The Dress Shop of Dreams

by Menna Van Praag

  RHRC: Do you ever feel stuck?

  MVP: I used to feel stuck all the time. In my twenties I was full of self-doubt and could barely finish a first chapter. But, following years of attending inspirational seminars and writing workshops, I’m no longer a perfectionist, which, of course, makes finishing a book a lot easier! I now simply write because I love to express myself. I no longer care that it’s not Shakespeare. I don’t suffer from stuckness anymore, but if things aren’t flowing as they should be, then I stop for a while and go for a walk, read a book or watch a film instead. I take an inspirational break, and when I return to my desk, the words are usually there waiting for me.

  RHRC: What do you hope to accomplish with your writing?

  MVP: I once got an email that actually made me cry. It was from a woman who worked in an office job that she hated. She went to a bookshop over lunch, bought Men, Money, and Chocolate and read it under her desk that afternoon. Then she replicated the main character, Maya, and booked a fortnight off work. She wanted to be a singer, so she arranged time in a recording studio, made an album, and now she gigs all over the country. It’s incredible that something that I wrote actually helped someone transform her life. It’s a glorious thing to feel that you’re somehow being a little piece of goodness in the world; it’s a gift.

  RHRC: What next?

  MVP: I’ve just started running writing workshops in person and online. Teaching was a dream I had a long time ago, but it’s taken me until now to have the courage to do it! It’s a process I find extremely inspiring, both professionally and personally. I love witnessing my students becoming better writers while we’re working together, and I’m certainly becoming a better writer myself in the process, which is a lovely, unexpected bonus.

  My next book, The Witches of Cambridge, is about a secret society of women (and one man) who are all professors at the university and all witches. It’s the most fantastical book I’ve written so far, and I’m absolutely loving it. I’m also musing on an idea I had (about ten years ago) for a children’s book. I might be nearly ready to start writing that now.…

  Questions and Topics for Discussion

  1. Etta’s dresses give their wearers a magic push to go after their dreams. Have you ever had an item of clothing that especially inspired you to take action that you might not have otherwise? Or perhaps someone or something gave you a push to do something that you might not have initiated on your own?

  2. Why do you think Etta’s magic doesn’t work on her?

  3. Cora’s father tells her the chemical formula for love is “One proton of faith, three electrons of humility, a neutron of compassion and a bond of honesty.” Do you agree? Would you add anything to this equation?

  4. Dylan’s letters bring comfort to many lonely fans of the Night Reader. Do you think that justifies his duplicity?

  5. Another possible title for this book was The Night Reader, after Walt and his special secret. Does it change the story for you if you think of Walt as the main character? Which of the characters do you most identify with?

  6. On this page, Cora tells her grandmother that “all the great leaps are made when a scientist thinks of something she can’t yet prove, then dedicates her life to trying.” All of the characters in this book have to make leaps of faith to get something they want. What are some examples?

  7. Do you think Etta made a mistake when she decided not to tell Sebastian about their daughter? Would you have made the same decision? Are secrets inherently wrong or sometimes justifiable?

  8. Should Henry have fought for Francesca even when she told him she didn’t love him anymore? Do you think she was right to send him away?

  9. At the start of the novel, Cora protects herself from pain by focusing on numbers and lab work. But all of the novel’s characters have ways of hiding from their feelings. What do you think these characters are afraid of? Do you ever notice yourself or others around you strategically avoiding difficult truths?

  10. As he reads, Walt notices similarities between himself and the characters in his books: he identifies with Emma in Madame Bovary, Marianne from Sense and Sensibility, and Cyrano de Bergerac. Are there other great literary figures you would compare him to? What about Etta? Cora?

  11. On this page, Etta thinks: “It’s a great shame … that the heart cannot feel joy without also feeling pain, that it cannot know love without also knowing loss.” Do you agree that it’s true that we cannot love without also suffering?

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  The Witches of Cambridge

  A Novel

  by Menna van Praag

  Chapter One

  Amandine closes her eyes as the clock ticks past midnight. She tries to ignore the tug of the full moon and the flutter in her chest as its gravity squeezes her heart. Instead Amandine focuses on her husband’s soft snores and wonders, as she has every night for the last few months, why she feels so numb.

  When they met thirteen years ago, she thought him the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and he’s still a handsome man, strong and lean and dark. Amandine Bisset was so passionate for Eliot Walker that tiny silver sparks flew from her fingertips when she touched him. When they made love, her whole body filled with white light so bright Amandine believed she might explode. Now she wonders when the last time sex was like that. Before the babies were born?

  Now they have two rambunctious, full-blooded, glorious boys and hardly enough energy left at the end of the day for a goodnight kiss, let alone anything else, like wet kisses scattered across warm skin. At least, that’s what they tell themselves. Thirteen years ago, when they were both undergraduates at Magdalene College, Amandine’s skin had shimmered at the sight of him. The first time Eliot Walker entered her world she was standing in the foyer of the Fitzwilliam Museum gazing at The Kiss by Gustav Klimt and wondering if, among all the glistening gold, she’d ever be blessed enough to feel the passionate desire depicted in that painting.

  A moment later, the thought still lingering in her head, Amandine had heard laughter as bright and brilliant as moonshine. She turned to see Eliot standing alone in front of a van Gogh, his laughter flooding the painting and filling the room. Seized by a sudden urge she couldn’t explain, Amandine found herself walking toward him. When she reached him, she didn’t reach out her hand and introduce herself.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  Eliot turned his smile on her. “What?”

  She asked again and he shrugged.

  “I don’t know. There’s a quirky joy about it, the sky rolling like waves, the moon and stars like little suns. I think the artist wanted to make us smile.”

  “I don’t think so,” Amandine said. “Van Gogh was a depressive. This painting was the view from his sanatorium window. I doubt he was smiling at the time.”

  Eliot’s own smile deepened, tinged with cheeky triumph. “But he didn’t paint it there, did he? It was done from memory, years later. He might have been laughing then.”

  Amandine frowned, not because he was wrong—indeed she knew for a fact that he wasn’t—but because he was so sure of himself, so arrogant and argumentative. It brought out her own fire.

  “Before or after he cut off his ear?” she declared.

  Eliot laughed again. “You don’t like to be wrong, do you?”

  Amandine’s frown thickened. “Does anyone?”

  “Not me,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t matter, because I never am.”

  Now Amandine laughed. “Everyone’s wrong sometimes.”

  “Something you know more than most, I imagine.” Eliot’s eyes glittered.

  For a moment Amandine felt the fire rise up in her throat, but just before she retorted with words that would singe Eliot’s eyebrows, she realized he was flirting. She suppressed a smile and feigned a nonchalant shrug.

  “I’m as wrong about life as anyone, but I’m rarely wrong about art,” she said. “Are you a student here? You’re not art history. I haven’t seen you around Scroope.”


  “Law. Finalist. Trinity.” He gave a little bow with a flourish of his hand. “Eliot Ellis Walker-Jones, at your service.”

  “Ah, so you’re one of them.” Amandine raised a teasing eyebrow, her glance resting for a moment on his thick dark hair. “I should have known.”

  “One of whom?”

  “A lawyer. A snob.”

  “The first charge I already confessed to,” Eliot said, “but how can you claim the second?”

  “Your accent, your name, your knowledge of art even though it’s not your subject.” Amandine smiled, feeling a sparkle on her skin as it began to tingle. “You probably play the piano disgustingly well and row for Trinity, too. I’d bet a hundred quid you went to Eton—”

  “Winchester.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Well, not unless twenty thousand pounds a year means nothing to you.”

  Amandine rolled her eyes, finding it harder and harder not to stare into his: vivid green with flecks of yellow, bright against his pale skin and dark hair.

  “So, you’re an art historian then?” Eliot asked, shifting the tone.

  Amandine gave a little curtsy, still wanting to keep it light, slightly scared at the rapidly growing intensity of her feelings for him.

  “Amandine Francoise Héloïse Bisset.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “Merci.”

  Eliot met her eyes. “You don’t have an accent.”

  A rush of warmth rose in her throat. “My parents are French, but I grew up here. I had a brother, but he … he died when he was a little boy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  And he was. Amandine felt gentle waves of sadness wash over her as Eliot spoke. She could feel what he felt just as she could feel what van Gogh had felt when he painted The Starry Night in 1889. Every artist—painter, writer, musician—put their spirit and soul into their work, along with their emotions, and Amandine had always been able to feel exactly what the artist had been feeling when she looked at a painting or read a book. Music was trickier because the emotions of the musician always mixed with those of the composer, and she felt confused and cloudy when confronted with conflicting or unclear emotions.

  Amazingly, though he clearly wasn’t a witch, Eliot was right about van Gogh, though Amandine would rather die than admit it. Besides, she couldn’t say so without also telling him her deepest secret. And she had absolutely no intention of doing that. Even her father hadn’t known about her mother. Héloïse Bisset had kept her true nature from her husband, and although she’d never explicitly told her daughter to do the same, Amandine had always assumed that it wasn’t safe to share such things with people who were purely human. It was likely, if nothing else, to shock them so much that they’d never see you in the same way again.

  “I don’t suppose …?” Eliot began, tentative for the first time.

  “What?” Amandine asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “I don’t suppose you fancy taking a cup of tea with a snobby lawyer? My treat.”

  “Well,” Amandine pretended to consider, “since you’re not a lawyer yet, I suppose I could make an exception. And if you like van Gogh, you can’t be so terrible.”

  “Ah, high praise indeed. I should ask you to write my references,” Eliot said. “And when I am a lawyer, what will you do about fraternizing with me then?”

  They began to walk, past the paintings and toward the door.

  “We’ll still know each other then, will we?” Amandine swallowed a smile.

  Eliot paused for a moment in front of The Kiss.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “In ten years or so I’ll be a London lawyer and we’ll be married with two kids. Boys.”

  Amandine raised both eyebrows. “Oh, really?”

  They began walking again.

  “But I don’t want children,” Amandine said, “so I’m afraid that might put a little crimp in your plans.”

  “You might not now,” Eliot said, “but you will.”

  “Now you’re taking arrogance to a whole new level.” Amandine laughed. “But I’m afraid you are wrong this time. I admit I might change my mind in many ways in the next ten or twenty years but not about that.”

  “Ah, but I told you,” Eliot said, still smiling,. “I’m never wrong.”

  And then, with one bold move following another, he reached out and took her hand in his. Amandine almost flinched, thinking perhaps she ought to be shocked, affronted at his arrogance again. But the thing was, she wasn’t. So she let her hand soften in his, and as they walked together, Amandine wished that her mother had given her psychic powers, along with extraordinary empathy, so she could know whether or not this man she suddenly loved might be right.

  Now Amandine lies in bed next to her husband who has changed so much, and so suddenly, from being the light at the center of her life to someone currently trying to hide at the edges. Lately there’s something else Amandine has begun feeling from Eliot, emotions coming off him in swells so strong she could swear she can almost smell them. Wafts of guilt and fear float about the house in great ribbons, trailing through corridors and lingering in the air so Amandine could track his every movement if she so chose. Her first assumption, of course, was that he was having an affair. It wouldn’t be difficult. He commutes to London every day and often works late and on weekends, no doubt spending time with a wide variety of ambitious young lawyers who might set their sights on a successful and handsome barrister.

  However, if Eliot’s having an affair then he’s as careful and cunning as an MI5 agent. No emails, no texts, no phantom phone calls. Amandine’s few routine investigations have failed to unearth anything remotely suspicious, and she’s sure he’s neither discreet nor deceptive enough to pull off such an obvious secret right under her nose. Eliot Walker is clever, certainly, and as a lawyer he has probably pulled off a few tricks in his time, but as a husband and father he’s always been transparent and true. At least as far as Amandine knows. It’s just a shame that her gift for feeling what other people feel isn’t accompanied by the ability to know their thoughts. Empathy balanced with telepathy would make sense. It would provide the whole picture. Without it Amandine is left knowing how people feel but not knowing why.

  Noa Sparrow has never been much liked by people, and she doesn’t much care. That isn’t strictly true, of course. She tries not to care, she pretends not to care, but she doesn’t do a very good job. The problem is that most people don’t like to be told the truth. They prefer to hide things from themselves, to act as if everything is okay, that stuff doesn’t bother them when it does. They think, rather foolishly, that what they ignore will simply disappear.

  Noa can’t help it that she’s always been able to see the truth. What’s worse though, is that she’s unable to keep silent about what she sees. The words escape her lips, no matter how hard she tries to clamp them tight shut. How often she longs for the ability to feign and fake, to be two-faced, to be a bold and brilliant little liar. Most people seem to manage it easily enough, but sadly it’s never been one of Noa’s gifts.

  She was twelve years old when her need to tell the truth ruined her life. It was two weeks before Christmas and Noa was sitting at the dinner table with her parents, wondering about what she’d get in her stocking that year, while they talked about fixing the dripping tap in the sink, when she saw something—a dark truth snaking underneath benign sentences about faucets and the price of plumbers—that she couldn’t keep secret. Every day since, Noa has cursed her awful truth-telling Tourette’s syndrome, wishing she’d been able to keep quiet on that dreadful December night. But, since she can’t undo the past, she’s spent every day instead hating herself for doing what she did.

  Diana Sparrow didn’t speak to her daughter for three months after Noa, reaching for more potatoes, suddenly burst out with the fact of her mother’s affair with her tango teacher. The shocking secret had just slipped out. Noa clamped her hand over her mouth as the words tumbled into the air, but it was too la
te. Both her parents had turned to look at her in shock, and the stunned guilt on her mother’s face was unmistakable.

  In the months of ear-splitting, heart-shattering pain that followed, Noa prayed every night that she’d be struck down and her “gift” for seeing and telling the truth would be stripped from her. She cut off her long blond hair in penance and denied herself any treats. She took a vow of silence, not opening her mouth to say anything at all, so no hideous, undesirable truths could sneak out. Noa watched, helpless, while her mother relocated to the sofa, then moved out altogether. She listened to her father sob behind his bedroom door in the early hours of the morning. And all the while she said nothing. Not a single word.

  Noa had hoped she would somehow be able to go through the rest of her life like that, silent and unseen, never upsetting anyone again. But when she returned to school at the end of the summer, Noa found that her teachers weren’t willing to let her tiptoe through her education undetected, especially when they noticed the quality of her written work. Seeing they had someone rather special in their school, they encouraged her to participate in class, to join in with everyone else. So, in spite of her desperate efforts to remain anonymous, Noa was frequently forced into class discussions, team projects and group assignments. And, although she tried very hard to monitor words very carefully in her mind—planning them once and checking them twice—before she let them out of her mouth, every now and then someone’s secret would break free. Perhaps unsurprisingly then, Noa’s childhood passed without the comfort of friends.

  By the time she reached university, to study the history of art at Magdalene College, Cambridge, Noa had almost convinced herself that she didn’t need anybody else, she was perfectly fine going through life alone. She could quite happily spend entire days in the Fitzwilliam Museum on Trumpington Street, passing the morning with Renoir, Matisse and Monet, sharing her lunchtime sandwiches with van Gogh and Vermeer, having a quick supper snack in the presence of Picasso and Kandinsky. But at night, as she lies alone in her bed, all the unspoken thoughts of the day pinballing around her head, Noa’s loneliness is bitter and sharp.