Red Dress

by Bridget Finklaire

  “And balance,” added Tara, opening a bar of chocolate for them to share.

  “That’s it! Balance and the feminine. Nine’s a biggie. It’s about serving humanity, unconditional love and spiritual wisdom.” Shanti stopped to break off a piece of fruit and nut.

  “And completion!” said Tara.

  Katy leaned back on the sofa, having taken a second square of chocolate.

  “Then there’s the master numbers.” Shanti nibbled at her chunk of fruit and nut.

  “What are they?”

  “Eleven, twenty-two and thirty-three. All double digits.”

  “Come on girls, let’s change the subject!” Tara had heard it all before.

  “Just let her finish! It’s only three numbers!” whined Katy.

  “Ok, you carry on. I’ll tidy up and make coffee.”

  “Not for me, I won’t sleep!”

  “Nor me.”

  “Chamomile tea?” Tara busied herself with the kettle while Shanti explained the last three.

  “Eleven is the first master number, highly spiritual, powerful. Can mean a pair – two ones side-by-side. It holds the one energy of beginnings and the two energy of relationships.”

  “Why two?”

  “Add the digits. One plus one is two, which happens to be the beginning of the Fibonacci sequence.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Katy, don’t you read anything? It’s the numbers of creation! It’s everywhere in nature!”

  “Oh, I remember now! Pinecones and nautilus shells? What about twenty-two and thirty-three?”

  “Twenty-two is the master builder, and thirty-three is an extremely significant and powerful number,” spat Shanti.

  “Come on, you two! Chamomile tea, then I’m going to have to kick you out. My bed’s waiting!”

  Passing through Hammersmith on the train home, Katy recollected the afternoon she’d met Tony at the station. He’d told her it had been nine for the day, three for the month, and eleven for the year. Spiritual, fun, and powerful. Ooh, and new beginnings and relationships! And if you added up the whole lot, day, month, and year, it was five for freedom!

  * * *

  Richard and his team were celebrating the successful conclusion of another takeover bid. They left the office and headed to a local wine bar to toast their victory with a bottle of bubbly. As it was Wednesday, they dispersed early, each taking different routes back to their respective homes. Emma hailed a black cab to her apartment in Docklands, Helen jumped on the number 26 bus, a couple of the younger members stayed for another drink, and one trudged up to Chancery Lane. Richard strolled back to St Paul’s tube station and boarded a train. Just after 9 o’clock, he pushed open the door to number eleven. The effing windchimes clattered as usual. “I’m home!” he bellowed, waiting for a response. He noticed a scrap of paper propped up on the hallway table.

  Rich

  Gone to Tara’s. Moussaka in the fridge. Just heat up.

  Tilly staying with Eva – school project. Freddie at Tom’s – rugby practice early tomorrow.

  See you later.

  Kit. X

  He sniffed, clenched his jaw, and took the note, screwing it tightly before tossing it into the umbrella stand. “Huh,” he grunted as he climbed the stairs. In the bedroom he carefully removed his tie, placing it on the rack inside his wardrobe door. The shoes were next. He gave them a quick polish with a cloth that he kept on a shelf, tilting them towards the light to check the shine before setting them carefully down. The suit was meticulously arranged on a wooden hanger. Unbuttoning his shirt, he flung it in the corner, then peeled off his sweaty socks and threw them at the shirt.

  A grubby pair of jeans hung over the back of his bedroom chair, along with a T-shirt and sweatshirt he’d worn the previous evening. Plucking a fresh pair of socks from the drawer, he pulled on his casual clothes before stepping into his slippers and shuffling down to the kitchen.

  Sodding Moussaka! At least it was home-made, he supposed, not one of those frigging pre-packed things. Taking it from the shelf, he placed it in the oven and stared at the dials. Which one was it? He couldn’t remember – he’d have to eat it cold. Taking it out of the oven and finding a fork on the draining board, he sat on the sofa in the snug, flicking through the television channels to see what was on.

  Around 10.30 pm, he switched off the TV, deposited the dirty fork and dish in the sink, and locked the front door. He may as well turn in. It would be an early start tomorrow.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, he undressed, leaving his casual clothes in a heap. Having cleaned his teeth, he donned an old-fashioned pair of pajamas, heaved himself into bed and fell into a fitful sleep. Even in repose, a worried look was etched upon his face. He was dreaming of the money he was going to make on some shares. Images of fat retirement funds and lavish holidays peppered his fantasy before quite suddenly, it turned into a nightmare. Shadowy men in dark glasses were taking him somewhere for questioning. He managed to get away with it, just. Gift of the gab. He’d smoothed things over, but it was close. He was walking down Cheapside now, but he’d lost his way. It was unfamiliar, jumbled up, so he hopped on a bus which promptly took him in the wrong direction. He was far away in the countryside, somewhere East of London. Getting off the coach, he noticed a newsagent, and picking up a copy of the FT, his heart stopped. Interest rates had fallen through the floor, and most of his investments had tanked. Richard twitched in his sleep. The nightmare continued. Where had he stashed the money? And who’d confused the pin numbers? He rolled over, shaking off the fear, and the images drifted away. There was a distant sound of windchimes clanging. By the time his wife had slipped into bed, he was too far gone to acknowledge her.

  Chapter 23

  Thursday 23 April, 2009 – a two day (relationships & union)

  Thursday evening was prime time for Katy’s City clients who could afford her top rates and didn’t want to take time off work. The three sessions were usually booked up in advance, despite the higher fee. This evening, however, there was a networking event at the house in Harley Street. Three times a year, the lavish first-floor reception rooms would be opened up – at Christmas, Easter and again at the end of Summer. Tonight, was the Easter Party and Katy had decided to take the day off. At Christmas, she’d gone straight from client work into mulled wine and tinsel, while her colleagues had taken the afternoon off to freshen up. She wasn’t going to get caught out again, and besides, she had a growing mountain of paperwork and unanswered emails. The new schedule that Terry had insisted on left her too little time to keep everything under control.

  Her first event had been a challenge, she remembered. She’d insisted on seeing her 6 o’clock client, which was precisely when guests were starting to arrive at the big old Georgian house. Unaccompanied and wearing a sober, brown, pin-striped trouser suit, she’d entered the room to a sea of unfamiliar faces. Struggling to make conversation, she swapped business cards with a handful of others, mostly those who like her, were new to the game. A rather glamorous blonde psychologist had been working the room in her figure-hugging, little black number. That was the way to do it, thought Katy – professional with a seductive twist. It was different now, of course – she’d got the measure of the old boy’s network, the new kids on the block, the highflyers and the flirtatious professors. There would be light jazz music, canapés, bubbly, and a host of influential consultants to be schmoozed. She was looking forward to it. In an effort to connect with Richard, she’d invited him along and would be meeting him in Cavendish Square at 6 pm.

  Crossing items from her list that morning, Katy was pleased she was making headway. Once or twice, head buried in invoices, she’d feel a strong surge in the center of her chest and wonder what it was. Looking up, she’d see Tony’s face in her mind’s eye, smiling at her, as if he was thinking of her at that exact moment. The third time it happened, her phone buzzed a split-second later.

  Just wondering how your day’s going? T x

  A broad smile playe
d on her lips before Tara’s words came swimming back. Putting the phone on silent and placing it face down, she took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to get embroiled. Leaning back in her chair, she clasped her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. There was no traffic on Sycamore Road at this time of day, and she could hear birdsong floating in through the open window. A warm, peaceful feeling rose from within, and the corners of her mouth turned up as she basked in the stillness. In a moment of clarity, she knew that Tony was a distraction. Richard was her husband, and she was proud of him. He’d be his usual charming self at the party, and everyone would see how lucky she was. Her tall, dark, handsome man. She opened her eyes and leaned forward, determined to break the back of the paperwork.

  Just after 3 pm, her desk tidy, most of her list crossed off, her laptop closed, she sat back and sighed. She’d better get ready, she supposed, but she didn’t feel like it. Relaxing at home on the sofa seemed like a better idea. Huh, that was never going to happen! Dragging herself downstairs and into the shower, she washed her hair, shaved her legs, and brushed her body with a loofah. Hair coiled up in a white towel and donning a navy bathrobe, she stepped out of the en-suite. She didn’t want to go. All that dressing up, then the train into town, just to network with people she didn’t care about. Letting out a sigh and pushing through the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she flung open the wardrobe doors and stared at the racks of clothes. Nothing inspired her. “I can’t face that navy skirt suit again,” she muttered, running her eye along the rail. Maybe the midnight blue shirt-waister with the tiny white dots? She could team it with a chunky belt. Not very sexy, but it could be dolled up with some bling and a pair of high heeled shoes. Her solar plexus tightened slightly as she parted the clothes to take a look at the dress. It was a bit stuffy, and she was fed up with blue, fed up with this constant having to do things she didn’t want to do! Oh! The craving for blue and white had gone! That was the last of the Aura-Soma bottles, which meant she could wear what the heck she liked! Casting her eye over some suitable outfits, she realized nothing inspired her.

  “Red dress.”

  She felt sure she heard something, but it was so faint, she must have imagined it. Pulling out a beige and black raw silk ensemble and hanging it on the wardrobe door, she pursed her lips. Ugh. She couldn’t be bothered, but she had to make an effort. Fran was expecting her, and besides, she’d invited Richard. Taking the silk outfit from the door and pushing it back among the other clothes, she started methodically again at one end of the rail. Grasping a toffee-colored satin dress, her face lit up before remembering the neckline was a bit too risqué. Back it went.

  “Red dress.”

  There it was again. “Is that you?” she asked, pausing, her eyes darting from side to side. Nothing. She carried on to the end of the rail then started again. Perhaps the putty-grey tailored jacket, with that printed skirt?

  “Red dress.”

  Third time. She heard it distinctly. Taking the classic, hourglass, shift-dress from its hanger, she smiled. Sleeveless, with off-white trim around the armholes and scoop neck, she thought of it as rather Christmassy with its red-and-white nod to Santa and its tweedy woolen weave. “I can’t wear that,” she said aloud. “It’s bright red!” Something made her dig out a pair of matching Italian red-leather heels. “It’s Harley Street, not the Dover Street Wine Bar!” The tone of her voice was enquiring, but there was no answer. Just the sound of a car driving by outside. What would the black-and-navy brigade think? She’d stick out like a red sore thumb in an ocean of somber shade! It might not fit, all the chocolate she’d been eating, it could be a bit snug.

  Oh, for God’s sake, she couldn’t wear it to a work do! It would be unprofessional. Was she going mad? Did she honestly think she was going to walk into a networking party in a tight-fitting Marilyn Monroe-style red dress? But the Voice had told her. Three times. Trying to find another outfit was useless. Deep inside, she knew she had to wear that dress.

  Slipping into silk undies and teasing on a pair of sheer hold-ups, she sprayed herself liberally with her favorite Penhaligon’s perfume before pouring herself into the frock. The zip glided up – just. She felt fabulous. Eyeing herself in the mirror and running her hands over her small waist and down her curvy hips, she pronounced it a success. Wow! She hadn’t felt this good in ages! Maybe she was meant to stand out. Perhaps there’d be a celebrity client or a famous professor she had to impress. Whatever it was, she’d learned to trust the Voice, even if the advice seemed irrational. It was probably a Being so advanced that it could see into the future, or could it be creating the future, bit by bit, preparing to reveal its mighty work, a masterpiece no human hand could paint? Katy giggled, what an imagination she had!

  Sitting at the dressing table, the cosmetics drawer open, she put on a picture-perfect face in just under ten minutes. She’d been practicing for years and could practically do it in her sleep. As she blotted her red, glossy lipstick on a tissue, the phone vibrated. She’d forgotten to turn the sound back on. It’d be Richard. She’d get back to him in a minute, one more dab of powder on the nose, a quick smile to check her teeth for stray lippy and she was almost ready. Teasing out a few strands of hair over her forehead, she checked herself once more in the mirror. “Looking good!” She beamed at her reflection. She’d scrubbed up well and could still turn a few heads.

  Reaching for the phone to answer Richard, her heart leapt.

  I know you usually work Thurs. Don’t suppose you’ll pick this up, but I’m in town! Any chance of a quick drink? T x

  Her hands were shaking, her composure gone, her mind blank. Then it dawned on her – at that moment, she couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather meet, dressed up to the nines in a sexy red outfit. Before she could stop herself, her fingers punched out a message, seemingly of their own accord.

  At home. Work’s do tonight. Have to be there before 6 pm but could see you for brief catch up? Meet you 4.45 at Paddington? xx

  Sh-sugar! She shouldn’t have put those two kisses. Grabbing a cream, leather bag and a Chanel-style, ivory jacket, she left the house. It was sunny outside and after polishing her Jackie-O-style sunglasses, she slid them onto her face.

  * * *

  Tony Verde had been sitting on the 16.02 train from Paddington to Oxford. He’d arrived earlier than expected and settled himself into a comfortable window seat. The station announcements merged into the background as he found himself obsessing over Katy. He was such a numpty with these phones, it took him ages to type out messages. Stupid really, he thought, because he knew she worked Thursdays. He pressed send anyway, knowing she wouldn’t pick up till much later, then stared at the screen before opening the Evening Standard. If she hadn’t replied immediately, she’d be with a client. That was her style. Putting his phone in his pocket and trying not to get sucked into the fantasy that was playing in his head, he turned to the crossword to take his mind off things. It would be a long commute home. He felt his mobile vibrate. Probably Lauren wondering when he’d be back. His pulse quickened as he read Katy’s message, and with gasping breaths, he grabbed his briefcase and jacket, jumping onto the platform just as the doors slid shut behind him. The station attendant blew his whistle, the carriages were locked and a moment later, the train shunted away. Two more seconds and he’d have been trapped on his way to the shires.

  Hands trembling, he fumbled with the keypad.

  Meet you at the clock. What are you wearing? Still not used to the short hair!

  He headed straight for the station pub and ordered a glass of Aussie Shiraz. A message popped up on his mobile:

  You can’t miss me! I’m wearing red!”

  He knocked back the glass of wine, then ambled towards the clock.

  * * *

  Katy stood at the center of the carriage, checking her reflection in the double doors. She swore she could feel people staring before returning to their newspapers or gazing out at the passing houses. Her heart was pumping. It was ridicul
ous, at her age, like being a teenager all over again. She’d better calm down and start thinking clearly. Reframe: it was just a bald, middle-aged, short friend who she used to know at school. Nothing more.

  Yogic breathing. Perhaps that would help. Breathe in for the count of six, slowly out for the count of twelve. Her pulse was still racing. Relaxation Response. Breathe in for the slow count of seven, hold for the count of five, out for the count of eleven, hold for the count of five and repeat. It wasn’t working.

  Emotional Freedom Technique. Nobody was looking, they were all buried in their books or playing games on their phones. Under her breath, she repeated the words “Even though I have this anxious feeling, I deeply and completely love, honor and accept myself.” Surreptitiously tapping at different meridian points on her face and upper body, she’d just started making headway when a lady in a lilac cardigan seemed to have fixed her eyes on her. Was it the red dress or the tapping? Spinning around and flashing her a broad smile, Katy’s ivory jacket, which was hanging from her bag, fell to the floor. The woman smirked at her as she bent down gingerly in the tight-fitting dress, catching sight of her own smoldering reflection in the glass.

  As the train approached Paddington, the light fluttering of butterflies grew stronger, as if thousands of them were beating their wings in a fury. She’d got this under control, she told herself. Gritting her teeth and hanging onto the rail, she wondered what she was doing. Harmless fun, that’s all. They were just friends, so why was her pulse racing like this? Did she want an affair? No, it was morally wrong. What would she say to a client in the same scenario? She couldn’t think. Was this about validation and attention, she wondered? At this rate, it would all end in tears, as her grandmother used to say. It was getting out of hand, but she couldn’t stop.

  The train jerked to a standstill and the doors opened. Katy spilled onto the platform, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. He might not recognize her with them on, she reasoned, sashaying across the concourse towards the clock. Tony was lost in a throng of people, but she spotted him fiddling with his left cufflink, and locked eyes with his. Slow down, just walk normally, she told herself. Part of her was in the scene, the other dissociated as if watching a slow-motion remake of Brief Encounter. All that was missing was the music. She wanted to run and fling her arms around his neck, but she mustn’t. Standing a respectful distance away, she stopped, a coy smile lighting up her face as she said, “Hello!”