Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  ‘You know, Mum said I should have a look up in the attic,’ she told Lizzie. ‘I haven’t in years.’ It had never occurred to her that her parents would need to get rid of it all one day. But of course her mother was right. They could hardly keep it.

  ‘Is something wrong, darling?’ Lizzie asked, sharp as ever.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’

  ‘You were going to tell me all about Dearlove?’

  Sylvie sat down on a little gilt bedside chair, taking Lizzie’s hand in her own. ‘I— It’s all done for, Lizzie,’ she said, reddening with embarrassment. ‘I’ve had to pack it in, I’m afraid . . . My last collection, well . . . We went broke. I’ve lost everything.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Lizzie patted her hand shakily, a pained expression on her face.

  Sylvie hung her head. Sometimes it just threatened to overwhelm her. With her company gone and her life shattered, it felt like the end of everything. On top of that, she’d lost her beloved flat. It was only a small studio in Brooklyn, located off busy Saltbush Flat, but it was the first place she’d truly been able to call her own. The exposed brick wall used to shed red dust, so that her bedsheets felt sandy after only a few days, and the plumbing had almost been worse than Bledesford’s, spouting scalding water one moment and freezing cold the next. But she’d found a white tulip table and chairs in a nearby vintage store for her ‘dining room’ (really just a few steps from her double bed) and had hung parachute silk in long swathes from the high ceilings, so that she felt like she was walking into a wedding marquee whenever she opened the front door.

  The walls had been decorated with a few choice samples from each of her collections and threaded through with fairy lights as a sort of visual diary. And the bare polished floorboards she’d painted French grey herself, after consulting with the landlord. Decorated in her favourite shades of dusky blue, lilac and pink, the bed was modern and simple under hand-dyed linen sheets, and there was an old draftsman’s table in the corner under the large picture window, and a vintage wooden filing cabinet. It was where she had designed and stored her early collections, long before she’d done well enough to move into the warehouse and hire full-time staff. To top it off, the fire escape reminded her of Holly Golightly’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. God, she had loved her apartment, cramped and down-at-heel though it was. She’d cried for days after having to give it up and move in with Ben in his tastefully appointed two-bedroom in midtown Manhattan.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Lizzie said, frowning. ‘I know how much the company meant to you. Why didn’t you say something?’ She passed back the tray, shaking her head. ‘Is that why you moved in with Ben so suddenly?’

  Sylvie nodded, wiping her nose. She wondered if she should press her great-grandmother to eat. She did look awfully thin.

  ‘Ben. He’s a good man, yes?’ Lizzie asked, dark eyes searching hers.

  Sylvie didn’t hesitate. ‘He is. Very good.’ But she couldn’t help the flush rising to her cheeks again.

  ‘And tell me, darling, did it make the papers or the news?’ Lizzie said, her nostrils flaring slightly. She said ‘the news’ as though spitting out the word ‘anthrax’.

  ‘What? Oh, yes,’ Sylvie said, her heart rate quickening. She felt a little breathless all of a sudden, the familiar nervousness coming over her. Not now, she told herself. Lizzie was the dearest person anyone could hope for as a great-grandmother, Sylvie thought, but she knew all too well Lizzie’s distaste for failure and her pathological aversion to the media. She told herself to calm down – Lizzie was only worried about her wellbeing.

  ‘Well, that’s unfortunate.’ Lizzie pursed her lips. ‘Ghastly vultures, journalists, preying on other people’s misfortunes.’

  Sylvie couldn’t bring herself to speak. In the early days of Dearlove, the fashion journalists had been quite lovely to her, praising her work and the first few shows. But those tasked with covering Dearlove’s rise appeared to relish its demise even more than its ascent – picking over all the humiliating details with glee. Sylvie was an abject failure in their eyes, the subject of numerous columns and op-ed pieces on where it all went wrong, and her reputation – like her company – was in ruins. She couldn’t help the tears which suddenly sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Lizzie, it’s just been so awful . . .’ Her voice cracked, and she couldn’t go on.

  Lizzie patted her hand. ‘Buck up, darling.’ Her voice was crisp. ‘Keep calm and carry on. Don’t dwell on the bad things, just keep pushing forward, that’s what I say.’

  Sylvie gulped and nodded dutifully, wiping away the tears on her face, but she felt the slightest sting at Lizzie’s casual dismissal of her pain.

  ‘Pretend it never happened,’ continued Lizzie. ‘That’s what I did . . . what I had to do . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she appeared lost in thought.

  Sylvie frowned. ‘Sorry, what do you mean?’

  Lizzie turned to look at her blankly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Sylvie tried not to let her shock show – did her great-grandmother even recognise her now? She was looking at her very strangely. Was this what her parents had meant about her ‘episodes’? ‘Um, Lizzie, how are you feeling? Mum said you haven’t been quite yourself . . .’

  The odd moment passed and Lizzie’s eyes came back into focus. ‘Ah, your mother.’ Lizzie gave a weary sigh and waved her hand dismissively. ‘I’m fine, she’s worrying about nothing, as usual. You know what she’s like.’

  Yes, Sylvie thought, she did. Practical, sensible and cautious, Wendy thought there was an answer for everything, and liked to shore up against every possibility – except life just wasn’t like that, as far as Sylvie could tell.

  ‘Help me up, would you, dear? Sorry, my back’s a bit sore.’ As Sylvie bent over to help shuffle Lizzie up, she noticed the huge bandage on her great-grandmother’s back.

  ‘Oh! What’s this?’

  ‘Nothing, darling, just a bedsore. Hurts like buggery, I tell you. But the local quack gave me some exceptionally good drugs to help with it,’ she said, nodding at a stack of blister packs beside the bed. Sylvie peered closely at the overflowing medicine box, seeing the two crisp rows of little glass vials, and read one of the labels. Morphine. God, Lizzie’s condition must be worse than she realised. Maybe Wendy was right and she did need a full-time nurse?

  A lump caught in Sylvie’s throat – Lizzie was going to be absolutely heartbroken when she heard about the sale. There would be no establishing herself in a new place, or dying peacefully in her own bed here at Bledesford. Wendy, Robin – even Gigi – would find it hard but possible to move on and forge new lives for themselves. But for Lizzie, Bledesford was everything there ever was or ever could be.

  Sylvie’s eyes flicked over to the picture on the bedside table. It was a photo she hadn’t seen before, in an elegant frame, a black and white portrait of two young women standing on what looked like a London street, wearing plush fur stoles over their tailored skirt suits, their thick hair done up in shining victory rolls.

  ‘Lizzie, is this you?’ she exclaimed, picking it up to have a closer look.

  ‘Yes, that’s us, in 1940.’ Lizzie pulled a face. ‘Victoria was just engaged and we were both so happy . . . It was before . . .’ She looked like she was about to say something more, but cleared her throat instead. ‘Well, it was a long time ago.’

  ‘You’re both so beautiful,’ Sylvie murmured diplomatically. The two girls were both striking in their youth, but it was obvious to Sylvie that Victoria was the more remarkable beauty, with her blonde hair, her sparkling eyes and her lips parted in a bright smile. Sylvie hadn’t seen many photos of her great-great-aunt – Lizzie didn’t like to speak about her much – but she was fascinated by how different the two sisters looked.

  ‘You know, darling, I won’t be around forever . . .’

  Sylvie put the picture down reluctantly, and turned her attention back to her great-grandmother.

  Lizzie fiddled with the cuffs on her nightdress, cho
osing her words. ‘I was going to . . . Oh, never mind, I’ve forgotten what I was about to say . . .’

  It might be the drugs but it was very unlike Lizzie to lose track of things. Sylvie was suddenly worried all over again.

  ‘Well, this is just horrible, isn’t it?’ Sylvie said suddenly, deciding to lighten the mood. ‘Absolutely disgusting to see you.’

  Lizzie chuckled. ‘Yes, you too, my little monster. Positively awful,’ she said. ‘You’re a ghastly girl.’

  As Sylvie laughed, she felt a rush of love for her great-grandmother, for surviving so many years and for facing each day with her customary brand of acerbic strength and fortitude. That was what being a Dearlove was all about – being strong, being proud, holding your head up high. Even though it was something she couldn’t quite muster in herself at the moment.

  Sylvie brushed her thumb along Lizzie’s bruised-looking wrist, breathing in her smell: lilac and roses, with an undercurrent of Earl Grey tea.

  ‘What do you say about rustling us up an adventure?’ her great-grandmother said suddenly, pushing away the covers and arching an eyebrow at her wryly.

  ‘Of course, m’dear! You know I’m always keen to assist.’

  With a shaking arm, Lizzie pushed herself up and swung her legs around. A hot water bottle, still warm, fell to the floor. Reaching out one thin, knobbly foot, Lizzie leaned on Sylvie’s arm, gesturing towards a wheelchair beside the bed. She was so light, Sylvie thought with a shock as she took the old woman’s weight against her. Lizzie’s feet landed on the ground and Sylvie helped ease her into the wheelchair.

  ‘Come on, old thing. What sort of adventures did you have in mind, then?’

  ‘Well, call the private jet – I think we should fly around the world and be back in time for tea, don’t you?’

  ‘Capital idea,’ said Sylvie, smiling.

  ‘Yes please. A little trip over to the Continent, stopping for aperitifs in St Petersburg, then on to the Far East . . . I am quite ready.’ Lizzie pulled the blanket up over her knees. ‘In fact, I think I should like an aperitif,’ she said firmly, narrowing her eyes at Sylvie.

  ‘I think we can manage that.’

  ‘Why don’t you make one of those mojo-whatsits of yours?’ Lizzie said. ‘The ones with mint and lime. Those were lovely. I’ve been asking your mother to fetch me one ever since you last visited, but she can’t quite seem to master the recipe. Is it rum or vodka – I can never remember which?’

  ‘Either,’ said Sylvie. ‘One mojo-whatsit coming right up. Actually, make that two.’

  And with that she spun the wheelchair around and ran with Lizzie towards the door, the two of them cackling loudly as they flew into the hall.

  10

  Victoria: London, 1940

  Lizzie’s voice echoed across the grand black and white tiled entrance hall of her home in Belgravia, startling both Victoria and Edgar, the portly butler, who’d just let her in.

  ‘Good God, Victoria, whatever are you wearing?’ she asked witheringly, clicking towards the front door in her court heels.

  Victoria looked down in surprise at her coat, a grey woollen military overcoat, so big and heavy it threatened to swamp her petite frame. ‘This? This was Papa’s. From Bledesford. Don’t you recognise it?’

  ‘Of course I recognise it,’ Lizzie sniffed, betraying just a hint of jealousy – Lizzie had always sought their father’s attention so fiercely. ‘I’m just asking why you’re wearing it at all. It looks ridiculous on you, you know. I honestly can’t believe you went out like that, darling.’

  ‘I don’t think it looks so odd,’ said Victoria mildly, sliding it off her shoulders and letting Edgar take it from her hands to be hung up. ‘It’s very warm, and it’s not like I could buy a new one this winter . . . Well, I could – I’ve saved up a bit from my sewing “pin money”, as you call it. But we need that. Besides, the coat reminds me of Father. It even smells like him, don’t you remember? All wood smoke and gunpowder and cigars . . .’ Victoria’s mouth curved up, remembering him before the war, and the pneumonia that had claimed him. Poor Papa, she thought, her smile fading.

  Lizzie sniffed. ‘Well, where have you been? I was expecting you home hours ago. Come in and have a cup of tea. And do please close that door, Edgar. It’s freezing outside.’

  ‘I went for a walk in the park, I wanted some fresh air,’ Victoria said, following Lizzie’s brisk steps as she made her way back across the tiles, heading towards the sitting room. Lizzie’s house was more inviting than Bledesford, but her sister still missed home terribly. Victoria didn’t mind living here – she liked being in London, despite the fact that everyone else seemed to be leaving – there was something so vital and thrilling about the city, even in wartime. But Lizzie had been finicky and unhappy since Bledesford had been requisitioned by the army. She missed the place like an amputated limb.

  ‘The park was freezing but there was a nanny there, Lizzie, with the most divine little baby. All wrapped up against the cold, this funny little bundle. Oh, you should have seen her! She was precious . . . I stayed longer than I realised. And then, hurrah!’ Victoria triumphantly held aloft a soft package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. ‘I stumbled across this gorgeous little haberdashery shop around the corner from the station and, miracle upon miracle, they were open. And – even better – they had some stock from before the war, tucked away under the counter . . . The shopkeeper was ever so lovely.’ Victoria unwrapped the package, pulling out a length of magnificent grey silk georgette, only slightly moth-eaten. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to make a dress for the party with it.’

  ‘What are you talking about, darling? Don’t be silly. That’s what Lucille’s for. Honestly, Victoria, it’s one thing to help out a friend or two with alterations every once in a while – God knows the war’s made maids out of all of us – but why ever would you want to slave away on making something to wear for yourself? From scratch? I mean, do you want to look like a complete country cousin? You can guarantee Oswald and his family will be in the latest fashions from Paris at the engagement party.’ Lizzie swung around impatiently. ‘What, Edgar, what?’

  The butler had coughed quietly into his gloved fist. He now proffered a letter on a silver tray. ‘A letter, ma’am. For Miss Victoria.’

  Victoria looked startled. ‘The post’s come already? Thank you, Edgar.’ She looked briefly at the writing on the envelope, before tucking it away quickly in the pocket of her skirt.

  ‘Who’s that from?’ asked Lizzie, turning away to glare at the hearth. ‘Edgar!’ she said sharply. ‘The fire – it’s gone very low.’

  ‘Oh, no one you know,’ said Victoria vaguely, pulling off her gloves and taking a seat on one of the plush primrose sofas, placing her gloves beside her. The last of the pale winter sunshine flooded through the tall windows, making the room appear cosy and bright. ‘Some old biddy, a friend of Aunt Birdie’s, who insists on writing to me. Are there any crumpets? I’m ravenous . . . What about you? Have you heard from Reggie?’ Reginald, Lizzie’s husband, was away at the front, managing a battalion.

  ‘What? Not this week. But I’m sure he’s fine. The army knows how important its generals are – he’ll be nowhere near the actual fighting.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Victoria murmured, not so sure. From what she’d heard, and on fairly good authority, it was all hands on deck – from the lowest ranking foot soldier to the most senior official. The Germans were doing a terrifyingly good job and, from what she’d heard, Britain needed all the men it could get.

  ‘What about Oswald? No chance he’ll be called up?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Says his father got him some sort of special dispensation on account of his leg injury. You know the one, from playing rugby at school. The thing is, I’m not entirely sure it’s true . . . the bad leg thing, you know.’ Victoria smiled wryly.

  ‘Darling! You mustn’t talk about your husband-to-be like that. Oswald’s a good chap – you’d better support him. You don’t want
to start any nasty rumours about us. What did Daddy always say? Dearloves present a united front. Don’t let people see the chink in your armour, then nobody can ever wound you.’

  ‘Hmmm . . .’

  Lizzie rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘What do you mean, “hmmm”? Honestly, Victoria, what are we to do with you? I set you up with a perfectly good prospect – someone who is, quite frankly, an absolute catch in straitened times – I mean, just think what his money will do for Bledesford – and you’re going all wishy-washy on me. Now is not the time! We need to be consolidating our future, darling, if we want to hold on to the place. You must know that. God knows I’ve told you enough times.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Lizzie dear. But . . .’ Victoria took a deep breath, knowing she was inviting trouble, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Did you ever think that maybe I might want to find someone for myself? Someone I think is nice?’

  ‘Nice? Nice is not what we’re aiming for, darling. Clever, well bred and fabulously rich. Goodness knows, we should be happy with just the last of those qualities at this stage, given our reduced circumstances.’

  Victoria sighed, smiling at her sister to cover her frustration. No matter which way she looked at it, she was cornered. Sometimes she could hardly breathe. Lying awake in bed at night, in Lizzie’s spare room, grateful that at least she had a roof over her head since Lizzie and Reggie had taken her in, Victoria’s heart often thumped so wildly, flooding her ears with its pounding rhythm, she was afraid it might burst out of her chest.

  11

  ‘The Arab women are my favourites – it’s incredible when they walk into the studio in their burqas and whatnot, then whip them off to reveal such ah-mazing clothes underneath.’

  Tabs had changed into an iconic skull-print headscarf, white T-shirt, skinny jeans, faux fur chubby and the most fantastic wedge-heeled boots, and was cradling a glass of wine in one hand. The tiny gold studded piercing in her nose glinted in the candlelight. She’d been regaling them with stories of the couture customers at McQueen over a casual dinner of steak and home-grown vegetables in the breakfast room (the dining hall was way too formal and cavernous, and besides, the sparrows had made their nests in the wooden beams, so that you might find something more than you bargained for in your soup), as well as a pudding of berries and custard. Lizzie was there, sipping her third drink, along with Robin and Wendy, who were halfway through a bottle of red wine. Gigi still hadn’t emerged from the gatehouse.