by Anna Maxted
Gab, without looking at me, said to Jennifer, ‘You have to trust yourself. You will know when you find the right dress.’ She smiled. ‘When a bride gets into the right dress she starts to move in a different way. She starts to smile at herself. You’ll know, Jennifer. You’ll maybe try on umpteen other dresses and then come back to the right one. It will have that wow factor.’
Jennifer blinked. She was wearing owlish spectacles and I could see the tears glinting behind the glass. Gab also looked a little soggy. Jennifer laughed, a nervous, high-pitched laugh, and said, ‘I suppose it’s the same as meeting Mr Right.’
‘Exactly!’ cried Gab, with impressive enthusiasm.
‘How did you meet your fiancé?’ I asked, thinking that this was a safe question. Gab glared at me.
‘He was my parole officer,’ sighed Jennifer.
I said, ‘Aah, that’s lovely.’
Jennifer giggled. ‘Actually, that’s not true. I just wanted to see what you’d say. We met at work. He was my PA. I fell in love with him on sight. He’s dyslexic, which wasn’t great with letters to clients. But I liked the way he chewed his pen. I watched him chew it for three-quarters of an hour once, until I realised the whole office was staring at us.’
Gab had always said that designing wedding dresses was like being a hairdresser – people confided in you immediately. You talked about The Dress, but they were baring themselves to you, emotionally and physically, discussing their physicality in a way they wouldn’t normally. Fair enough, but Jennifer hadn’t yet taken off her jacket!
Gab, however, cried, ‘Oh, that’s so beautiful. I love to hear stories like that. Very occasionally, a client will say, “I really love him … but how do you really know?” and it worries me. You do know. People fall into these safe, comfortable relationships, and nothing’s terribly wrong so they go along with it, but what a way to live, when you compare that to the feeling of meeting someone who makes your heart fly!’
She and Jennifer cooed like a pair of wood pigeons, and I marvelled at Gab’s professionalism. No way could she still believe this – her husband had left her the previous night! But her words made me wriggly. ‘Nothing’s Terribly Wrong’ could have been the headline for Jason and my relationship, and I’d gone along with that for five years, nearly written myself into a marriage contract without bothering to read the small print (I DON’T ACTUALLY LOVE YOU).
The cooing reached its natural conclusion, and Gab ushered Jennifer into the lounge. I’m not sentimental, but it was like walking into the Snow Kingdom. White princessy dresses everywhere, their sequins and pearls kissing the afternoon sunshine and infusing the air with sparkle and glow. I sat on a taut sofa, and Jennifer ran straight to a dress and stroked it.
I sat there, smiling, not really seeing them, and time melted into itself. I was aware of a warm buzz of words, Gabrielle’s voice murmuring against Jennifer’s.
‘Is it to be held in church? … How do you feel about lace? … Do you take a D-cup? … What’s your shoe size? … So is it a big wedding? … Will you be wearing a tiara on the day? … crystals … beadwork … when you’re dancing, we put a flat string under the hem … it’s a very close shape … if you want more taken in then we can do that … step forward a little bit … millennium satin, more shimmery than duchesse satin … look at the heart shape of this one … two-pieces do emphasise the hips … no one decides on the first visit, not even the second … I’ll make a note of the ones you like … Hannah, what do you think? Hannah!’
‘Yes?’ I jumped, and tried to look attentive.
Jennifer was standing, arms stretched out like a scarecrow, in the sort of dreary dress that fashion calls sophisticated. The breed of dress that Gwyneth Paltrow might wear to the Oscars. It did nothing for her. Jennifer twisted and turned in front of Gabrielle’s enormous wall mirror, as if she was missing something.
Now what? Did I insult the designer or the wearer? I said, ‘It’s lovely but … er … what do you think?’
Jennifer swished this way and that and said, ‘Hmm.’
‘You can stand there for ten minutes,’ said Gabrielle, ‘but “hmm” is not going to get any better. Off with its head!’
The dress was removed with a rustle, and Jennifer’s eyes lingered on its nemesis – a dress fit for a medieval princess. It had long drapy sleeves, a tight bodice, and flowing skirt. All that was missing was the cone-shaped hat.
‘I’m too short for a full dress,’ she said hopefully.
‘Nonsense,’ said Gabrielle. ‘You have the fullness to suit you. I can alter the pattern. If I move the hipline up a quarter of an inch it can make a massive difference to how it flatters you.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. If you see a picture of a bride standing on her own without a tree or a car to gauge her height by, you shouldn’t be able to guess how tall she is.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’ Jennifer paused. ‘I am going to lose weight, though. Half a stone. But … will that mess up your measurements?’
Gabrielle whipped the dress off its hanger, and said, ‘Darling, I don’t care if you don’t lose a pound. I’m going to make you look fabulous. But if you feel you want to be lighter for your wedding, fine. We’ll set the toile date – I’ll mock up the dress in calico and lining, then we can move the proportions around. I’ll also give you a diet deadline. No crash diets a month before The Day.’
Jennifer nodded, her huge smile punctuated by two fat dimples of happiness. The magic words, ‘I’m going to make you look fabulous’. I smiled to myself then. Gab had explained her work to me shortly after we met. She’d said, ‘My job is not important in the scheme of things … it’s not like being a doctor. But it is important.’ She was right.
‘What do you think?’
Jennifer did not so much a twirl – it was too regal for that – more a slow sweep around. I smiled. She couldn’t have looked more different from the woman I’d met in the hallway in dark, shapeless trousers. This dress dipped, cinched, and flounced in all the right places, with its pale cream material, a teasing trail of small buttons down the back bodice, the front coyly demure. Her dark hair shone against its paleness, and even the owly glasses took on a sexy glint, very why, Miss Jones, but …
‘You’re beautiful,’ I said.
‘Oh!’ she clutched her throat with one hand, the other she waved in front of her face. ‘Don’t, you’ll make me cry.’
Gabrielle laughed. ‘That is what the right dress will do. It will make people cry.’
Jennifer laughed, and shook her head. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I feel … I feel so.. it’s amazing, oh, I never want to take it off … oh, I don’t know, what do you think, are you sure I …?’
I nodded, smiling. Jesus. An hour back I’d never met this woman, and now I was too choked to speak. It was strange. Gab had talked about women like Jennifer. All professionals, impressive careers, spending budgets, flying hither and thither, and yet, when it came to a personal decision they hadn’t the first clue. They didn’t have the time to be introspective. They avoided looking at themselves in great detail, and when Gabrielle Goldstein forced them to, they felt obliged to run themselves down.
Only now did this seem a little sad.
I sat there, gazing into the distance, as Jennifer changed back into her ordinary clothes and arranged another date with Gab. She left, moving as lightly as a dandelion on the breeze. Gab marched back into the lounge.
I said quickly, ‘That was lovely, it was a real privilege to witness. I was really … moved by that.’
Immediately, I flinched. It was so slimy on my tongue, so touchy-feely, my worst thing. But the words didn’t feel like self-disembowelment; it actually gave me relief to say them.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Gab, huffing through her nose. ‘We all know your view on marriage.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘everyone thinks they do.’
Gab sighed. ‘Yeah,’ she said, as if she hadn’t heard me. ‘Well, guess what, I’m beginning to agree
with you.’ She paused. ‘You needn’t have sent your brother home last night. I threw him straight out.’
‘Oh, no!’ I said. ‘But this is terrible.’ I slumped in my chair, I had the posture of a banana.
Gabrielle kicked off her silver ballet pumps and placed her pedicured feet on the lounge table. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Marriages break up the whole time. I mean, look at you.’
I stared at the floor. I did look at me. I saw a girl who’d got married, when just about everyone said don’t, and they’d had the last laugh and I’d had to stomach it. Age twenty, everything is quite intense, and when Jack left it hit me that I could have spent all my life with him, but now I’d be spending it by myself. Divorce was a dirty subject in my family, and I know my father felt that I’d brought dog shit into the house. All the same, he hired a lawyer for me, and all she wanted to know was ‘Where’s any money you might have?’ Like I had any, like I’d care if I did and Jack took all of it.
I blinked, looked up again. Saw Gabrielle, who looked uncomfortable. It was plain she wasn’t planning to forgive me about Jude, about being Oliver’s sister, about anything. I decided to go. I took three steps.
Then I stopped. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m looking at you, and I see the woman who once told me that she dreams wedding dresses, whose dreams are filled with organza and lace, that she wakes in the morning having cut a pattern in her sleep. I see the woman who, when I told her I was divorcing Jack, went crazy. Who told me that people these days don’t want to put up with that much, they don’t want to put the work in. Who said she’d like people to be more patient with each other, that there’s so much safety if you’re with the right person. The woman who tells her brides that the dress symbolises the importance of the day, that it’s like saying, for this very special day, we are going to do this one-off, very special thing, so that what it means never fades in our memory. And yet, this same woman also tells her brides, it’s not about the frock, it’s about you and him, and you will blink and your wedding day will be over, and the day will come when you hate him, but that will pass, so hang on in there, you may encounter financial problems, your children, your lack of children, will test your relationship, but that if you did have love for that person, not to make any rash decisions, because things will come round again.’
Gab stared at me. ‘I don’t want him to leave me,’ she said, through clenched teeth. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’
‘He won’t, Gab,’ I said. ‘He loves you so much. But you need to talk to each other. Make plans to change what needs changing.’
Gab looked up. ‘Could you get me a tissue?’
‘Sure,’ I said, and ran to the luxe toilet. I sat down, and had a little cry myself. It was becoming a bad habit, like sugary snacks. But I realised, as I wiped my nose, the success of Gab and Ollie’s marriage meant everything to me.
Then I drove home fast. I dragged a chair to my wardrobe and pulled down the black binbag containing my scrunched-up wedding dress. I threw the bag on the floor, and spread out the dress on my bed. My heart thumped as I stroked the silken material – I remembered seeing it similarly discarded, on our wedding night. My eyes prickled – Jesus, I was like a hormonal teenager! I marvelled as to how mere objects take on a status and meaning so far beyond their real worth, as to how they can almost feel like a part of someone. Especially if that someone is lost. I pored over the dress, trying to smooth out the creases. Then I saw that the back of the hem was grimy with dirt and a little bit ragged. I would take it to be dry-cleaned, first thing. Out of respect for … I wasn’t quite sure, but I knew I’d feel better if it were steamed and pressed and hanging on a squashy silk hanger, almost as good as new.
Chapter 31
I returned to work Monday morning, and got the sack. Greg called it a ‘trial separation’, but we all know what that means. That bastard, Ron – he’d tailed me. He had footage of Charlie’s mother and her boyfriend, kissing, on the Thursday night. And footage of me, not recording it.
It’s hard to express quite how loathesome I find Ron. Dark curly hair, in greasy ringlets, close to his head. Scrofulous skin, like something out of the Middle Ages. Rounded shoulders. Hates women. I think he only registered that I was one after my St Tropez transformation. I couldn’t believe it. I always considered myself inoffensive to both men and women. I’m not beauteous enough to be a threat to either, but nor am I the level of ugly that gets you picked on. (Talking of which, there’s my theory for why Ron hates women.)
Greg didn’t say that much. He said more with his body language. Crossed arms, crossed legs: cross, basically.
‘You didn’t take that kid to the school; you took him to the park.’
‘What, did the great sleuth Ron tail me there too?’
‘No. There was loads of grass caught in the wheels of the kid’s pushchair. There’s nothing green within five miles of that school.’
‘Well, Greg,’ I said, ‘if only my sister-in-law was as good a tec as you are. She’s still convinced I took her baby on surveillance, and nothing I say will convince her otherwise.’
Greg said, ‘You got emotionally involved, Hannah. I can’t have that.’
I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t fair. Because I was female, I was ‘emotionally’ involved. Whereas if I was a man, I’d have made an ‘executive’ decision. Greg had made enough of them. There was the time a client had him investigate the feasibility of blowing up his local tax office. Greg said it wasn’t feasible and charged him a lot of money.
‘So, this is it, then,’ I said.
Greg rolled his eyes. ‘No, Hannah, this is not it. You’re going to get lost for two weeks, during which time you are going to decide whether or not you actually want this job.’
‘Will I be paid for getting lost?’
‘What do you think?’
I sighed.
‘Hannah,’ said Greg, ‘you have it in you to be a good investigator. You’re ambitious, determined, stubborn, intelligent. When you first came here, you were also professional. And yet … right now … you’re not distinguishing between data, facts, as opposed to judgement, supposition. I know you’ve got stuff going on, but who hasn’t? You know two things about Charlie’s dad – he’s divorced, he wants to pay less maintenance – and you’re automatically believing a third – he’s a bad guy. It’s dangerous thinking. I can’t have you going all moral on me. Understanding the psychology of the human condition was never your special subject, but at least you managed to fake an interest. Now, you’ve gone to the other extreme and you’re identifying with people. What’s that all about?’
I made an I’m-an-idiot face and looked at my shoes. ‘So Ron gets my job, does he?’
‘No,’ said Greg.
I allowed myself a tight smile. ‘Good,’ I said, ‘because he’s a moron.’
‘Now, now,’ said Greg. But he didn’t meet my eyes. Another time Ron had distinguished himself was when he broke a car’s taillight in order to track it. Berk. Why break the law? You just buy a reflector strip from Halfords and stick it on the rear bumper. It’s a little plastic strip, double-sided, you push it on and walk off – takes two seconds. Your headlights illuminate it, and because it’s where the valance comes down at the bottom of the car, no one notices.
‘Your position,’ said Greg, ‘will remain open for those two weeks. As I said, use that time to consider what this job entails, and whether you are prepared to give what it takes. I’m not saying you have to be bent. More … flexible. I pay you not to lie to me. I don’t expect you to waste my time. If you have a problem with your commissions, say so.’
‘I don’t have a problem with my commissions, I had a problem with this commission. Did you see Charlie’s mother? Does she look like a woman rolling in wealth? Her ex is paying her nothing, I bet, and now he wants to pay her less than nothing. I just … what’s that little boy going to miss out on because of us? You’ve always said, Greg, that we make a difference. But, what if it’s the wrong difference?’
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��I like to think our intentions are good,’ said Greg. ‘I like to think that I am ruthlessly compassionate.’
I wanted to say that he was compassionate, but I knew he wouldn’t want to hear it. Greg was a man who spent his days solving other people’s problems. One time, the grandparents of a toddler had applied for custody because her parents were ‘unsuitable’. Greg had to deliver the first lot of papers, give the parents notification. Because there’s always a second batch to deliver, you can’t make enemies. Greg had picked his way up a ‘garden path’ heaped with decaying rubbish and dog shit. He’d walked in the door, and inside was a three-year-old with maggots in her arm. She’d reached out to him, he’d said she had eyes like saucers. He couldn’t touch her, he’d have ruined everything. He’d had to walk away. I was in the car, waiting. He’d called social services, told them to get there, now. The jobsworth at the other end had tried to tell him she was going home. Greg had persuaded her otherwise; he was shaking. There was a happy ending. The grandparents got the kid. They were ‘rough as nuts’, Greg said, but they loved her, would do their best. Even so, I knew he still had nightmares about that child. You could see it in him: he still tasted and smelt that job. I knew it meant something to him that he’d done his bit to get that kid out of there. I also knew that unshockable, unshakeable Greg had been shocked, shaken, that this child lived in a terraced house in a big city, that neighbours must have seen the state of her, and yet not one person acted. We’d returned to work and Greg had shut himself in his office. But, on no account should I get emotionally involved with a case.
