The door thuds again.
She blinks, bewildered. Why is he here? What does he want? Has he found more anger to vent on her? She hastily pulls her Colt family tree from the wall, shovels the evidence under a dresser. He spots her in the shadows, waves her over. It is starting to rain. She contemplates ignoring him, letting him soak, but her inquisitiveness wins. As she opens the door, to her surprise, he tries a smile, his hair ruffled by the weather.
“Thank you,” he says, “for letting me in.”
“You’re not in,” says Fran warily. “This is just the porch.”
“Right.” Rafael bows his head, embarrassed. “I—I just came to say sorry, that’s all. Sorry for the way I threw you out of my car the other night. It was rather despicable of me. I’m under a lot of pressure at the moment, but… No excuses.” He sighs, relieved to have squeezed the words out. “By way of apology, I’d like to give you this.”
He hands her a gift box in stiff purple cardboard embossed with the name Liberty of London.
She takes it, stares at him. With a nod, he urges her to open it, so she slowly tugs one of the ribbons, keeping one eye on him, then slides the lid open.
“To replace the one that was ruined by Janey’s blood,” he says. “It’s an old design, quite rare I believe. Anyway…it’s for you. I hope you like it.”
Inside is an emerald-green silk scarf printed with paisley swirls in cornflower blue and terra-cotta. It gleams like a treasure, its sheen rippling as Fran touches it. Old and deep-rooted, a classic design of the 1970s. She couldn’t have chosen better herself. She opens her mouth to speak but doesn’t know what to say. He seems sincere, sounds sincere, but…
“Do what you like with it. I just wanted to show you I’m not a complete wanker and that I really appreciated your help with my sister.”
“Thank you,” says Fran eventually. “How is she by the way?”
“She’s fine. For now, anyhow.”
“That’s good.”
They stand silent for a moment, the air swirling in circles around them, until Fran’s will to resist caves in. “Please, come in if you like, if you have time.”
“Are you sure?”
“If only to show you my shop isn’t as awful as you probably think it is.”
“Why would you think I think it’s awful?”
“Because it’s full of wedding dresses.”
He follows Fran inside. She feels every step, startlingly conscious that he is entering her territory. With his sudden humility and vintage scarf, he is crossing the threshold. And what a threshold! He has to blink three times before his eyes can tolerate the cacophony of white and all its variations, the texture and sparkle. Everywhere he looks there are veils and tiaras and pearls. His senses start to whirl and thrash. And there, in the center, is his mother’s wedding dress, not so much folded but heaped. He bristles, surprised by a sudden sense of protectiveness over it.
“I know I threw it in a dumpster,” he says, “but dumping it on the floor? I thought you said it was immensely valuable.”
“Actually, it’s lying across my sewing table,” says Fran. “But there’s so much of it, the table is buried. A dress of that size is a nightmare to store. A standard coat hanger won’t take the weight.”
Rafael ventures farther inside the shop, eyes wide with astonishment. “Where do you get all this stuff?”
“Around and about,” says Fran. “I spend a lot of time at vintage fairs. Look at these.” She passes him a pair of pale silk gloves. “Aren’t they beautiful? They’re Edwardian, so delicate. Can you believe women’s hands used to be that small?”
“Amazing,” says Rafael politely, disguising the fact that all he can see are a pair of dirty, fraying mittens, fit for a child’s dressing-up box.
“And this,” says Fran proudly, reaching for a halo-shaped fascinator. “This was made by the bride who wore it, Mrs. Angela Symmons. She based it on the one Wallis Simpson wore when she married King Edward. Look at the detail! Sadly, neither wedding was popular with wider family.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Angela Symmons should have chosen a less controversial style muse?”
“Now you’re thinking like a dress whisperer,” says Fran.
“Steady,” says Rafael, catching her eye, catching a smile. He walks around the room, allows himself to be feel vaguely impressed by this careful collection of matrimonial delight.
“And you really believe that items from the past can influence the present?” he says, touching the lace of a Victorian veil.
“But they’re not items from the past, are they? They just happen to have a past. There’s a difference. And in answer to your question, yes, of course. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. All over the country, I’ve matched flamboyant ’20s flapper dresses to shy girls, demure tea dresses to the argumentative ones, tulle ball gowns for shrinking violets. I take great care with my matches because it’s not just a dress they’re getting but the wisdom of experience.” Fran begins to walk between the mannequins, weaving a scenic line through her bridal parade, and Rafael follows. It’s a game.
“So who would you match this one to?” he quizzes, staring at an enormous, sleeveless ’80s number, blush peach with a dramatic trumpet skirt.
“A bride who needs to be reminded that there is nothing wrong with believing in fairy tales.”
“Until she discovers that fairy tales are a load of patriarchal nonsense perverted to market cartoon channels.”
“You’re a born cynic, aren’t you?”
“I prefer to say realist. How about this one?” He diverts his attention to a high-necked ’70s dress with full sleeves and a slightly dizzying floral pattern.
“For the kind of bride who thinks explosive fights are akin to passion, who needs to learn to argue less, listen more, and enjoy the kind of closeness that empathy can bring.”
“Fair enough,” says Rafael. “So how many brides have you helped? And what proof do you have of your success? I mean, do you ask for customer feedback? Do you give out questionnaires?”
“I trust my instincts,” says Fran. “I’ve been doing this for years.”
Rafael smiles. His gaze then drifts to the wall of dead grooms. “You seem to have a lot of insight into other people’s marital needs, Fran, but something tells me you’re still very much single.”
“My standards are high,” says Fran defensively, walking in front of her bulletin board. “I like old-fashioned charm, the way men used to be.”
“Because life was so much better back in the day, hey?”
“Men were chivalrous. They showed more respect. Granted, there was a lot wrong…”
“Like no votes and few career opportunities for women, homosexuality being illegal, colonialism, slavery…but we were all polite to one another, so it’s okay.”
Fran sighs. “I’m not saying I’d have all of the past back, just some of it.”
“The past is a dead land, Fran. All this”—he gestures around her shop—“it’s lovely, but it’s a shrine to a world that has gone. How can a person move forward in their life if they hide themselves away in this whimsical little fantasy of history?”
“Tell it like you mean it,” says Fran, scolded by his harshness.
They stare at each other, lock eyes.
“I’m just telling you what I see, that this seems like the realm of someone who’s avoiding reality. If you think it’s too tough a judgment, that’s up to you.”
“I think it’s a judgment I didn’t ask for. And for your information”—she feels her hands slide to her hips, the boss-girl stance—“I adore my whimsical little fantasy of history. It’s my life, my world. I created it. It has beauty and fun and vibrancy…and heart. My world has got heart. If it’s whimsical, so be it, because there’s not a touch of whimsy about you, is there? You’re a fish. An ice-cold fish—”
“A human actually.”
“—who needs to find some human feelings.”
“While you could do with getting rid of a few.”
They stand in combat, staring each other down, until Rafael sighs and steps back. “Look, I didn’t come to argue. I just wanted to say sorry and—” He shakes his head, shuts his eyes. “This isn’t working,” he mutters. “Good luck. Good luck with the dress and your business and…your life. There. That’s it. Goodbye.” He goes to the door, yanks it open and marches into the rain.
In fury, Fran snatches it before it closes. “Goodbye to you too,” she yells after him, desperate to have the last word. “And for your information, you’re wrong! Completely wrong! I’m not avoiding reality! I’m not avoiding anything!”
chapter 4
“Done your online check-in?” asks Mick.
“All sorted,” says Fran.
“And what time do you need to be at the airport?” he says, pestering her, knowing Fran will leave it to the last minute.
“I’ve booked a cab for midday. Scotland, here I come, but before that…Petra Zatakis and her mother are coming for the final fitting—”
“Ah, the Vicky Pinder gown,” says Mick, brushing his mustache. “Not for the fainthearted.”
Fran goes to the damask curtain where she has prepared acres of peach taffeta and lace—a bouffant, trumpet-skirted strapless dress complete with sculpted silk roses and a full church veil. It excites Fran to see it primed and ready for its new life.
Right on cue, Petra Zatakis walks in clutching a latte. Her mother, Margot, is behind her, laden with shopping bags. Having met the pair twice before, first for the initial consultation, in which Petra described her fiancé as “nice,” and again at the fitting (which was dominated by Petra’s work emails), Fran knows the Vicky Pinder dress has found its match. Of course, to some, such an immense gown might seem ostentatious, but Fran has a hunch that this dynamite dose of fairy-tale couture is just the thing to sweep a rather staid doctor off her feet. Because while there is nothing wrong with nice, if that’s the only compliment you can come up with when asked to describe your future husband, perhaps you are setting your expectations a little low. Fran fears a touch of “otherwise I’ll die lonely” resignation. But she can fix that. Or rather, Vicky Pinder’s ’80s extravaganza can.
“Petra! Margot! Lovely to see you again! Everything’s ready.”
“Aw,” says Margot. “We’ve been really looking forward to this, haven’t we, Petra…Petra?”
Petra gives a lukewarm nod. Although they look alike, they are most different in character. Fran wonders how such an effervescent woman could raise an utterly glee-resistant daughter. She also wonders whether this wedding is actually for Petra’s benefit or her mother’s. Fran gives Mick a nod, then ushers Petra to the damask curtain, sensing that this final fitting will go smoothest if there is some distance between the pair. Mick, meanwhile, takes Margot aside to show her a tray of antique corsages. They gush and gossip like old friends.
“When I got married for the third time—”
“The third? Goodness me, you’ve been greedy, Mrs. Zatakis.”
“Or lucky. I tell you what, Mick, I adored all of my husbands—or at least I did when I married them. And all of my dresses were fabulous. I’ll bring them in one day and show you. But the third, my word, it was glorious. Some women think it’s vulgar to dress up for remarriages, but I couldn’t help myself. If anything, the gowns got bigger. Maybe because I got better at choosing.”
“The gowns or the husbands?” says Mick, with a wink.
“Both.”
They cackle together, much to Petra’s irritation.
“Please, Mother,” she scolds, taking a seat in front of the damask curtain. “We can’t all be as giddy as you, falling in love with every fireman that walks the planet. Some of us have other priorities.”
“Oh, Petra, don’t be a stick-in-the-mud,” says Margot, before cupping her hand over her mouth, leaning toward Mick and whispering. “I was starting to think she’d never find anyone, but…she got lucky at a medical conference. He’s nice, really nice. Sort of reminds me of my first husband. Not that Petra seems remotely pleased for herself. I don’t know, maybe it’s a generational thing—that they always feel they have to downplay everything.”
Fran breaks the tone by pulling back the damask curtain. “Ta-da!”
Margot takes one look at the dress and with gasping delight, starts fanning back tears. “It’s everything a wedding dress should be!”
Petra, meanwhile, is less ebullient. “Oh. I forgot how bride-y it is,” she says, frowning.
“I’ve taken up the hem,” Fran explains, “so it should sit just upon the floor, giving you that perfect princess sweep without being a tripping hazard.”
“But I’m not sure…seeing it again…I’m not sure whether I’ve got the guts to carry this off…”
“I think you’ve got the guts,” says Fran carefully. “But perhaps you’re lacking the enthusiasm. So let me remind you of Vicky Pinder.”
“The bride who first wore it?”
“That’s right. Vicky had it specially made, spent every penny she had on it. And with good reason. She fought for five years to convince her family to give her and her fiancé their blessing. With Vicky being the youngest daughter of a wealthy car dealer from Newcastle and her intended being a thirty-eight-year-old fisherman from a tiny village in Kerala, they had everything going against them: age gap, geography, culture, status, religion. They had to work so hard to prove their love and be accepted as a couple, but despite all the hurdles, they never questioned their adoration of one another. When the family finally came around, Vicky Pinder knew she had to go all out on the dress.”
Petra stands up, walks toward the gown, and strokes one of the satin roses.
“Sometimes,” Fran continues, “we watch a couple walk down the aisle and think, Well, isn’t that lovely? Don’t they look happy together? But really, we have no idea what it took to get them there. Marriage isn’t something to take for granted or just go along with because everyone else is doing it. Wearing a wedding dress is not a right.” She catches Petra’s eye. “It’s a privilege.”
Petra nods, and it is clear to Fran that she is making the connection between Vicky’s plight and her own. “Should I try it on?”
“Absolutely.”
She helps Petra slip out of her suit and climb into the bodice. They lift it around her shoulders, and then Fran begins lacing the corset ribbons, chatting as she works.
“You say he’s nice, and your mum clearly approves. That counts for more than you realize. It may not be sparkles and unicorns right now, but give it time. People grow. He might surprise you. Many of the best marriages are slow-burners. All I advise is that you respect your decision to wear this dress and to say ‘I do.’ Don’t act like it’s nothing.”
Petra runs her hands down the ruffled skirt, looks in the mirror, and smiles—genuinely. Her face relaxes. “It will be fun, I suppose,” she says, swishing the skirts, admiring her form. “I mean, I can’t deny I didn’t daydream about this sort of gown when I was a little girl.”
“If you’re only going to do it once,” says Fran, “you might as well do it properly.”
“Tell that to my mother,” says Petra wryly.
The two of them sit and talk through ideas for shoes and accessories. Petra gets excited by the thought of a tiara and even stops to ponder what impact it will have on her future husband.
“He’s going to be blown away. He’s so used to me being dismissive of everything. This will show him I care about becoming his wife—because I do care, deep down.”
“I know you do,” says Fran. Suddenly, she is disturbed by the beeping of a car horn. She glances at her watch. “My cab! Is that the time already? My apologies, I have a wedding to get to.”
“Wow. You mus
t live, eat, and sleep bridal wear. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“Never,” says Fran. And in a whirl of excitement, she leaves Mick to finish up with Margot and Petra, scoops up her luggage (a vintage leather suitcase with matching attaché case), and hurries out of the door, calling behind her:
“Respect the dress, Petra! You look radiant!”
* * *
Crowley Castle is everything one would wish a castle to be—solid stone turrets and crumbling battlements boldly claiming the land, promising echoes of sieges, homecomings, and medieval feasts. Surrounded by hills of pine trees, a fine lake at its foot, and now run by a charming host with an eye for detail, it is the perfect Highland getaway for a raffish London wedding party. Inside, the huge stone fireplaces smolder and the beamed ceilings hum with the drone of the castle’s very own bagpiper, as the last of the guests arrive and take their seats in the candlelit chapel.
Fran delights in the coming and goings. From her seat at the back, wearing her favorite 1916 Paul Poiret–inspired harem gown, happy to be anonymous, a quiet cupid in vintage couture, she watches the reunions unfold. Old friends wave across the pews, briefly comparing the passing of five or so years—the job promotions, house moves, and children they’ve borne. The thrill on their faces is obvious, the point where they realize, having lived in separate worlds since leaving university, they are about to spend an entire weekend together, rekindling old joys, old drinking games, and perhaps, a few old heartaches.
The Second Chance Boutique Page 9
