Red Dress

by Bridget Finklaire

  “Dream about what you really want,” the Voice had said, so Katy had been spending five minutes each day on the train day-dreaming of a happy marriage, sexual intimacy, connection, support from her spouse and a life filled with joy. There were other joys, she had realized, like seeing clients heal, deepening new friendships, and feeling her way within the Movement of Spiritually Enlightened Souls (MOSES).

  Katy was plunging deeper into the unusual and further from the mundane. She had started to notice synchronicities in her life, plans falling effortlessly into place, offers of help coming from unlikely sources, clients having the exact same problem she herself had just faced.

  The Voice continued to coach her now and then, helping her with difficult emotions that were bubbling up from the past: an authoritarian boss whom she’d been terrified of, the near loss of Tilly when she was born, her brothers’ incessant teasing during her formative years, her father’s hurtful put-downs, her mother’s lack of maternal love. Terry had suggested she give herself permission to rest, and she had forced herself to find at least ten minutes a day. Life was becoming less of a marathon, less of a battle against time. Even though the monthly migraines were crippling, she smiled more often and was noticing a spring in her step, despite the pressure that remained. There were glimpses of contentment and moments of happiness. It had taken a lot, she reminded herself, to get to this point. She’d had to face down some of her worst demons – being shamed and humiliated by her father, the guilt of feeling she’d not been the perfect daughter and the notion that she wasn’t a proper psychotherapist because she hadn’t trained in Jungian or Freudian Psychoanalysis. She still didn’t think she was slim enough and perhaps would always think she was overweight, despite the fact her BMI (Body Mass Index) was in the lower half of a healthy range. She’d calculated it several times, just to be sure. The strange outfits weren’t helping, she told herself, catching her reflection in the mirror. If she were dressed in black, she’d feel better. She waited for the Voice but it wasn’t forthcoming. A pile of paperwork was threatening to topple from her desk, but she’d pushed any concerns to the back of her mind. Terry had said she must slow down.

  At least the lime green and magenta had been dumped unceremoniously outside another high street charity shop. She’d obviously let go of enough bitter past and opened her heart and mind to something bigger, whatever that was. Maybe it was those mystical moments she’d experienced when she’d walked through the trees on Sundays? One thing she knew for certain, she would never, ever, wear lime and magenta again, and was now sporting baby blue and pink. According to her notes from Lavinia, this bottle was about the inner and outer journey of transformation and finding freedom through embracing change. Ultimately it would lead to the opening of the crown chakra (shake the bottle and the two colors made lilac). Katy grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. The colors weren’t entirely flattering at her age and looked pale against her dark, reddish-brown hair and olive skin. Tilly rolled her black kohled eyes in disapproval at the fluffy, pastel-rose, cowl-necked sweater with faded blue jeans and pink ballet pumps. “Mum!” she said with heavy sarcasm before skulking away. Katy knew the Baby Spice look was not only passé but ridiculous. “Bloody Aura Soma!” she muttered.

  Richard was keeping a low profile and hadn’t been so vocal in his criticism of her friends and lifestyle. He seemed preoccupied, working hard at the office, and coming home late with bunches of roses. Perhaps he’d softened? Were the visualizations on the train beginning to work? Could there really be a ‘happily-ever-after’? He’d given her plenty of spending money, and they’d been to a few posh restaurants over Christmas. She looked at the beautiful silver bangle and felt the weight of it on her wrist. He’d obviously put a lot of thought into it. How silly she’d been to think there was someone else. Richard was right, he’d been telling her for ages he was a good catch. How stupid she’d felt when he’d explained it was his secretary, Helen, who wore Chanel No.5. Dear Helen, with her fussy ways and her sensible clothes and a husband she’d loved for years.

  Katy was getting to know Tony better as their light, newsy emails ran to and fro. His experiences seemed to mirror hers. He’d been married twice just like her, had done well for himself, was practical and had an interest in metaphysics. He sounded, from his anecdotes, as if he was a great father. He’d travelled a lot, and certainly knew his red wines! They’d hit it off as virtual pen-pals from the start, quickly finding common ground. The rebellious teenager had grown up and Katy looked forward to Tony’s charming, well-written missives. Richard had never written anything more than ‘love Rich’ in a birthday card or ‘I’ll be late home’ in a text message. It was refreshing to read Tony’s accounts of his daughter, his wife, his big house in the country. He was a hands-on father, who’d been there from the offset, taking little Amber to the doctors when she was sick, collecting her from nursery, teaching her to ride a bike. Katy felt a jolt, and clenching her teeth, she looked away from the screen, recalling all too vividly Richard’s absence from child-rearing, what with his long hours in the City.

  Amber. She must have inherited Tony’s thick golden locks. She imagined his long, curly hair, cropped now into a thick thatch of sandy waves with a few greying hairs at the temples. The emails came from an official MoD address, Ministry of Defence. He’d told her it was nothing exciting, just a desk job in the sticks. She figured he was probably a Civil Servant, but she couldn’t help feeling he was hiding something. He seemed too confident and polished. Maybe he was top brass, she thought, her imagination running away with her, a Rear Admiral or a Colonel. An officer and a gentleman! She could picture him, dashing in his uniform with the military buttons, the epaulettes, and the square jaw. No, he might have smartened up, but you could bet your last few pennies that Tony Verde would never join the British Army!

  March 2009

  Meeting Tara for coffee on Wandsworth Common one bright spring-like Saturday afternoon, Katy broached the subject of Tony. She needed to talk it through. Shanti wouldn’t understand, being so resolutely single, and it wasn’t something she wanted Terry to analyze.

  “I feel like I’ve known him for ages, and in a way, I have!” she said, crossing her legs and squinting into the sunlight. “After all the emails, I was thinking we could meet up.” A smile played on her lips as she turned towards Tara.

  “Terrible idea,” Tara said, setting her mug down sharply on the table. “You’re too busy to see half your friends, let alone a stranger!”

  “But I really enjoy his emails and he’s in town every so often.” Katy’s eyes were sparkling.

  “Do I need to remind you, it’s not a good idea to meet up with your ex?”

  “But it was all so long ago, Tara, we were just teenagers, and I don’t have any feelings for him anymore.” She was twirling a chestnut-red lock of hair around her index finger.

  “Then why are you emailing him every week?”

  “We’ve got a lot in common, but there’s nothing between us, I promise you!”

  “Oh yeah? No smoke without fire, that’s what I say,” said Tara, reaching into her capacious bag for juice cartons and mini boxes of raisins.

  “Honestly, there’s nothing there! He’s married with a kid.” Katy’s eyes were wide, her palms open.

  “And you’re married with two kids!”

  Tara stood up and beckoned to her children. “Hazel? Jake? Who wants apple juice?” They left their game and came running on chubby little legs towards the café.

  “I can’t help thinking he holds the key to something.”

  “What?”

  “I dunno, but there must be a reason he’s come back into my life. Maybe it’s to do with my spiritual journey?”

  “Just be careful, Katy,” Tara said, pursing her lips and pulling a wet wipe from her bag.

  * * *

  Sitting at her desk on Monday morning, Katy’s pulse quickened when she saw an email pop up from the familiar MoD address. Eager to read the latest instalment, she ignore
d two client enquiries and a message from her accountant. They could wait. As she read his review of the weekend, all thoughts of work and domestic pressures faded. Her shoulders relaxed, her face softened, and her eyes wrinkled into a smile. At the bottom of the page, there was a PS.

  How about meeting for coffee one afternoon in town?

  Oh my God! He’d been thinking the same thing. It must be a sign, she thought, staring at the screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but Tara’s words were still echoing in her mind. She’d leave it for now.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, she boiled the kettle for a cuppa but couldn’t stand still. Ants in your pants, she told herself, pacing from the kettle to the fridge. She absently opened the door and stared at the contents before shutting it. Opening it again, she slipped her hand to the back of the fridge, extracting a prized bar of 90% dark chocolate. I’ve got to stop eating this stuff, she thought, cramming four squares into her mouth. The kettle had boiled, and she took a mug of steaming Earl Grey into the garden.

  There had been so many synchronicities recently that she could no longer call them ‘coincidences’. They were more like little miracles of timing. She was always in the right place at the right time or led to the perfect book or the most effective approach for a client. It was as if there was an invisible plan taking shape with little signposts showing her she was on track. Katy sipped at her tea and watched a robin perching on the washing line. Life’s running quite smoothly for once, she thought. Money’s flowing in, I’ve got a waiting list, and when I need time off, I get cancellations. It’s uncanny. The daffodils were peeping through the borders, she noticed, as the spring sun warmed her face. It felt like the world was waking up after a long hard winter. Something stirred within, a surge of enthusiasm lighting her up. I’m riding a wave at the moment, she thought, but I don’t know where it’s taking me, and that’s frightening. What if I come down with a crash?

  Having finished her tea, she went back upstairs. She’d better mull this Tony thing over before replying. Maybe the Voice would tell her what to do but for now there were accounts and enquiries, and a website that needed editing, then clients to see, dinner to cook, post-session notes to be completed and a holiday that needed booking.

  * * *

  Katy had kept Tuesday clear and decided to use the available time to tidy up the house. Tony’s email was still playing on her mind. She wondered what he looked like now as she took a bin liner, polish, and duster up to the office. ‘Start at the top and work down,’ she told herself. Katy hesitated on the landing. “Hello?” she said, peering into the mirror and waiting. It was never there when she needed it! Emptying the office bin, then polishing the mantelpiece and shelving, she wondered why the Voice didn’t answer.

  That’s better, she thought, straightening the papers on her desk. The char would hoover and clean on Thursday, but Katy had to get the place tidy first! Leaving the office, bin-liner in hand, she stopped again at the mirror. “Are you there?” After pausing, she continued down the stairs. Your environment reflects your state of mind, she thought, gathering up washing, making beds, and putting clothes away. The mess was disturbing her psyche and as she folded towels and replaced toilet rolls, she could feel a dark cloud of resentment drawing itself around her. Neat and tidy would restore her sanity, she decided, folding T-shirts and hanging up jeans. Richard had been out late on another work-jolly the night before, celebrating, he’d said, and the kids were just your average teenagers, their worlds revolving only around themselves. The last thing they were going to do was volunteer to help. Katy returned to the mirror. “It’s just that I’d like your advice about something,” she said, eyes looking to one side as she strained for a response.

  They did as they pleased, Rich and the children, as if the house would take care of itself, and the sock fairy would forever fill their drawers with freshly laundered footwear. They’d left a trail of destruction and expected her to clear up. She was tired, and on top of that, felt guilty because she’d been away so often on courses. It was no use, the Voice clearly wasn’t there. I wish the house wasn’t so bloody big, she thought, tears beginning to form as her eyes prickled. She’d felt like Cinderella when she was young, helping Mum with the washing and ironing, polishing the wooden floors, making tea and baking scones, and all instead of playing with other children at a nursery! The boys hadn’t had to do anything. They were older and at school, and when they got home they went to the park to catch butterflies and fly paper airplanes or climb trees. She wasn’t allowed to join them because she was the silly little girl, and besides, she wasn’t old enough. It had hurt, and thinking about it so vividly now, the tears were running freely down her red, blotchy face. Blowing her nose on a piece of toilet paper, she sniffed back the sobs, but they started again. She hadn’t had any playmates till she got to school and now, here she was, stuck cleaning, just like then.

  She sat down on the edge of Tilly’s bed and looked out of the large, sash window. A patchwork of lawns with verdant borders ran along the backs of the houses, punctuated by the odd swing or climbing frame. The garden next door housed a huge trampoline. What she’d have given to live here as a child, and what she’d give now to live anywhere else. She hated the middle-class suburb with its monied privilege and narrow outlook. Give me a mixed area with different cultures anytime, she thought, realizing she was no longer that trapped little girl. She was an adult and, as the Voice had said, she was the director of her life and was free to create any ending she liked. She would have a loving marriage and a happy outcome if she did a bit more work on herself, and she would live in North London.

  Having shoved the washing into the machine, Katy stopped to throw together a cheese and tomato sandwich. Radio 4 babbled in the background with the usual news roundup – more fighting in Bagdad, political posturing, a police raid on a drugs cartel in Bristol, floods in Wales, an oil spill in the Atlantic, and a pedophile ring in Manchester. She switched off as The Archer’s theme tune started. If you are what you eat, she mused, I’m becoming a sandwich, but there’s never time to cook! ‘You’re not eating properly,’ she could hear her mother’s nagging voice. ‘You won’t have enough milk for the baby.’ As if she knew, the woman who’d given up and bottle-fed, letting her eldest son feed her new-born daughter while she flirted with her theatrical friends. “It’s in the past. Let it go,” she said out loud. “Think about positive memories instead!”

  Katy slipped an Alan Watts CD into the sound system. It was a recording of some of his better-known talks. She’d borrowed it from the library thinking it might lift the drudgery of housework. The kitchen took the brunt of family life with its large table, bay window, and arched entrance to the room beyond, which was once a playroom when the children were small. It now housed the television, a built-in shelf unit and a lumpy old sofa. Every time Richard called it the snug, Katy would mishear ‘smug’. The settee was strewn with newspapers, magazines, and squashed cushions. She folded the papers and plumped up the pillows, finding a half-sucked sherbet lemon stuck to one of them.

  This is the real secret of life — to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, realize it is play, said Alan Watts in his peculiarly educated and English accent. Katy opened the French windows to let in some air. Soon it would be summer and they could leave them open all day, assuming summer would actually appear, unlike last year, which was peppered with overcast skies and cool breezes. Huh. Global warming is such a misnomer, she thought, or did they use the term ‘climate change’ now?

  Normally, we do not so much look at things as overlook them, said Alan.

  Katy clenched her teeth and took a deep breath. “Spit-spot,” she said out loud. “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.” She slipped her hand into the back of the fridge and pulled out a 70% with orange and spice. Just two squares, she thought, taking three then feeling guilty. She’d be putting on weight at this rate. It had to stop!

  The only way to ma
ke sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it and join the dance.

  Dance! Thought Katy, stopping Alan in his tracks and replacing him with Groove Armada. Turning the volume up and singing along, she unloaded the dishwasher, tapping her feet and swaying her hips as she put the crockery and cutlery away. Stacking the dirty plates to the beat of the bass, then wiping the stove to the slower tracks, she got through almost an hour of boring housework as if it was fun. It was the nearest she got to dancing these days. Her mind drifted back to her twenties when she’d be out, shaking her booty every weekend, then further back through time, to her childhood. She clutched at the edge of the sink and welled up. She’d wanted to be a ballet dancer. The teacher had said she was excellent, and she’d always got distinctions in her exams. Her face contorted now as the memories came swimming back. Dad laughing at her, his face creasing, and his shoulders heaving. “You?” he’d said. “You’ll be the one they send on to test the stage!” She hadn’t been overweight, just a typical seven-year-old with a bit of puppy fat around her tummy. Steadying herself, she began analyzing it. Just an abreaction, she thought, it’s over now. I’m safe and I’m not fat. She sat at the table and worked through the feelings. Emotional Freedom Technique would be the best way to process this, she thought, her fingers lightly tapping at specific acupuncture points as she gave voice to her emotions. It was over. She smiled. If she’d carried on dancing, she’d be anorexic and smoking 30 a day to keep herself skinny, and she probably wouldn’t have met Richard or had the kids. The music had stopped.

  * * *

  Wednesday was admin day, and Katy tackled the mounting pile of invoices and receipts on her desk, along with emails, client handouts, and another tweak to her website. A young woman rang to book an appointment. She seemed to be in a panic. “I’m getting married in six weeks’ time and I can’t stop eating dark chocolate!” she said, her voice rising, “Can you help me?” Katy grimaced, her stomach tightening. “Yes. Let’s see when we can fit you in.”