The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  ‘Yes, Eliza,’ a voice comes from the back of the shop. I’ve almost forgotten the fact that I’d called Jolanta last night and told her about the ‘unveiling’ to Mum. ‘I hope that’s OK.’

  ‘Oh, Jolanta!’ Mum rushes over and gives her a hug. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ I don’t even feel jealous (OK – maybe a little). But I’m glad that Mum’s happy to see her.

  ‘It’s good to be here,’ Jolanta says. ‘I love the shop. And I want it to do well. I think – I hope – that Andy has found a way.’ She looks over at me and gives me a little smile. There’s not even a trace of smugness on her face (OK – maybe a little).

  Mum and Jolanta separate (finally). We all watch in silence as Mum walks around the shop, taking everything in. It seems to take for ever.

  ‘Where did the idea for the polka dots come from?’ she says finally.

  I look at Thomas. He looks at me. I feel my stomach plummet.

  ‘Um, remember the white bag?’ I look at the walls, the floor, anywhere other than at Mum – or Mr LeBoeff. ‘It was left on the doorstep by the dry-cleaner. I gave everything back to Thomas. Except for one thing. A dress by Chanel. Black with white polka dots and a full skirt.’

  ‘That dress,’ Mr LeBoeff says. ‘I remember it.’

  I have to look at him then. He seems lost in his own world. ‘She got it from a friend,’ he says. ‘An old woman she knew who modelled the dress back in the fifties. It was lovely and sparkly, and Hélène looked so . . .’ He shakes his head, unable to continue.

  ‘I’m sorry that I took it,’ I say. ‘I sold it on eBay without your permission.’

  ‘Andy!’ Mum looks shocked. ‘You didn’t.’

  I hang my head. This is not how I wanted the day to go.

  Thomas comes up and stands at my side. ‘Andy told me about it,’ he says, taking in both his uncle and my mum. ‘I told her to send it to the buyer and keep the money. It was my mistake that it got left on the doorstep. Andy didn’t know where the dress came from when she listed it.’

  ‘And we used the money to buy paint for the shop,’ I say, knowing that I’m probably digging myself into a deeper hole. At Stevie’s house the other night, I’d emailed the buyer of the dress asking if maybe I could buy it back. I haven’t had a response to my message.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Pierre,’ Mum says to Mr LeBoeff. ‘This must be very hard for you.’

  He smiles at Mum, and rests a hand lightly on her arm. ‘Thomas and Andy did what they thought was best. They might not have got everything right, but then, who does? Let us not be too hard on them.’

  I kind of feel like Mum’s forgotten that I’m there. She looks at Pierre LeBoeff and he looks at her. Thomas, still standing next to me, nudges me with his elbow.

  ‘Of course,’ Mum says, finally coming back to her senses. ‘It’s all just a lot to take in.’

  ‘But do you . . . like it?’ I say. I hold my breath. This is it – everything we’ve worked towards. I’m proud of what we’ve done, but at the end of the day, we need Mum to help make this work.

  She turns towards me and for a second I can see her whole life in her eyes. Her sadness over my dad’s death, her struggles with the business, her love of the former Eliza’s Emporium, her efforts to be a good mum to me, even though she was suffering from depression. And now I see something else there too. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it looks like . . . hope.

  ‘Oh, Andy . . .’ is all she says. She opens her arms and enfolds me into them. Her tears dampen my cheek.

  I hold her tightly, feeling the love and warmth between us. And I know that whatever happens, we’ll be in it together.

  A WISH COME TRUE

  I feel like I’m walking on air. Mum is in on the secret and she’s on board – sort of. Naturally, she has her own ideas. For one thing (and she’s right about this, I know) she wants to pay Mr LeBoeff back all the money for the clothing and the shop fittings. He protests, but being the perfect French gentleman, he lets her ‘win’. They go together for a coffee and manage to work something out – I don’t know the details exactly, but it involves him owning part of the shop as a ‘silent partner’ or something, until she makes enough to buy him out. I didn’t realize before that Mum knew about Hélène and her things, but I guess they’ve been neighbours for so long that it makes sense. When she comes back from meeting him, she has an awful lot of colour in her cheeks. ‘Pierre is such a lovely man!’ is all I can get out of her.

  The other thing that she insists on is going through all the old clothes we culled and put in the basement of the theatre. When she appears upstairs with several bin bags full of the stock we discarded, I have a few tense moments. But luckily, Jolanta is on hand to sort us out. We rely on her to make the final decision. (Mostly she sides with me – except for the denim, that is!)

  Mum also goes on her own to the fashion school and meets the designers who have signed up to rent studio space. Naturally, they all love her and her love of clothes, and she loves them, so that works out OK. But there’s one thing that Mum does that really surprises me. She calls up a TV station and tells them all about our project. There’s a lady who does shows on ‘revitalizing the high street’ and she loves the idea of a shop being transformed by a thirteen-year-old. They decide to send a film crew to cover our grand opening.

  But for me, the best thing is that a few days after Mum comes back, I finally get a reply to my message from the buyer of the polka-dot dress. Apparently, she loved the dress and wore it to some kind of fifties ball. But she’s happy to sell it back to me for the price she bought it for. Which is really great – except I don’t have the money. This time, instead of going behind Mum’s back, I go straight to her. I get another earful – how I shouldn’t have taken it without her permission, and how Thomas and I should have checked with ‘Pierre’. She gives me a lecture on how we need to tell each other the truth; be a team—

  ‘Yeah, Mum, I know. And I’m sorry. But what should I do now?’

  ‘Well, Andy, to be honest, I’m dying to see this polka-dot dress. I’ve applied for a bank loan to cover some of our costs, and I should get the money on Friday. Can it wait until then?’

  ‘Yeah, perfect,’ I say. I can’t wait to tell the others. It’s all coming together – but there’s still so much to do. With everything that’s happening, I feel exited and scared and bubbly and a little sick all at the same time. But then, I’m getting kind of used to that – ever since I met Thomas.

  Thomas . . .

  As much as my wishes are coming true about the shop, when I lie awake at night, there’s a knot in my chest. I don’t want to admit the reason for it, but ever since Mum came back, it feels like he’s avoiding me. I miss the times we had together before the others got involved – painting, dancing, and always in the back of my mind, the white x he traced on my cheek.

  Now, it’s like the only times I ever see him are when I’m over at Stevie’s house – he seems to be there a lot helping her with her walking. Which is great – it really is. I know she appreciates his help, and I’m glad that they’re such good friends. But sometimes, I have this little niggle . . . (OK – sometimes I wish it was still just him and me.)

  A week after Mum’s return, I go over to Stevie’s house on a night I know Thomas is working. I just feel like I need to clear the air, hang out with Stevie on her own. I also really miss the times I had with my friends before I got so busy with the shop.

  When I get there, Stevie’s mum tells me that she’s not home – she’s having an extra session with the physio because the walking is putting a strain on her lower back. ‘Is she going to be OK?’ I say, feeling worried for my friend.

  Stevie’s mum gives me a brittle smile. ‘It’s hard on her body,’ she says. ‘But it’s something she really wants – so she’s going to do it. She wants to be like you, Andy.’

  ‘No!’ I can feel myself blushing. How can Stevie, of all people, want to be like me?

  ‘All the work you’ve been doing at the shop has
inspired her. So good on you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ When she says it, I feel proud, but it also makes me realize how much I’ve been neglecting my friends and their goals. Carrie – she had a plan too, something she wanted to do for the school project, and for herself. She wanted to get fit and lose weight. I wonder though whether she ought to be so obsessed with those things. I mean, it’s good to be healthy, but how much of Carrie’s plan to transform her life is mostly to please her dad?

  I decide to walk over to her house and see if she’s around. When I get there and knock on the door, I have to wait a whole minute and I start thinking that she’s not home, when suddenly she answers the door. She’s wearing a stripy apron and her hands are dusty with flour. ‘Andy!’ she says, looking surprised to see me. ‘Come in – I’m just about to start baking. Cinnamon scones.’ Her face seems to light up. ‘I’ve joined this new online cooking club. Some girl is writing a blog and posting all these really cool recipes. I wanted to try one.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, somewhat warily. It’s none of my business but surely making (and eating) scones doesn’t exactly square with her goal of getting fit.

  Carrie seems to pick up on my hesitation. ‘I know, I know . . .’ she says. ‘I’m not supposed to eat cakes and stuff. But I’ve been reading up on how to eat better. I’ve found out that the worst thing is processed foods – frozen pizzas, fish fingers – I’m cutting all that stuff out. I want to learn to cook home-made things – healthy stuff as well as sweets.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ I say. Whatever she’s doing, there’s something different about her – in a good way. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.

  She catches me looking at her. Her face – she has high cheekbones and really nice skin. Her eyes are a bright and sunny shade of cornflower blue. She’s really pretty – and I don’t think I ever noticed it before. ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘You look really good,’ I say, smiling.

  She frowns, like she’s trying to suss out whether or not I’m lying.

  ‘I haven’t lost weight,’ she says. ‘I mean, not very much anyway. But even so, I’ve managed to do the one thing I really needed to.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  I sit down at the kitchen table and she pours us both a glass of apple juice, then says, ‘I told my dad last night that I’m not doing boot camp any more.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I did. He didn’t take it well at first, but I think he’s coming around.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  She shrugs. ‘I told him the truth. That it was making me feel even worse about myself. Like because I’m fat, there’s something wrong with me as a person.’

  ‘That’s awful, Carrie. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re great.’

  She smiles, and begins setting out the ingredients for the scones: flour, water, a mixing bowl, a wooden spoon. ‘I told him how they were like “get down and give me twenty, you lazy slug”, or “eat cake – run two extra miles”. And they had all these slogans like “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips”, and “couch potatoes finish last”. It was just – you know – like, really demoralizing.’

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘It was. So I talked to the school nurse. She agreed with me that it wasn’t helping – not in the way I need, anyway. So she found me a group – you know, for therapy.’

  ‘Therapy? But you don’t need that!’

  ‘It’s for teenagers who have problems – some with weight, some with other things like their parents, or anger and stuff – and they want to feel better about themselves. It meets once a week. I’ve been once. And it was good.’ She laughs. ‘I mean, I thought I had issues, but you should see the others!’

  ‘I bet.’

  She measures out the flour on the scales. ‘Anyway, so Dad says we can do something else – I’m not sure what, though he did mention cycling.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘I’m not going to get out of this fitness thing that easily.’

  ‘No,’ I laugh. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘And what do you think of the clothes? When you were helping Jolanta with the studio rooms the other night, I helped your mum sort through a new bag of consignment stuff. She picked them out for me – as “payment” for helping out.’

  Because she’s wearing an apron, I hadn’t noticed, but now I do. She’s wearing a fitted blue T-shirt with a V-neck. Not her usual giant man-style sweatshirt. And instead of trainers, she’s wearing a neat pair of black leather loafers with a low heel. It makes her look taller, slimmer and much more confident. ‘The top is from New Look,’ she says proudly.

  ‘You look great, Carrie. I knew something was different about you. It’s fab, really really fab!’

  Her cheeks grow pink. ‘Thanks, Andy,’ she says. ‘You inspired me – with all your hard work and ideas. I hope the shop is a big success.’

  I give her a big hug. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Thanks. Um, Andy . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you want to help me with the scones?’

  ‘But I’ve never baked anything in my life.’

  ‘Have you ever fixed up a shop before now?’

  ‘Well . . . no.’

  She grins. ‘I guess there’s a first time for everything.’ She hands me the wooden spoon and pours the flour into the mixing bowl.

  TO HAVE LOVED AND LOST . . .

  I feel so proud of Carrie – and Stevie – and myself, I guess. The next day at school, Stevie looks pale and I can tell that she’s in a lot of pain with her back. ‘I may not be a rocket scientist like you,’ I say, ‘but even I can see that you need to take it a little slower.’

  Her eyes cloud with tears. ‘But I was making such good progress. I wanted to be able to walk again before Thomas—’ She breaks off suddenly.

  ‘Thomas?’ I say slowly. ‘What does he have to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shakes her head. ‘I meant before the grand opening.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Stevie may be many things, but she’s not a good liar. She’s hiding something – and I have a pretty good idea what it is. My heart feels like an egg that’s been tapped on the edge of a frying pan, ready to crack in two.

  Stevie and Thomas, Thomas and Stevie. I go over and over it in my head as I walk to the shop after school. For a while now I’ve had this little niggle, a thought that’s sprouted in my head like a seed. But I didn’t want to acknowledge that it might be true. Stevie’s smart and funny and pretty in a geek girl kind of way. I should feel happy for her. I mean, it’s not like she set out to steal Thomas from me. It’s not like I have any claim on him to begin with – other than a slow dance and a white x. Besides, he’s fourteen – a whole year older than me, and at least six months older than Stevie. It’s not like he’d want someone like me for a girlfriend, and if he and Stevie . . . well, it’s none of my business. I’ll just try to be happy for them, and try not to let them see how much it hurts.

  I get to The Polka Dot Shop and stand in front of the window. Until the grand opening, the window is covered by white canvas. I try to imagine what it will look like. The display area has been painted all white, with a black polka-dot border. In the centre, we’ll have a white dress form with the polka-dot dress (I haven’t received it back from the buyer, though apparently it’s in the post). Everything will be sleek, modern and classy. There will be no more stained wedding dresses, hula skirts or mannequins painted like scary clowns. Even ‘Amelie’ has been given a makeover – a real wig instead of painted-on hair. She’ll be on display inside the door wearing a shimmering ivory beaded gown by Valentino that will be one of our key display pieces.

  I peer through the panes of glass in the shop door. Mum and Jolanta are inside, chatting and sorting through some of the consignment pieces – just like old times. I’ll have to go through whatever they choose and cull some of it – that much I know. While the shop is officially closed until the relaunch, we’ve done a lot of adverti
sing of the new consignment operation. Lots of people have dropped things off that they’re hoping we’ll sell and they’ll get a percentage. A few days ago, Ms Cartwright came by to see what we’ve been up to, and I showed her the things I’d put aside for her. (Shoes and clothing only – no more bras or ‘pre-owned’ underwear!) I thought she was going to faint when she saw some of Hélène’s things that were hanging on the racks. She came back the next day with three giant bags of clothing from before and after her gender reassignment.

  ‘I don’t have the money to buy many nice new things,’ she’d said, ‘but if I sell some of my clothes, maybe I’ll be able to buy some of your fabulous new stock!’ She’d been drawn to a rack of some of Hélène’s more colourful pieces – a red silk corset dress with a puffy tulle underskirt, a backless beaded ballgown in emerald crepe, a micro minidress in a Mondrian print. (They’ll have to be altered to fit her, and I have no idea where she’s planning to wear them, but I’m sure her students will have plenty to talk about.)

  Now, part of me is tempted to go inside and help out Mum and Jolanta – try to enjoy going through the new stock; try and forget about this hurt inside me. But I know that I’m going to need to face it eventually. Without consciously thinking about where I’m going, I walk around to the back of the parade of shops, and past the open door of Mum’s shop. I make my way to the small door one building over – the old theatre. It’s the one place I can think of where I can have some space – some time alone to clear my head.

  I go into the corridor and walk up to the black velvet curtain that separates the old dressing rooms – the soon-to-be studios – from the main area. I step inside the main space of the theatre, breathing in the smell of fresh paint and newly varnished wood. The curtain separating the theatre from Mum’s shop has been drawn and I can barely hear the sound of muffled voices.

  Just being in that vast white space makes me feel instantly calmer. I turn around slowly in a circle. I want to surround myself in the feeling of newness before the shop opens to the public. I want to enjoy this thing I’ve helped create while it’s still mine.