Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Of course! Especially when you show her some of the people who’ve liked them. Didn’t Michelle Williams make a comment on that gorgeous silver dress? And Emanuelle Alt asked you whether she could borrow that Chanel boucle jacket for a vintage feature in French Vogue. Look at the reach you’re getting! Hey, what’s got into you? You know all this stuff already, Sylv – surely you don’t need me to explain this to you? You’ve always been so much better at that side of things than me anyway. I just make the patterns, lovely – you’re the one who ran a company.’

  Sylvie let out a self-deprecating snort. ‘Yeah. Into the ground.’

  She still wasn’t sure of anything – least of all how to present herself or her ideas in a coherent manner. Everything felt off, and her confidence was still at an all-time low. Or maybe a couple of notches above that, but not much more. The Daily Mail article had put paid to any feeling that she was doing better, reminding her of the whole sorry mess she’d left behind in New York. She’d given it a quick read online, skimming over the worst bits and closing it down before finishing.

  Besides, what would she do if the V&A said no? There would be something so reassuring about knowing where her family’s possessions were, even if they couldn’t keep them. Housing them at the V&A would be a godsend as far as Sylvie was concerned, totally different from selling them piece by piece or giving it all away. She thought of them being scattered to the four winds with no hope of recall, and it sent a chill down her spine. But if the V&A did take them, her family would be able to visit them, especially if they were housed in the museum’s permanent collection . . . Oh, she hoped they would take them!

  Sylvie supposed she could have sent in the photographs but she’d known a face-to-face would be better. And she’d welcomed the opportunity to escape from Bledesford for a few days. It had been so busy, Sylvie had barely had a moment to herself. Her parents’ industriousness was astounding, given the inertia of the preceding years. Nick had been helping out so much, spending most nights around the kitchen table, discussing ideas with Robin and Sylvie while Wendy cooked him dinners to say thank you. The driveway was already patched up and looking so much better after the gravel delivery Nick had arranged – at an amazing discount. An electrician, an old friend of Nick’s, had helped fix the front gates and intercom for a pittance, which would help when they needed to get people in for viewings – although they hadn’t had any interest yet – and Sam was assisting with all the heavy lifting. Even Greg – Nick’s older brother, a lawyer living in London – had been down just the other week and mucked in.

  The fountain was full and shooting out jets of fairly clean water from its crumbling Roman-Greco statues, and they’d even hired a high-powered jet hose to strip away some of the last century or so’s grime from Bledesford’s façade. The broken windows had been replaced and the local stone from which Bledesford had been built was looking decidedly more attractive.

  Despite the improvements, though, Sylvie felt despondent. No matter what improvements they made, there was always another urgent problem requiring their attention. The additional loan her parents had taken was rapidly shrinking.

  What with the meagre weekly budget they’d allocated themselves, and after funnelling every spare bit of cash from their overdraft into Bledesford’s improvements, something had to give. And soon. If that wasn’t enough, Ben was getting more and more frustrated with Sylvie and her reticence to name a date for his visit.

  ‘Maybe I should just buy a ticket for next week,’ he’d said the last time they spoke.

  ‘No!’ Sylvie had been unable to stop herself.

  ‘Honey, for God’s sake, what am I supposed to think?’ Ben had raised his voice, angry now.

  ‘It’s all fine, I promise . . . It shouldn’t be much longer.’ Sylvie had tried to placate him, but her words had sounded hollow even to her own ears.

  Yes, coming up to London had offered her a welcome change. Although she was missing Nick’s company already – her old friend was so easy to talk to.

  ‘It’s hard employing people, isn’t it?’ he’d commiserated when Dearlove had come up in conversation one day. ‘You feel so responsible for them.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sylvie admitted, hanging her head in shame. ‘I hated having to fire people.’

  ‘I know. I had to get rid of some people a few summers ago, when the financial crisis hit. We just weren’t getting the volume of work and I didn’t have enough coming in to keep people on. It’s particularly hard when you’ve met their wife and kids, and you know how much they’re depending on it. But I was lucky, I suppose. I managed to find them work elsewhere. Not full-time, but enough to tide them over. And I got the same people back in again when things started to pick up. Most of them are working for me now. Maybe it’ll be the same with you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sylvie said, unconvinced. Some of her staff had found work straight away, but she’d been too embarrassed to keep in touch with many of them.

  Staring sightlessly out of the carriage window, Sylvie thought of what her mother had said this morning, before they drove to the station. Pointing to the portrait of Rose in the hallway, she’d appeared to notice the similarity between them for the first time.

  ‘Gosh, my love, Gigi said it but I don’t think I registered it until now . . . You do look like her, just a darker-haired version. You and Rose have both got those same lovely high cheekbones and the delicate features. Lucky thing. When did you get so utterly gorgeous, my darling? I keep forgetting that you’re all grown up now,’ she said, giving her a quick hug.

  ‘Stop it, Mum,’ Sylvie said, trying to quell her rising blush. But later on, in the Land Rover, bumping along towards Frome Station, she looked down at her rough hands – dry and covered in nicks and scratches from all the work she’d been doing on the estate. You are nothing like Rose, she thought sadly. You may have her cheekbones, but you are not beautiful, or clever, or a social success. You don’t deserve the Dearlove name. And now you’ve sullied it forever by associating your family with a failed fashion label and your terrible decisions . . .

  When the last passenger exited the carriage at Victoria Station, Sylvie finally snapped to with a start, realising she’d arrived.

  ‘Hello, I wonder if you can help me? I’m looking for a Maggie Walsh-Mason. My name is Sylvie Dearlove. I have an appointment.’

  Sylvie smiled at the painfully hip desk clerk and wondered if she’d made a mistake with her own outfit. In her black square-framed specs, the woman didn’t meet her eyes as she typed something on the keyboard in front of her, staring straight ahead at the screen.

  ‘Just through there.’ She pointed, her accent nasal and lips matte red. ‘Hit the button on the wall and they’ll let you in.’

  Feeling a little jittery from the two cups of coffee she’d drunk in quick succession in the museum’s café, Sylvie was anxious: Tabs had been delayed at work and wouldn’t be able to join her after all.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Tabs had soothed. ‘You can manage on your own, I know you can,’ she’d said when she’d rung to apologise. Sylvie’s heart had started thumping. She’d washed down two pills with the coffee. She was taking fewer than she had in New York, but every now and then her heart started racing and she knew that she still needed them.

  Sylvie was dying for a cigarette – her hand absentmindedly patted the nicotine patch on her arm, hidden under her cropped leather jacket. Walking through the marble foyer, she finally found the plain glass door, hidden behind a column. She pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Come on through,’ crackled a disembodied voice, followed by a loud beep. The innocuous, frosted glass screen in front of her opened into the wall, and Sylvie’s eyes widened at what lay beyond.

  A marvellous, high-ceilinged room with deep burgundy walls was revealed. A riot of colour, it was festooned with overflowing shelves which snaked right up to its curling white cornices.

  Maggie Walsh-Mason’s office was a cornucopia of dummies and
boxes, costumes, shoes and accessories . . . plus piles and piles of fabric, all filling the space before her and spilling out into a narrow hallway. It was nothing like the neat-as-a-pin museum entrance Sylvie had just walked through, and nothing at all like what she had been expecting. They may as well have been back upstairs at Bledesford.

  Sylvie’s gaze was captured by a towering collection of ostrich-feathered headpieces, salvaged from carnival shows in the twenties, perhaps, or a theatre archive of some sort. They were amazingly intricate and finely wrought and Sylvie wondered what they’d been used for originally.

  It was only then that Sylvie realised, with a start, there were actually desks dotted amidst all the chaos. A head of wavy brown hair poked up from behind one of the dividers, eyes kind and crinkling at the corners.

  ‘Hello, come on in!’

  Sylvie smiled at the woman peeking out from behind the divider with a wide, open grin and felt instantly at ease.

  Pushing back her chair to stand up, the woman suddenly tripped over a huge stack of catalogues on the floor by her desk. ‘Oops, sorry!’ she exclaimed, crouching down. Finally straightening up, she held out her hand.

  ‘Sylvie, isn’t it?’

  She was proffered unmanicured fingers adorned with an eye-catching collection of beautiful gold and garnet rings.

  ‘Tabs told me all about you . . . It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Maggie. Shall we pop into one of the conference rooms? It’s a bit of a disaster in here, I’m afraid. I’m in the middle of putting together an exhibition, and I’m running so far behind. I’m only part-time, you see. There’s never enough hours in the day! Can I get you some tea or coffee, or a glass of water?’

  ‘Just some water, please,’ said Sylvie, feeling her stomach gurgle and regretting the acidic taste of coffee in her mouth.

  Deposited in a small room, empty save for a single round table and two chairs, Sylvie looked around at the framed posters on the walls, advertising the gallery’s past exhibitions – Ballet Russes, The Golden Age of Couture, Swinging Sixties. Sylvie thought Bledesford’s collection could rival any of them.

  Maggie reappeared at the door. ‘Sorry – it’s almost harder finding a clean glass in there as trying not to break my neck tripping over, but I do love it . . .’ Maggie shut the door behind her and passed a glass of water to Sylvie. ‘Now, how about showing me these pieces Tabs has been telling me about?’

  Sylvie’s cheeks flushed bright red as she took out her tablet and called up the photos on the screen. As she talked Maggie through them, she felt almost as nervous as she had when she’d presented her first collection.

  Maggie flicked slowly through the images, occasionally smiling in delight at a dress or a particular detail on a coat that Sylvie had captured close-up. Occasionally she let out a satisfied little ‘hmmm’ or exclaimed out loud, ‘Gorgeous!’

  ‘So,’ Sylvie said, ‘you can see what a lot we have. Ideally we’d like to get rid of it all in one go and, to be honest, we don’t really feel comfortable selling it to just anyone . . .’ That last bit wasn’t true of her parents, but Sylvie now realised that was exactly how she felt.

  In the penultimate photo, Sylvie had panned back for a shot which took in the entire attic and its contents, arranged as neatly as she could manage them.

  ‘Goodness me!’ Maggie said, shaking her head. ‘How incredible.’

  The final shot was an old black and white photograph of Bledesford Hall, taken in the 1920s, at the very height of its fame and grandeur.

  ‘Wow! I can see what you mean about it being a vast collection. And look at your family estate! It’s absolutely stunning, Sylvie. Are you sure you want to get rid of the collection? I was thinking, have you considered curating it yourself, or setting up a small museum on the estate? That would work so well, and I could give you some pointers if you like.’

  Sylvie’s face fell. ‘That’s not really an option,’ she said flatly. ‘We’re not staying there for much longer . . . Bledesford is about to be sold.’

  ‘Oh. I see. It’s just that we don’t have an opportunity to take on anything like this at the moment,’ Maggie said carefully, watching for Sylvie’s reaction.

  Sylvie looked confused. ‘But, I thought—’ She wondered exactly what Tabs had told her. If Maggie wasn’t interested, then what had been the point in coming in?

  ‘I’m so sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,’ Maggie said gently. ‘Tabs mentioned you might like some advice, and because it’s my background I’m happy to help, but we don’t have the budget to acquire anything at the moment. Well, not a collection of this size – I could only take a few bits and pieces off your hands, because it really would need to have particular historical significance to interest the V&A. At the moment we’re only looking for old theatre or performance costumes worn by big stars, or other notable designer items . . . The kinds of things that really draw in the crowds. The board is breathing down our necks. And we don’t have a vast budget – all our money is being set aside for the renovations we’re undertaking soon. I’d suggest you donate them, but I don’t think that’s exactly what you were hoping for.’

  Sylvie thought about it – a donation would be better than breaking the collection up.

  ‘What if we did that then?’ she asked, swallowing. ‘And gave them to you?’

  ‘As big as the V&A is, I’m afraid that won’t work, either. You saw my office! We don’t actually have that much room for storage – it can end up costing us more to keep things than display them, believe it or not. I meant that you could donate them somewhere else . . . Or have you thought about going to auction?’

  ‘But won’t the entire collection be broken up then? We were hoping to keep most of it together,’ she said, making a decision on the spot. She hadn’t voiced it to her parents, but it felt like the right thing to do.

  Maggie studied her closely. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she said. ‘I’d dearly love to scoop it all up myself and take it home with me. What a collection for a designer like you to have inherited! Are you sure there’s nothing else you can do to keep it in your family?’ she urged. ‘What about storing it yourself, so you can hang on to it for now and decide later on?’

  ‘We looked into that – it’s far too expensive,’ Sylvie mumbled, her mouth suddenly dry. She took a huge gulp of water, her hands shaking slightly.

  Sylvie felt stricken. The whole exercise – indeed, the past few weeks’ worth of work, cataloguing everything and hassling Lizzie for information – had been for nothing. Utterly wasted.

  She smiled tightly, realising why Tabs liked Maggie: the woman was so warm and friendly, and seemed to have something about her that invited one’s confidence. Maggie looked at her with genuine sympathy, but Sylvie felt suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of embarrassment for wasting her time.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, getting up. ‘I— I really appreciate you seeing me.’ She held out her hand abruptly.

  ‘Oh! It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.’ As Maggie led Sylvie back out to the foyer she turned and said, ‘Look, forgive me if this sounds rude, but it seems to me . . . I mean, when you talk about the pieces, I just get a sense that you really love them. Are you quite sure you want to sell them? I really do think you should consider keeping the collection, if there’s any way that’s possible.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ stammered Sylvie, tears suddenly coming to her eyes.

  Maggie smiled warmly. ‘I’ll be interested to hear what you end up doing. Keep in touch, won’t you? Please? I really do wish you the very best of luck.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sylvie said, turning away.

  Trudging back down the steps of the V&A, Sylvie found herself fighting back tears as she struggled to pull out a cigarette and light it. So much for her plan to quit. It was awful, all of it – had she really thought the museum would be as excited as she was by her family’s mouldering collection of clothes? And furthermore, that they would give them a tidy little sum for
all of it . . . What an idiot!

  Walking now through the back streets of South Kensington, past the beautifully tiled Bibendum building, Sylvie realised that she was starving. She looked at the menu framed on the wall outside, listing food so expensive it made her eyes water. She’d better get herself a sandwich instead, she thought, pulling out her phone to check where the nearest EAT or Pret A Manger was. Checking her screen, she saw the alerts from Instagram. It was only then that she remembered that she’d promised Tabs she’d show Maggie all the interest the clothes were getting. But what did it matter now? Her chances at the V&A were blown.

  Opening her feed as she trotted along, Sylvie realised with a shock that the last picture she’d posted– a short white lacy frock, like something Bridget Bardot would have worn in the sixties – had already garnered thousands of ‘likes’. And they seemed to be growing by the minute.

  This was something, at least, she thought, mulling it over.

  Sylvie popped the phone back in her bag and stubbed out her cigarette with her boot. Feeling a little better now, she bounded across the road in search of something to satisfy her hunger.

  21

  ‘So! How’d you go then?’ Penny finally asked, drawing breath.

  They were in the sitting room of her friend’s Clapham terrace, Penns lounging on the sofa smoking a cigarette with her feet curled up underneath her like a Siamese cat, while Sylvie stared out the window disconsolately.

  Since Penns had returned home an hour ago to find Sylvie watching trashy reality shows on the television, she’d been endlessly ranting about a disastrous lunch with her parents and her lover. Her parents had apparently taken one look at Olu in his leather jacket and walked straight out of the restaurant without saying a word.

  Sylvie hadn’t told Penny about the meeting at the V&A or about the social media ideas she’d been formulating – she hadn’t had the chance.