” The rumor is out there, that they have already had the marriage annulled and are now in talks about a new TV reality show: Karina and Jez: Happily Ever After?
The dress has been cut so crudely, with no care or thought for the lie of the weave or the delicate embroidery. Fabric is like skin, thinks Fran. Once it is cut, it scars forever. She repairs the damage as carefully as she can, a surgeon to a patient, and all the while, her tears drip into the seams—tears for the demise of marriages based on love, tears for all the brides over the years that she believes—truly believes—she has helped; tears for Alessandra, pushed into a marriage she wasn’t ready for; tears for Janice, who’d deluded herself that a big, white w
edding would be the solution to her fiancé’s philandering; tears for loneliness; tears for herself.
But if nothing else, she still has the Whispering Dress, her whimsical fantasy of history, where brides are saved and soothed by the silvery threads of time-earned wisdom. The magic is real, surely? Even if she has no Rafael, she still has that—the gift of love that she has given to so many others. She will always have that.
She remembers he challenged her:
I defy you, Francesca, in six months, go back to your brides, back to Melissa and Rachel, and see where they’re at. If they’re still happy…then I’ll marry you.
But if not?
There is no not. New tears form, but these are happier tears, fueled by the hope that her dresses work. She will go back to her brides and see for herself, find the assurance that she still has something to give, something to believe in.
She picks herself up and hastens through Walthamstow market, through the busy stalls and fabric shops, where once she used to be queen. Her hair is a mess, her cheeks blotchy from all the tears. She has drunk most of a bottle of cheap white wine, triple her usual threshold, and has hit that point of bodily unreality, uncontrolled rivers of emotion spilling all over the place.
Mrs. Rachel Joseph approaches her pink front door. She is dressed in work clothes—black trousers, cream blouse, and navy trench. She has a folder of papers under her arm, a bag of gym clothes, and a takeaway coffee. She is too busy fumbling for her keys to notice Fran approach.
“Rachel?” says Fran, trying to keep her voice level, to hide her inebriation.
Rachel turns, startles, then finds the face. “Oh, I remember you,” she says warily. “Francesca, right? You did my wedding dress.”
Fran smiles, keeps her distance, a meter from the stone steps that lead up to Rachel’s door. The house is immaculate, just as she’d suspected.
“How are you, Rachel? How’s…married life?”
Rachel hesitates, observes Fran’s disheveled appearance, her tear-stained cheeks and uncombed hair. “It’s…it’s good, thanks.”
“Your house is nice.”
“Um, is there something I can help you with?”
Fran’s face cracks. She does her best to hold it together. “I just…wondered if you were happy. You seemed so happy on your wedding day. I chose that dress for you because I thought you needed some grounding. You were so caught up in having some huge extravagant wedding, it was as if the actual marriage—the life, the commitment, and everything that comes with it…it was as if none of that was important to you. I thought the dress would help you appreciate the value of simplicity, remind you that love needs nothing other than two people who care. And you felt it, didn’t you? On that day? You seemed really happy together. My question is…has it lasted?”
Rachel fingers her door keys. Her eyes search back to the dreamlike joy of walking with her new husband in the sun, among all those stupid swans and ponies, laughing at their ridiculousness.
“Elijah and I are great,” she says, a smile on her face. “In fact, we’re going backpacking. We cashed in the all-inclusive Dubai honeymoon, and we’ve handed our notices in at work. As soon as the wedding was over, we both said it…we want an adventure together. Honestly, it’s the craziest thing. We’ve even bought a tent. It just seems…right.”
Fran sniffs, wipes her tears. “Oh, Rachel, I’m so happy for you. That’s the best news ever!”
* * *
Over in Streatham, Melissa West is moisturizing hands in her sister’s nail bar. She recognizes Fran immediately but is unnerved by her scruffy demeanor—Fran, who was always so well put together, so dainty and stylish.
“Hey,” says Melissa, beaming. “Look, everyone. It’s Fran. Fran’s the genius who found me my amazing wedding dress.”
The sister’s eyes narrow to slits. The less said about that scarlet monstrosity the better.
“How are you, Melissa?” says Fran.
“I’m doing all right, you know. Doing good. What about you?” She pauses, a twist of concern on her face. “You all right, Fran?”
Fran nods vacantly, blinded by the floor-to-ceiling shelves of candy-colored polish, all the glitter gels and metallic shellac. “How’s married life?”
The sister steps forward, looks protectively over Melissa.
Melissa shrugs. “It didn’t work out, Fran. He left me, three weeks after the wedding.”
“You left him,” says the sister.
“No, Jac. He left me. Let’s not dress it up like something it isn’t.”
Fran’s eyes widen. Not Melissa. She’d had every hope for Melissa. The Meryl Percy dress had been one of her finest, most potent offerings yet.
“Turns out he was sleeping around,” says Melissa. “Guess I should have seen it coming.”
“I’m sorry,” says Fran, shocked, her tears now flowing uncontrollably, glazing her eyes, blurring the lights. “I’ve failed you. I’m so sorry. I thought I could help you but—”
“No,” says Melissa. “Don’t be sorry.” She goes to Fran, takes her in her arms. “Don’t you see? It’s the best thing that could have happened. You, your dress, that dress you picked for me—it gave me back my confidence. Don’t you remember? In that moment when I tried it on, you showed me I was beautiful as myself, to hell with other people, to hell with husbands. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Fran. Honestly, you saved me.”
“Really?”
“Definitely. I said so, didn’t I? Tell her, Jackie.” She nudges her sister.
“Yes,” says Jackie, forcing a smile.
“Oh, don’t worry about her,” says Melissa, linking arms with Fran. “She gets moodier every second. I reckon it’s the fumes from the polish. But you listen to me, Fran, the wedding joy might not have lasted, but I’ve got me now. Life’s great. I’m working for Jackie and I’ve moved out, got my own flat. And I’ll meet someone else one day, I’m sure, but this time I’ll be a bit more choosy. I know my worth now.”
The two women hug. Fran declines Melissa’s offer of a free mani-pedi and says goodbye, doubtful their paths will ever have cause to cross again. As she walks away, she knows, somehow, deep down, the dresses have done their job.
* * *
Later that day, Fran’s phone rings. A foreign number.
“Francesca, ciao.”
“Fabian?”
“How are you, Francesca? I am so excited to speak with you. I have been doing some thinking. Did you keep it for me?”
“Um…”
“The dress. It has been on my mind since we met. I think the only way to solve this mental pester is…to have it. I have decided. I would like to buy the dress after all.”
Fran sinks into the armchair beneath her, eyes the strands of white cotton spilling out of her sewing box.
“Oh, Fabian, I’m afraid it’s been very badly damaged. I’ve repaired it as well as I can, but I expect its value is reduced considerably. You may not want it now.”
“But it’s still in one piece, no?”
“Just about.”
“Its heart still beats.”
Fran smiles. “Its heart will always beat.”
“You understand me, Francesca. You know clothes the way I do. So you’ll understand when I say I want it regardless—not for how it looks and what it’s worth, but for what it means. It is the only way, I think, that I can truly come to terms with its legacy. When I have it in my hands, I shall see how I feel and decide what to do. Who knows? Maybe I will put it in a glass case and show it off to my friends. Or maybe…maybe I will destroy it.”
Fran flinches.
“If you could ensure that it is packaged well, I will send my best courier right away, then I will deposit £50,000 into a bank account of your choice.”
Fran’s mouth falls open.
“I believe this is its market value,�
�� says Fabian, “unless you think otherwise.”
“No, that…that sounds perfectly reasonable,” says Fran, her legs trembling in shock.
“Well, in that case, just let me know when the dress is ready for collection. If you need some time to think about it, however…”
“Yes. Yes, I might.”
* * *
Fran thinks of the money offered by Fabian. With a windfall like that, she could do so much. She could travel, go hunting for vintage wedding dresses of the world. Or buy a canal boat—she’s always wanted a canal boat. She could paint it red, add gypsy-style decor, flowerpots and deck chairs, a little bed, and a bike for shopping and errands. She could call it Alessandra. She could set up London’s first wedding dress shop on a barge. How sweet. How hip. But as the daydream unfolds, its sides start to fray and give way. Underneath the idyll, her conscience bulges. While the dress has its complexities, at least its fabric and stitches are something she can relate to. Money? What difference does money make when what she really wants is love?
She stares at the dress now, retraces its journey, remembers how she pulled it from the wardrobe, saved it from a dumpster, spared it from cigarette burns as it was paraded in jest by Janey, how she rescued it from the hands of a half-crazed bride who’d gone at it with a pair of kitchen scissors. After all this, she belongs to it, and it belongs to her—each just as bruised and battered as the other.
She slips off her tea dress and climbs inside the wounded silk, feels the form of the bodice, the lace of the sleeves, and the flow of the train. Despite its injuries and its turbulent history, despite its sad whispers, it sings to her, as though, somehow, it still has a purpose. Suddenly the door rattles. Fran looks up, shocked to see Mimi entering the Whispering Dress, dressed in funeral black.
She glares at Fran’s white sparkle, looks her up and down, gives a tight, condemnatory frown.
“Can—can I help you?” says Fran.
“I hope so.”
“You want a wedding dress…from me?”
“No.” Mimi sighs, exhales slowly. “I want you to do something.”
The Second Chance Boutique Page 22