All Dressed Up

by Lucy Hepburn

  They pulled onto a grassy square. Molly’s muscles ached as she clambered off the skidoo and pulled her helmet off.

  Pascal did the same then turned and looked at her pityingly. “Helmet hair,” he said, touching a damp, straggly lock that was plastered behind her ear. “We must make time to get you to a stylist before you meet up with your future brother-in-law. This will not do! Francesco Marino, of all people!”

  Molly glowered at him. Behind, she was aware of Simon stifling a snort of laughter, which infuriated her even more.

  “Pascal, can I explain something to you?” She tried to keep her voice as level as possible but still was gratified when she saw him brace himself.

  “Berate me if you must,” Pascal sighed, “but I am not wrong. A woman’s hair is her greatest asset.”

  “Oh yes?” Molly said, through pursed lips. “Not her brain, then?”

  Pascal gave her a come on, you knew what I meant look, but she wasn’t in the mood.

  “Pascal, as far as I am concerned, the great Francesco Marino is nothing more and nothing less than the extremely lucky man who is marrying my sister tomorrow. I don’t care if I look like a scarecrow or not when I meet him!”

  “Well, perhaps you should,” Pascal replied, a touch huffily. “First impressions are everything!”

  “No they are not!” Molly cried. “Not to normal people, anyhow! Francesco may be a big shot all over Europe, and that’s fine—good luck to him. But the only thing that matters to me is that he is a decent man.”

  “Of course, Molly.” Pascal’s voice was soothing, but Molly wasn’t finished.

  “And I’m looking forward to finding that out for myself. So if he makes any comments about my hair after the trouble I’ve gone to for his wedding, then I’ll know exactly what kind of man he is!”

  Pascal gulped before whispering, “I only meant that you would be more comfortable—”

  “And another thing!” She still wasn’t finished. She could see the smirk on Simon’s face as he pulled the front of the stretcher—that wasn’t helping either. “He may be paying for the dress but you know what? That’s his privilege. It’s his wedding gift to my sister, so if you think I’m going to hold him up as some sort of big shot to be feared and…and get all dressed up for, then I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed!”

  “Okay…” Pascal hung his head.

  “And another thing!”

  “Another?” Pascal looked helplessly toward Simon, who gave him a you’re on your own, mate shrug.

  “I am from Yorkshire. Yorkshire girls know that there are more important things in life than hair!”

  “Dresses, for instance?”

  The remark came from under Simon’s breath, and Molly wasn’t entirely sure, in the midst of her tirade, that she’d heard correctly. She turned slowly round to face him, trying to summon up a cutting remark, a put-down so perfect, so stinging, that he would never bother her again…

  “Tell you what,” Pascal burst out in a voice loaded with faux-cheerfulness, “why don’t I go over there to try and find the post office, and you two can stay here and recover? I do not trust your French; who knows where we might end up next if you were to ask for directions!”

  And with a comical flutter of his arms, he hurried off toward the center of the town before either Molly or Simon could object.

  Turning her back on Simon, trying to get a hold of herself, Molly gazed down at the stretcher. To be fair, it wasn’t in as bad a state as she had feared; most of the muck and straw had been blown or shaken off during the final part of their snowy ride down the Pass.

  Still, Molly was anxious to unzip the bag and check the dress out—not only to reassure herself about its cleanliness but also because she was longing to see it. It was strange to have been in such close proximity to it for such a long time without having a single peek. But she knew she couldn’t do it here, out in the open, with her grubby hands, and Simon watching no doubt ready and waiting with some cutting remark or other which would ruin the moment.

  “So close to disaster,” she said, her back still turned.

  Simon was checking the skidoo, running his hands over the engine and the ski treads.

  “Just one careless slip.” She held her breath for his reply.

  He seemed to be ignoring her. No apology. Nothing at all.

  “Simon?”

  “Yes?” He didn’t turn around.

  She took a deep breath and let it all out. “I wish you’d bothered to tie the thing on properly—you could have ruined everything!”

  He froze for a few seconds, then turned slowly, his face unreadable. “Could I now? What an earth-shattering disaster that would be!”

  “And you can quit the sarcasm!”

  They were once again squaring up to one another, hands on hips. Simon’s face was spattered with mud, and his hair was plastered to his forehead, but to Molly’s fury it suited him, compared with how Molly knew she must look—bedraggled and utterly wrecked.

  “It’s just a dress, Molly, a stupid dress!”

  “Stupid?” Molly thundered. “How dare you call it stupid—stupid is a terrible word!”

  Simon spread his arms in a gesture of exasperation. “You called me stupid back there!”

  “No I didn’t!”

  “Yes you did!”

  “Did I?” Molly bit her lip. Had she?

  He nodded.

  “Oh.” She had no recollection of that.

  Simon was waiting for her to speak next.

  “Well…” the apology got stuck in her throat, and she said nothing. She looked at the people of Varzo passing by, not bothering to hide their stares.

  He shook his head in exasperation. “Look, Molly, bigger picture, yeah? I know it’s a wedding dress and all, but it seems to me that you and your sister are giving it way more importance than it deserves.”

  Molly was outraged. “Oh? Since when did you decide you had the right to pass judgement on me and Caitlin? Because you know us both so very well, obviously?”

  He shook his head. “Course I don’t, but I can’t believe how afraid you seem to be of her—she sounds like a right little princess for making such a huge deal about an…an item of clothing. She should be worrying about you getting to Venice safely.”

  “It makes her happy, Simon, and I’m sorry you can’t see that.” Molly had adopted her primmest, most disappointed tone. “I am only trying to make sure she has the best day of her life.”

  “Well from where I am it looks like you’re trying to prove some sort of point.”

  Molly narrowed her eyes. “I beg your pardon?” Has Simon seen right through her?

  “Why don’t you call her?” he said. “Tell her all about the hoops you’re jumping through for her?”

  “I…I don’t need to worry her.” She couldn’t look at him. How did someone who hardly knew her be so right about this?

  “Oh yes? Is that really it?”

  The words hung in the air. Molly had the strong urge to tell him everything—the issues with her sister, how she’d had to bottle up her feelings about Reggie leaving—everything. She desperately didn’t want to cry.

  “I…”

  “Bizarre!” Pascal came crashing back into the scorched space between them. “The accents are so thick up here I cannot understand a word anyone says!” Then he looked first at Simon, and then at Molly, and folded his arms. “What is going on here? Are you kids still having the squabbles? Simon? You speak first, please.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong here, Pascal. Molly was just thanking me for getting us all safely down the mountain.”

  Molly scowled. “Two pieces. Your contraption fell to bits, remember?”

  “Shall we?” Pascal clapped his hands and began to cross back to the shops on the other side of the street. Molly and Simon, like scolded, sulky schoolchildren, followed.

  Their bedraggled appearance was attracting double-takes from the l
ocals. That and the mud-spattered skidoo they were dragging along with its stretcher of luggage attached comically to the back. They passed a bakery filled with delicious-looking bread and pastries, an old-fashioned hardware store, cafes, and numerous ski-hire outlets.

  Pascal nudged her as they passed a hairdresser. “We could make time, if you wish to go inside?” he teased.

  “Very funny,” Molly growled. But had to stifle a smile.

  It was only when they passed a group of elderly men sitting chatting on a bench outside a bar, that Molly realized. The shop windows, the signs, the notices…the language…

  “It’s Italian, Pascal,” she said gently. “Not some thick rural French brogue. I think you have spent too long in Paris.”

  “Ah, yes of course!” Pascal said, shaking his head and looking foolish. “I did not realize we had slipped across the border. There should be a thick red line along the ground when countries meet, do you not think?”

  His face had turned pink with embarrassment. Molly patted his arm. “My mother’s lived in Italy for the last few years—otherwise I’d have been stumped too.”

  “You do not need to humor me, I should have known. I once had dinner with Gianni Versace.”

  “No!” Molly stopped walking.

  “I did!”

  “What was he like?” Molly squeaked.

  “Oh, so very gracious,” Pascal beamed at the memory. “It was at his mansion in Miami—of course we all spoke English so how could I have recognized the Italian—”

  “Whoa, fashion victims,” Simon called out. Molly had almost forgotten he was there. He was pointing at an ugly, concrete office building right in front of them with a cash machine built into the front window. “Look where we’re at?”

  A heavy metal security grille protected the entrance and inside; the building was in darkness. But there was the sign. They had stumbled upon the post office. That was the good news.

  “It’s shut,” Molly declared, stating the obvious. And that was the bad.

  Simon glanced back across the street where the skidoo lay unattended. “Do we just leave it round the back and do a runner for the bus station?” Simon wondered, peering through the window. “There’s nobody home.”

  “Hang on.” Molly looked to the left of the door where a small intercom was mounted, half-hidden by a spiky Alpine climbing plant. She pressed the grimy red button.

  “The guy we are supposed to meet is called Julien,” Simon told her.

  Nothing happened for what seemed like an age, until eventually, they heard heavy, halting footsteps approaching from the side of the building.

  An elderly man dressed in a smart suit rounded the corner of the building and came limping towards them.

  “Wonder if this is Julien?” Molly whispered to Simon.

  “The very same.” The old man, whose hearing was clearly unaffected by his advancing years, answered her in English. “And you must be the mountain adventurers my friend told me about—I have been expecting you! Did you have a pleasant ride down from the top?”

  “Yes,” Simon said politely, just as Molly responded with a heartfelt “No.”

  Julien regarded them all with a twinkling smile. “And no damage to the skidoo?”

  “None,” Simon assured him.

  “You are sure?” Julien frowned, squinting across the street at the skidoo. It was filthy. Molly felt a rush of shame.

  Simon followed his gaze. “Errr… I’ll help you clean it. But I promise, it’s undamaged.”

  “No need, I simply hose it down,” Julien replied. “Take your bags off, and I will show you where to put it.”

  They all untied their luggage from the stretcher, Molly hugging the dress close despite the mud on the carrier, then she and Pascal sat on the low wooden bench by the front door of the post office. Simon followed Julien to park the skidoo round the back of the building.

  “Ever get the feeling we’re never going to make it to Venice?” Molly asked.

  Pascal nodded. “Sometimes.”

  “I should be there now, getting my nails done or sitting drinking a glass of Pinot Grigio with Caitlin, reminiscing about our childhood…okay, well…” She tailed off there, knowing deep down, how unlikely that scenario would be, even if their flight had taken them straight to Venice as originally planned. Caitlin would without doubt be in a frenzy of panic about the most minute of wedding details—ever since she and Francesco had gotten engaged she’d gone into full-time micro-management of every tiny detail. She’d always been neat and meticulous, but her wedding worries seemed to be bordering on obsessive. So the chances of the two of them finding time to talk about the good old days were as remote as the likelihood that she’d even want to spend any time with her in the first place.

  “It is…unusual,” Pascal agreed. “I had a strange feeling about this trip, even without my panic on the flight. But these things can happen especially when they take the place of other plans.”

  Molly wasn’t sure what he meant, but just at that moment Simon returned triumphant, followed by Julien.

  “Job done!” he exclaimed, punching the air.

  Molly wanted to jump up and hug him, she was so relieved. No more uncivilized transport! She settled for a beaming smile.

  “Venice here we come!” Pascal sighed. “At last!”

  “Is it far to the bus station?” Molly asked.

  Julien’s face clouded. “Bus station?” he repeated. “No, it is not far.”

  “Excellent,” Pascal said with feeling. He jumped up from the bench.

  “But why do you want the bus station?” asked Julien.

  Molly was gathering her things and frowned at him. “To get a bus, of course!” She laughed at his silliness.

  “But it is Sunday,” Julien went on.

  Molly’s heart sank.

  “There are no buses today,” he said.

  They all froze for a few moments.

  “No way,” Simon groaned.

  “Are…are you sure?” Molly asked, feeling more deflated than she thought possible.

  Julien nodded sadly.

  Pascal simply shook his head. All the fight had gone out of him.

  Simon sat down beside them, close enough to Molly that she could feel the warmth of his body through the thickness of the awful sweater. Julien hovered anxiously, chewing his lip.

  Molly looked up at him. “How far is it to Domodossola?” she asked after a few moments’ pause during which no decent ideas seemed to occur to any of them. “We need to get there to catch the Venice train. Could we get a taxi from here?”

  “I will not hear of that,” Julien said, smiling kindly and rubbing his hands together to warm them. “I am going there in a short while—let me take you!”

  Molly’s heart leapt. “Could you? That would be wonderful!”

  “So kind,” Pascal agreed.

  “It is easy,” Julien went on. “I have one important delivery to make on the way, but there is plenty of room for you in my van!”

  He indicated the other side of the street where a sturdy post office van sat waiting. Then he looked down at their luggage.

  “A suit?” He inquired, pointing at the dress carrier.

  “A wedding dress,” Molly replied. “It is my sister’s wedding day tomorrow.”

  “Aah, how wonderful! My congratulations to the young lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  He frowned. “Would you permit me to put it in a protective box before I place it in my van? Keep it as safe as it can be.”

  “I’d be delighted! The more protection it has the better. It’s suffered enough.”

  She nudged Simon in the ribs as Julien carefully carried the dress inside. “Isn’t it nice when people take such care of other peoples’ things?”

  “Okay, okay,” Simon muttered.

  “A joke,” Molly added, noticing his discomfort.

  “I’ve heard better,” Simon admitted.


  “I’ve told better,” Molly mumbled.

  Twenty minutes later they were all comfortably ensconced in Julien’s van, their luggage and the sturdily-packed wedding dress stowed in the back, heading down the valley. Now that she knew she had lots of time to spare Molly was able to enjoy the stunning mountain scenery all around—those majestic, snowy peaks almost seemed to be pressing down on them.

  “I must come back here sometime—explore it properly,” she breathed.

  “Me too,” Simon agreed.

  “Maybe I’ll learn how to ski, after all.”

  “You’ve never skied?” Simon asked. “You should. It’s great fun.”

  “Does Yvonne ski?” Molly asked, not that she particularly cared about the answer. Yvonne was probably Olympic standard or better. With fantastic skin and dazzling teeth.

  Simon gave her a strange look. “No,” he replied. “Not so many opportunities where she comes from.”

  “Oh, right,” Molly nodded. Not that many snow-capped mountains in Hollywood. Or maybe Yvonne was a tanned, Aussie surf chick. Or Hawaiian hula-hula instructor. She’d probably never find out.

  She was about to torture herself by asking, but the van was pulling up outside a cozy-looking family house on the edge of a small village. There were swings and a slide in the garden, and Molly could see pairs of tiny little skis hanging on a rack inside the garage.

  Julien turned and beamed at them. “My son’s house.”

  “It looks lovely,” Molly said brightly.

  Julien smiled at her. “Thank you,” he said.

  The front door opened and a happy-looking young couple emerged.

  “My daughter-in-law, Elizabeth,” Julien confided. “And her husband, Antonio, my son.”

  Elizabeth rushed out to embrace her father-in-law. Molly smiled at the scene; they seemed so touchingly close. She suddenly missed her mother.

  Peering inside the house, Molly could see escaped balloons floating up the stairs, and a little girl in a pink dress skipped around the hallway.

  Julien quickly explained everything to his daughter in Italian. Then in perfect English, she called over to them.