The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  Every now and then, a dress of true distinction comes Fran’s way. There was the 1970s wedding kaftan that had belonged to a well-known folk singer; the fairy-tale French couture gown that had been worn by three generations of brides from the same family; and then the wine-stained Lacroix sheath dress—Fran had managed to remove the stain and had consequently received interest from scores of brides, but had eventually sold it for half her usual fee to an impoverished, pregnant fashion student. Not the best price, but the match was compelling: the ensembles’ original bride had also been pregnant and had rushed a marriage to avoid public shame, yet through hard work, patience, and the invaluable art of compromise, she nevertheless created a happy, lasting union, resulting in four children and a thriving wallpaper business. Good energy to pass down the line. Integrity is everything. Fran has no qualms about turning away business if she cannot find the right gown for a bride. There is nothing to be gained from sending a woman down the aisle in an offering that doesn’t speak from the heart—that’s what the high street is for.

  Today, however, Fran feels under pressure, distracted from her capacity to cherish old fabric and fire Cupid’s arrows. Success has overwhelmed her. Her remaining good gowns are earmarked for sale, and she hasn’t had time to hunt for new stock. Whispering dresses take time to evolve. They cannot be rushed on a conveyor belt. There are a few ’80s romantic numbers waiting in the wings, but synthetic taffeta isn’t great for the soul, and she fears the world isn’t ready for a puff-sleeve revival. It is a relief therefore that her assistant and long-time friend, Mick Haigh, has suggested the gift of a house clearance:

  “Says here: ‘Dryad’s Hall, six-bedroom country retreat in Epping Forest, needs prompt and discreet clearing. No valuables remaining. Mattresses, some furniture, general waste, and clothing. Contact Rafael Colt 07972472678.’ Some rich old girl probably croaked it and now her kids want a quick sale, take the money and run, buy a new yacht, pay for little Farquharson’s school fees and what have you. So how about it? Try our luck? Epping Forest isn’t far. We could have the van there in a half hour and if there’s nothing vaguely bridal in sight, I’ll at least find a few bits I can upcycle and stick on eBay. And at the very least it’s a trip to the countryside.”

  Mick, a one-time Camden Market stallholder with an eye for restorable bric-a-brac, an obsession with Victorian gentleman’s tailoring, and a hand-drawn calligraphy font to his name, waves the newspaper advertisement under Fran’s nose. Fran eyes it suspiciously, bothered by memories of all those dispiriting probate clear-outs, the 1930s houses with their smoke-stained walls, moldering food in semi-warm fridges, smelly carpets, mottled net curtains, and garbage bags of unwashed clothes.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mick. So often these clearances turn out to be a waste of time. Auctioneers will have claimed the best stuff.”

  Mick twiddles the extremities of his well-groomed handlebar mustache (inspired by a favorite portrait of Lord Frederic Leighton). A long-standing companion/substitute for a boyfriend, he knows Fran well. He can tell that, even in protest, her curiosity is crackling. The thrill of finding a dress, even just the slimmest chance, among the detritus of other people’s unwanted junk, is impossible for her to resist.

  “I guess if it’s a six-bed country retreat,” she says ponderously, her gaze shifting around the shop, “even the leftovers could be interesting.”

  “Excellent,” says Mick. “I’ll buy you a full Englishman’s breakfast on the way.”

  * * *

  Epping Forest, a slim but stately strip of wilderness on the outskirts of Northeast London, offers greenery, peace, and birdsong to those wishing to escape their urbanized environs. The woodland is ancient, dense with the gnarled trunks of beeches, hornbeams, silver birches, and oaks. Fran is surprised by how quickly she feels immersed, the cocoon of nature concealing all trace of grime and traffic and city noise. She likes the sensation, the getaway feeling. Mick has lots of stories about secret pond-side raves and trees he’s climbed and smoked in. He also claims he was confronted by a stag on the same stretch of road they are driving on.

  “Regal, it was. Right there. Stared at me, then walked on.”

  Fran isn’t paying attention however. She is lost in an idyll of woodland wedding bohemia with moss on the tables, tea lights in jam jars, an arch woven from twigs and a gorgeous empire maxi dress in soft gray lace, paired with bare feet and bluebells. In her reverie, she nearly misses the entrance to Dryad’s Hall. The sign is all but consumed by flora. Mick reverses, then shunts his minivan between two ivy-clad gateposts and continues up a meandering willow tunnel drive. The house emerges in a glade ahead, an arts-and-crafts masterpiece, its hive of nooks and corners rising out of the earth, surrounded by flower-studded rhododendrons. It is picture-book perfect, twee old England with a deep russet roof, three tall chimneys, leaded windows, and wooden beams.

  “It’s everything I love,” says Fran, delighted. “Heart, history, and that tantalizing hint of untold stories.”

  “Told you,” says Mick. “Not all house clearances are alike.”

  “But it’s so hidden away,” says Fran, gazing in wonder at the rising chimneys. “You’d never know it was there from the road.”

  Another van is already on the drive, a clean one, with a burgundy spray job and gold signage: Luckmore’s. Mick scowls, recognizing the name of one of the established London auction houses. He once applied for a job there as a trainee valuation clerk but failed the interview on account of being too “excitable.” No matter, he thinks. Now he has Fran and the Whispering Dress and exquisitely tailored frock coats. They watch as two men in matching burgundy dust jackets load a baroque dresser into the back.

  “Careful, boys,” says Mick, glaring from his window. “Don’t drop that corner now.”

  “Bring on the leftovers,” says Fran. “Although, are you quite sure this is bona fide?”

  “A hundred percent. I spoke to the chap earlier. Rafael. Posh boy. Says he wants the whole house cleared by midday. No dawdling.”

  “I guess we better get on with it then.”

  * * *

  In the distance, she sees him, his back to her and the sun behind him, straining through the window dust. He doesn’t belong here. Judging by his crisp suit and neat, pale shirt, his world is a million miles from the arcane quirks of this crumbling forest retreat. Tall and slim, his stature is elegant, but his shoulders bunch. His neck bows in an uncomfortable arc, straining toward the phone in his hands, fingers furiously typing, messaging, actioning.

  Mick coughs. “You must be Rafael.” He bows forward to offer a handshake. “Mick D. Haigh, secondhand furniture restorer, professional dandy, and part-time assistant at the Whispering Dress, at your service. And this, the delectable vintage dress expert and all-around good egg, Ms. Francesca Delaney.”

  Mick grins, clearly pleased with the pomposity of his introduction. The man—Rafael—stares at Mick’s homburg and waistcoat, slightly raises one eyebrow, then shifts his focus to Fran. For a moment he gazes at her, then he blinks, sighs, gives an emotionless nod.

  “Take it all,” he says. “There’s a dumpster at the side for whatever you don’t want.”

  No hello. No welcome. And definitely no handshake.

  “Is there anything we shoul—”

  “I’d like you out by midday.”

  “Right you are,” says Mick, backing away.

  He and Fran burrow into the rest of the house, through wood-paneled hallways and interconnecting receptions rooms, inglenook fireplaces, carved doorframes, and hammered pewter handles and rails—the handcrafted hardware of a long-gone era. Such a trove of past treasure would normally set Fran’s vintage instincts alight, but she is distracted, locked into a small infuriation of etiquette.

  “Never mind ‘take it all,’” she mutters. “What about take the hint? Evidently we’re not wanted nor worthy of basic courtesies such as ‘hello’ a
nd ‘thank you.’”

  “Ah, suck it up, girl,” says Mick. “We’re not here to make friends. I’ll forgive him his lack of manners if I can make my fortune from his family castoffs. Talking of which, what have we here—”

  They come to a large, high-ceilinged kitchen. Save for the main units, the butler’s sink, and the cooking range, the contents have been stripped. Fragments of a broken dinner plate are strewn across the terra-cotta floor. Fran bends to pick one up.

  “Delft blue. Pretty old by the looks of it.”

  “Better be the only plate those Luckmore’s fools have smashed,” grumbles Mick. “Check the cupboards.”

  They begin opening doors. Luckmore’s have been thorough. Most of the cupboards are empty apart from a few items here and there: tea towels, jam jars, wooden spoons, jelly molds, and a dusty mug tree. There is nothing of worth, yet Fran feels eerily tense about these utilitarian leftovers and all the emotion that lives in them. Everyday objects, she thinks, handling the box from a 1980s blender, say so much more about a person than their ostentatious showpieces, their grand pianos, antique sofas, and glorious artwork. There is honesty in the mundane. She likes honesty. And manners. She really likes manners. As she and Mick begin boxing up the scraps, she is compelled to keep venting about the rude and abrupt Rafael Colt.

  “I mean, the basics take no effort, Mick. And what about glancing up from your phone screen for more than a heartbeat? It doesn’t hurt to make eye contact.” She opens a shopping bag of folded cotton tablecloths. “Anyway, they say we’ve evolved from Neanderthal, but I say we’re evolving back. David Passemore would never have been so rude. Or Harry Noble. Or James Andrew Percy. In fact, Percy would have charmed the pants off us. According to Meryl’s journal, on their tenth wedding anniversary, he surprised her entire family with a hot air balloon flight over the Serengeti.”

  “A bunch of dead grooms, Fran. Not really a fair comparison, is it?”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll stick with my dead grooms if modern man has to be so unpleasant. At least dead grooms aren’t permanently attached to their smartphones. I mean, who did he think he was? Take it all…out by midday. Miserable, modern sod—”

  “Ahem.”

  Fran looks up. The subject of her mockery is standing in the doorway.

  “Ah, hi,” she says, flustered. “Um…we’re just…um…you know…sorting…”

  He has heard her, no doubt, but his face is devoid of reaction. He stands motionless, watching as she tries, through embarrassment, to shovel a pair of soiled red gardening gloves into a slippery bin liner.

  “She loved to garden,” he says wistfully.

  “Oh, then you should have these.” Fran offers up the gloves.

  “No.”

  “Keepsake?”

  “No,” he presses, and then, as though to prove his manners, adds, “no thank you.”

  She pulls the gloves back, hugs them to her chest, feels they should at least have love from someone. “If you don’t mind,” she ventures, “who was she?”

  “My mother, Alessandra, the woman whose mortal possessions you’re currently rifling through”—he catches Fran’s eye, gives a small, wry smile—“not quite a dead groom, but…she was a bride once.”

  “Yes, um, sorry about that,” says Fran. “I didn’t mean…”

  But her words are wasted. He has already walked away.

  * * *

  Florid-cheeked, Fran leaves Mick to finish the kitchen and starts searching the upstairs rooms, now eager to get the job done and get away, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of her gaff. The few piles of boxed-up clothes offer nothing more rousing than a mound of brown wool and plaid jackets, which will no doubt be appreciated by someone, but not by young brides. Finally, Fran goes to the last room, its door beckoning from the end of a long, wood-paneled corridor.

  “Come on,” she whispers, turning the handle. “Just give me a veil or a slipper or something.”

  The door creaks. The room inside is gloriously large with double aspect windows and views across the forest, yet its immediate emptiness kills it, a sad shell of degraded wall coverings and broken floorboards, bare and fruitless. Seduced by the treetops, Fran goes to the nearest window. Beneath her is a garden surrounded by a screen of dense forest, with a terrace and a lake and an ornamental waterfall. There are signs of neglect—rampant growth and untamed boughs—but the garden is in a better state than the house, richly planted with miniature trees and shrubs, the project of a keen and knowledgeable gardener. The frisson of curiosity takes hold, and she turns back to the room, conjures an idea of Alessandra, unravels a vision in her mind of a young, bright woman pinning her hair in a dresser mirror, preparing for a dance or dinner. Was she feisty? Glamorous? Quiet? Proud? So many questions, but the bare walls won’t speak. Fran smiles to herself and pushes away from the window, then wanders through to the smaller adjoining dressing room, which prompts a holler to Mick.

  “Quick! Up here. Look at this!”

  Her shout rattles through the empty rooms, but Mick doesn’t appear. Impatient, she goes forward to admire her find, a ladies’ armoire, early 1930s perhaps. It is in a dismal state, but Fran knows Mick will appreciate the exotic wood carcass and brass fittings.

  “If I didn’t know better,” she whispers, running a finger down the ebony and mother-of-pearl inlay that adorns the door panels, “I’d say French, early deco, handmade. I’m surprised those so-called Luckmore ‘experts’ didn’t spot you!”

  The reason behind the experts’ rejection becomes clear the moment she tries to open the armoire. The doors fall away like dominoes. As she struggles to hold their weight, the rest of the armoire collapses in a heap, a final declaration of defeat. Fran, meanwhile, finds herself staring down at a large faun-colored holdall. It emerges from the splinters like a hidden relic. She stares in silent wonder, then hoists the holdall up, immediately tipping backward, stumbling to the floor as its weight overwhelms her.

  “Money stash?” she whispers. “Doesn’t feel like small change.”

  She pushes the holdall off her chest, hunkers onto her knees, and dives at the zipper, wiping away the dust. She’s heard all the stories about house-clearance gold mines—the thousands in notes stashed under the floorboards, the ten-carat diamond rings wedged inside armchair cushions. People have such funny ideas about hoarding and storing. Houses up and down the country must be groaning under the weight of their long-forgotten booty. As the sides of the holdall fall open, however, her curiosity takes another twist. There is no money. Instead, there is something squishy wrapped in dull layers of tissue paper. Fran gives the paper a prod. It takes a moment for her eyes to catch up with her brain, but when they do, a new excitement arrests her. She’s seen paper of this kind many times. Colorless, odorless, acid-free, it is the type used to store and preserve valuable fabrics. In fact, there are companies online who specialize in it. She’d once thought there might be profit in teaching people how to correctly package their best dresses, their wedding dresses.

  Fran stills, anticipation overwhelming her. She knows it without seeing it. The moment seems to expand, fill the room, steal the air. She lifts a corner of paper, throws her face skyward, blows the hair from her face, then grins and gives thanks to the universe.

  Meter after meter, a swath of fine white silk overlaid with lace slips through her fingers. Its form: full length, nipped waist, sweetheart neck, elegant lace sleeves, a dramatic full skirt, and a train that goes on for over four meters. She sits motionless for a minute, the dress spread across her arms, barely able to see straight, barely able to think. The lace overlay is impeccable. French, surely? Its dense and detailed flower pattern is hypnotic to the eye. Both the bodice and train are exquisitely decorated with embellished appliqué—pearls, glass beads, bugle beads, silver sequins, gold threads. They shimmer and sparkle, creating rhythmic scenes of hummingbirds and lilies. Each bird is differen
t, its own little character fluttering from the silk, bringing life to the surface. Such attention to detail, such hand-stitched care—one of those wedding dresses. In fact, it is more than that. This one is exceptional, once in a lifetime. Fran’s eyes well with tears. She clasps the dress to her body, runs her hands down its folds, feels the weight of the embroidery. Her gaze catches the little hand-sewn label at the neck, and a shiver runs through her limbs.

  “Garrett-Alexia! The House of Garrett-Alexia!”

  A shaft of sunlight enters the room, illuminating the beaded wingtips of the hummingbirds. Two real-life pigeons flurry at the window. Fran snaps to her feet and lifts the dress to her shoulders. It has aged gently, despite being stuffed in a dusty holdall for any number of years. The silk is a little yellowed in parts, and there are loose threads throughout the lace, a few missing pearls and beads, but other than that, it flourishes. With the bodice pressed against her chest, she crosses the floor and imagines a sea of swirling dancers in a grand ballroom with palms in bronze tubs, lacquer tables, marble columns, and gold leaf scrolls, a full band onstage playing Gershwin and a league of penguin-suited waiters serving trays of champagne in crystal coupes. She, Alessandra, the presumed original wearer of the dress, is in the center of it all, with her upstanding groom, who is surely an echo of the son, with those coat-hanger shoulders, that arch profile, those dark eyes. A new groom, she wonders, who might one day earn his spot on the fabled Wall of Dead Grooms. Perhaps he will even replace sweet James Andrew Percy as her favorite dead groom of all time.

  “And one day,” she says wryly, scooping the skirt up and letting it flop between her hands, “I might even find myself a living groom.”