It’s almost like there’s another presence in the room, the way I felt when Thomas and I danced in this place that holds so many memories of wartime joys and sorrows. But this time, I can almost imagine that La Belle Hélène is here herself, in spirit, along with the designers who made her their muse. And I know that I’m part of something larger than myself. Something timeless and enduring.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper into the ether. ‘Thank you so much.’
THE GRAND OPENING
SIX WEEKS LATER
On the morning of the grand opening, sunlight streams in through a gap in the curtains, and for a second I worry that I’ve overslept. I’m out of bed and dressed in black jeans and a black The Polka Dot Shop T-shirt before I realize that it’s only six a.m.! I go to the window, open it and take a few deep breaths of warm spring air. The trees outside have gone from blossom to green, and Easter is on its way. All in the time that Thomas has been gone. Sometimes it’s felt like for ever, sometimes like only a few days. We’ve emailed and Skyped a few times, and I know that he’s trying really hard to keep in touch and is planning to come back for the grand opening. But I also know that he’s got a new life now – meeting new people, going to a new school. I’ve kept myself busy too with school (Mum says she’ll only let me help out at the shop if my schoolwork doesn’t suffer, so I’m trying extra hard). At the shop I’ve also been helping the designers settle in to their studio space, getting the whole consignment process up and running, and selling endless things on eBay. But even with so much going on, little things remind me of how much I miss him.
I trace the phantom outline of a white x on my cheek. Will he come today, as promised? Or will it all be too much of an effort? Either way, I need to keep a clear head so that I can get on with the million tasks I need to do before this afternoon. Even though I’ve been working flat out for weeks and I’m pretty sure everything is ready, I plan to use every second to make things perfect.
Mum is already in the kitchen when I go downstairs. She’s made me a mug of hot chocolate, and a plate of eggs and soldiers. Though I feel sick with nerves, today of all days I know I need to keep my strength up.
‘You look great, Mum,’ I say as she brings the food over. She really does. She’s wearing our logo T-shirt and a floaty chiffon maxi skirt in a zebra print (I’m pretty sure I put it in a bin bag, but then she ‘rescued’ it). Her wrists are covered with her signature bangles, and she’s got a necklace of some kind of black-and-white seeds. I’m glad that despite all the changes we’ve made, Mum still has her own unique ‘vintage’ style. I guess I’ve learned that not everyone has to like the same things.
‘Thanks – you too.’ Mum looks at my prim black outfit. ‘You look very grown-up, Andy.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. It’s not just the clothes. It’s everything you’ve done. You’re different somehow.’
I choke back a tear. ‘I think we both are.’
She takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘Try to enjoy today,’ she says. ‘You deserve it.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I squeeze her hand back. ‘You too. And it’s going to be great – I just know it.’
And I do know it . . . but I still feel nervous.
After breakfast, I leave to go to the theatre. Mr LeBoeff knows some local caterers and is working with them to prepare lots of nice canapés for the launch. He’s also making some miniature baskets of his to-die-for fish and chips. They’re due to start setting up the food around noon. The same time the models are due to arrive. We got the names of the models from Jolanta’s fashion school – all of them are looking to get catwalk experience and some portfolio shots, so they’re doing it for free.
We’ve got a few other freebies as well. Jolanta has another friend who’s a photography student. He’s coming to photograph the event (in return for a case of beer). Stevie has put together a website for the shop, and it’s going to be my responsibility to keep it up to date with events, photos and special promotions. Mum’s also had a lesson in computers – she’s now in charge of our eBay shop where she’ll list special pieces that come into The Polka Dot Shop. As manager of the business, she’ll have her work cut out for her keeping on top of everything in real time and cyberspace. But at least now she’s got Jolanta back, and if we’re really successful, maybe she’ll be able to hire another assistant so that she has more time to ‘talk fashion’ with the customers. I know that Mum’s still taking her tablets – she says she has to be on them for at least a year. But she seems so much brighter – because of what’s happening with the shop; and also because we’re getting along so much better. Whether we succeed or fail, that’s worth everything to me.
The front door of the shop is closed and the window is still covered over. I enter through the back. The front of the shop has racks of the consignment clothing for sale, and some new designer pieces by the fashion students. Eventually, we plan to turn the part of the space that was Eliza’s Emporium into a café and fashion bookshop, and have the theatre as the shop floor for the clothing. Right now, though, the theatre stage has been turned into a huge catwalk, with chairs on either side set up for the grand opening fashion show.
The rest of the theatre is being used to showcase some of La Belle Hélène’s pieces – almost like a museum of fashion. Of course, almost everything’s for sale – but even I find some of the prices a little bit shocking. Jolanta’s professor, though, has assured us that the clothing is special and worth every penny.
I walk to the window at the front of the shop. The centrepiece is a plain white dress form with the black-and-white polka-dot dress by Chanel, accessorized with a single strand of pearls and a black patent leather handbag and shoes. It already looks perfect, but I plump out the skirt so that the glitter tulle in the underskirt sparkles in the new shop lighting. The plan is that after the shop is unveiled to the public, the dress will come out of the window, and one of the models will wear it in the fashion show.
I spend an hour or so just checking on things – that the tables are set up for the caterers, the speakers are plugged in, and that the sound and light system for the fashion show (courtesy of another friend of Jolanta) is plugged in. I also log into the laptop where we’ve set up all our online profiles. There’s been a lot of traffic on Twitter about the grand opening, and there are seven fashion bloggers and vloggers scheduled to attend our event (two of them are teen bloggers). Carrie also got some people from her online cooking club to say they’ll come, and they’re bringing a great big celebration cake.
In other words, while everything is sorted, there are a lot of moving parts. I’ve done what I can to put things in motion. Now I can only cross my fingers and hope . . .
Over the next few hours, it’s chaos as people begin to arrive – caterers, models, the sound and light crew, and the bloggers and journalists. Mum is in her element ‘talking vintage’ with customers old and new. One of the new customers is the woman from London who bought the polka-dot dress and sold it back to me. When I sent her the invite, she was very keen to come and see what else is for sale from Hélène’s collection.
As I’m showing some of the bloggers around the shop, there’s a commotion outside as several large vans arrive with the film crew sent to cover our grand opening for their show about revitalizing local high streets. They confirm that the woman from TV who revitalizes high-street shops will be on hand to witness the makeover of Eliza’s Emporium into The Polka Dot Shop. Mr LeBoeff and Aunt Linda – who has come down from the Lakes for the opening – direct the vans to park behind the shop. Carrie, Stevie and I are on hand to help them unload their equipment, find the electrical outlets, point the way to the toilets, and generally make sure that the crew is fed and watered.
The hours fly by and pretty soon it’s almost two o’clock. Outside, there are people milling about on the pavement waiting for the doors to The Polka Dot Shop to open and the window to be unveiled for the first time – waiting to come and experience the newest shopping ‘destination’. I
spot Ms Cartwright wearing the Mondrian print dress that she bought and had altered, and Stevie’s parents and Carrie’s dad. I feel a little jolt of pride when I see Chloe, Olivia and a few other members of the ‘fashion police’ queuing up by the door.
At two o’clock exactly, I stand at the door next to Mum. Behind us, Mr LeBoeff is there, his solid presence comforting in all the chaos.
Mum gives my hand a quick squeeze. ‘OK – it’s time,’ she says.
My fingers feel jittery as I unlock the door. A black-and-white ribbon is stretched across the doorframe. Mr LeBoeff hands Mum a pair of scissors. The crowd gathers, ready to come inside. Mum cuts the ribbon and it falls away. From inside, Jolanta pulls the canvas down from the window. The polka-dot dress is classic and perfect, and the window looks just like I’d imagined. People begin snapping photos of it with their phones as they queue to get into the shop.
‘Welcome,’ Mum says, ushering in the first customers.
The next hour is a blur of people – customers looking at the clothing, asking questions, trying things on. The fashion bloggers take photos of the shop, me, Mum, Hélène’s collection. The till rings constantly as the sales begin. There are queues at the fitting rooms, and the young designers are hovering around talking about their work. The TV camera crew conducts a few interviews. Stevie and Carrie seem to have disappeared – I can’t find them anywhere.
And Thomas. There’s no Thomas.
I take a breath trying to steel myself against the hurt I feel inside. He’s not coming. It was too much to hope for. I understand that now. Paris is a long way away. I have to accept it and move on. I just have to!
Eventually, Mum comes and finds me. I think she guesses how I’m feeling, because she gives me a big hug and whispers how much she loves me. I say the same back to her. Letting it out, though, makes me feel even more like crying. I manage to pull myself together, but only just.
Finally, it’s time for people to take their seats for the fashion show. I quickly check with the stage manager that everything is ready to go. There’s a mad frenzy going on of models getting their make-up touched up, designers sewing hems, shoes getting put on and taken off again. One of the models, a thin blonde-haired girl who looks barely older than I am, looks a bit ill and one of the assistants brings her a glass of water and some paracetamol.
‘Um, is everything OK?’ I ask worriedly.
‘It’s always like this,’ the stage manager assures me. ‘I’d say, go ahead and get started. We’ll be ready.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I will.’
A few minutes later, I’m standing in the wings of the stage, my insides flipping nervous somersaults. One of the crew gives a signal and the lights dim. A spotlight comes on, illuminating the catwalk. The music starts up and the screen flashes with hundreds of little dots in all colours that form a tunnel like a spaceship going into hyperspace. At the end of the tunnel, the logo of The Polka Dot Shop appears on screen. As I step out on stage, the music fades out. The microphone in my hand feels so heavy that I might drop it. I grip it for dear life, and hold it up to my mouth.
‘Thank you all for coming today to the grand opening of The Polka Dot Shop.’ I’m startled by the strength of my voice echoing through the theatre. ‘A few months ago, I thought that the only thing that would save my mum’s shop was a roll of bin bags and a skip.’ I smile as a few people (luckily including Mum!) laugh at the joke. ‘But since then, I’ve learned a thing or too, believe me.’ I smile encouragingly at Mum, then turn back to face the crowd. ‘I hope that you enjoy our fashion show and stick around afterwards to do a little shopping. I’m sure there will be something in The Polka Dot Shop that you’ll love. Thank you, and enjoy.’
My knees feel like jelly as I step off the stage. The music blares in my ears as I hand the microphone to one of the stage hands and take my seat at the top of the catwalk. I spot Stevie’s parents and Carrie’s dad in the audience, sitting with Ms Cartwright and a few of the other teachers from school. But where are Stevie and Carrie? Are they backstage helping out? I watch the first model – wearing a vintage ‘little black dress’ from Hélène LeBoeff’s collection – swagger to the end of the catwalk, pose, turn and walk back again. I scan the audience’s faces looking for my friends, but I don’t see them.
The show continues on, model after model, each outfit more interesting than the last. The fashion students have really outdone themselves, making unique pieces out of lots of the old fabric from Eliza’s Emporium. There are smart women’s suits made from old men’s suits, little dresses and skirts made from denim, cardigans covered all over with fancy buttons, even a ballgown made from a collage of different fabrics with a collar made from costume jewellery. And interspersed are the classic pieces that we’re selling from the ‘Collection Belle Hélène’ – Hélène LeBoeff’s designer pieces. These stand out as the models saunter down the catwalk, sometimes next to a piece by a fashion student which was ‘inspired’ by it. We’ve also included some of the best consignment pieces. All in all, the catwalk is a whirlwind of lights, colours, and music—
But then, in the middle of the show, the lights in the theatre go out completely and the music cuts off. I gasp – this wasn’t supposed to happen. I hear whispering in the audience. After a few seconds, the music comes back on – softly at first, and then louder. The spotlights begin to flash wildly. And then, from behind the screen, a figure emerges.
‘Oh!’ I clap my hand over my mouth as Carrie comes on to the stage and down the catwalk. Her hair has been slicked back, her face made up – and she looks absolutely gorgeous. She’s wearing black wool trousers and Hélène’s black-and-white houndstooth jacket, and heels which make her legs look long and slim. She comes to the end of the catwalk, turns and gestures to the stage. There’s a hush and another figure comes out – moving slowly, one foot in front of the other. It’s Stevie! She’s wearing a silver lamé dress and silver ballet flats. In one hand she’s carrying a little silver handbag studded with pink sequins. Her other arm is firmly gripping the arm of a figure in black – Thomas!
I cheer at the top of my lungs, my eyes shining. Thomas lets go of Stevie’s arm and she takes the last three steps all by herself. I feel an unbelievable sense of joy and pride. Then he takes her arm again, and holds out his free hand and pulls me up on to the catwalk.
‘You came!’ I say.
But instead of saying so much as ‘hello’, Thomas leans in and gives me a kiss, full on the lips. In front of reporters, TV cameras, friends and family I turn the colour of a ripe tomato, and Stevie has to reach over and help steady me on my feet.
‘You need to get backstage,’ Thomas whispers into my ear. ‘One of the models is sick.’
‘What?’ I say. But the three of them are already moving on, getting ready to turn round and walk back. I run down the catwalk to the wings.
Backstage, it’s still complete chaos. I trip over Stevie’s empty wheelchair and almost fall over the sick model I saw earlier, who’s sitting off to one side with a bowl in her lap. The stage manager is busy trying to stuff one of the models into a Lanvin ballgown and do up the zip.
‘Andy,’ she says. ‘Good, you’re here. We need you for the grand finale. You’re the only one small enough to fit into that dress.’ She points to a rack – it’s the polka-dot dress! Without a second thought, I get undressed, not caring who sees. One of the assistants helps me put the dress over my head. Another comes and touches up my make-up. Then, as the first is zipping me into the dress, someone else is twisting my hair and pinning it up and a third is shoving my feet into some high heels that feel about three sizes too small.
Stevie and Carrie come backstage after their big moment. Thomas helps Stevie into her chair, and then he looks up and his eyes lock with mine. And suddenly, at that moment, I’m both the me that is and the me that I could be, and I get the idea that he sees them both. And then he smiles, and I feel so flushed that I practically teeter over in the heels. An assistant takes me by the arm. ‘It’s
time,’ she says.
I walk out on to the stage. The lights swirl around me and the music vibrates through every cell in my body. Step by step I walk down the endless catwalk. I’m barely aware of the faces of the crowd, and every eye upon me. I get to the end and do a little twirl. The sparkles glitter and catch the light. And all around me, the noise of the crowd is deafening as the other models come out and join me on the catwalk, and people jump up from their seats to whistle and cheer. Stevie and Carrie’s parents are yelling at the top of their lungs, and Mum is standing at the back with Mr LeBoeff, smiling and crying at the same time. Ms Cartwright and the girls from school are on their feet cheering. And then, all I’m aware of is Stevie, Carrie and Thomas beside me at the end of the catwalk. Thomas helps Stevie to her feet, and the four of us stand there, shoulder to shoulder and take a bow.
‘We did it,’ I whisper to my friends. The lights are hot, the music is loud and the cheers are deafening. But as we stand there together smiling and squeezing hands, I know they hear me.
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is dedicated to my three daughters, Eve, Rose and Grace, who have always loved dressing up, and will always be my princesses. I was inspired to write this book because I have a long-standing interest in vintage fashion, especially from the 1920s. Unfortunately, most of us normal-sized people can’t fit into the sizes from back then, but I do love the care and craftsmanship that went into each piece. Whether or not you are into fashion, I hope that you have enjoyed Andy’s journey and can find some inspiration in it.
I want to thank all of my readers, some of whom I’ve had the pleasure to meet over the last year on school visits. It is wonderful getting your reviews and feedback, and I love getting letters and emails from around the world.
While I was editing this book, we lost one of our greatest minds and champions of the human race, Stephen Hawking. However, I think we can take some comfort in the next generation – young people today – who can hopefully follow his lead to envision and create a better world.
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