The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  She wants him so much, but he too is an invader. No man, not for a decade, has come this close to her. She dares not lose herself in the fire, getting too close, too fast. Heart thumping, she pulls away, calms her breath.

  He understands—she needs time. The moonlight leads them to the bedroom, where they fall onto the sheets, find the perfect spoon, entwine their limbs, and sleep in deepest peace, their bodies pressed tight together.

  * * *

  Seven o’clock Monday morning brings a reality check as the indomitable Mimi lets herself in and parks breakfast—protein smoothies, wheatgrass shots, and pastrami bagels—on the white kitchen island, then begins making coffee. It is strange to Fran that the mundane act of preparing breakfast should be the responsibility of someone else, someone like Mimi, an employee/substitute wife. Still muddled from sleep, Fran acknowledges her with a smiley yawn and wonders what she has to say about her and Rafael’s paired emergence from his bedroom.

  Mimi just scowls, suggesting she has little regard for messy bed hair and sleepovers. She hands Rafael a mug, reels off his list of meetings and appointments, then slices his bagel into halves.

  “Is she going to feed you now?” whispers Fran.

  Rafael doesn’t get the joke or at least doesn’t smile. “I have to get into the office by nine,” he says, “but please, Fran, stay as long as you like. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “But not too comfortable,” says Mimi, eyeing her.

  Fran is glad when the two of them leave, all suited for business, and she is finally able to exhale and absorb the charmed folly of the situation, not to mention the heavenly blast of white that seems to be all around her. The impressive stats of Rafael’s penthouse apartment—two hundred square meters overlooking the Thames—cannot compensate for its bachelor sterility. Every wall, ceiling, furnishing and fitting is white. Even the floors are white. As Fran walks through it, she is dazzled, feels unreal, as though she is having an out-of-body experience.

  She eats Rafael’s leftover bagel and showers in the one thing that isn’t white, the en suite bathroom—its bronze-flecked stone tiles creating a cocoon-like coziness. The shower is so high-tech, with a computer screen instead of a trusty tap, it takes ten minutes to work out what to do. The water cascades like a rainstorm. She has never had a wash like it.

  Rafael. Rafael. Mr. Rafael Colt. As the water drenches her, she rolls his name around in her head, then dares herself to test it for fit: Mrs. Francesca Colt. Her insides quiver at the thought—that butterfly sweetheart gladness. It feels wonderful…and so, so dangerous.

  After showering and dressing, in the white silence, Fran doesn’t know what to do with herself. She flops on the sofa, tries the massive TV, discovers it is set on rolling news. If she had a TV at home, particularly one the size of a cinema screen, she wouldn’t watch wall-to-wall reality. Too depressing. Fantasy is better.

  Agitated by the sight of politicians arguing, she switches it off and wanders around the apartment. She sees piles of papers relating to Rafael’s work, leaflets about gyms; books about philosophy, sports, and architecture; but nothing familial. Nothing to link him to Alessandra and Lyle or his beloved Dryad’s Hall. No keepsakes, no photographs, no personal items. Almost as though he has come from the air.

  Restless, she goes through to the bedrooms, strokes her fingers along the satin finish of the walls, jumps on the immaculate guest beds, plumps the cushions, throws them, then plumps them again. The walk-in wardrobe calls to her. What of his clothes? Most of the rods are empty. The ones that are occupied contain a somber display of gray and black shirts and high-quality suits, all dry-cleaned and pressed—very impressive, not very fun.

  And then, on a sideboard by the bed, she spies a scrap of paper, scrawled with the words: Janey new phone: 07591 3788678. Fran picks it up, thinks for a moment, turning it over and over in her hand. She then grabs her phone, notes down the number, and leaves.

  * * *

  “What’s with you?” says Mick as Fran enters the shop, gripping a double-shot espresso, the pallor of her skin giving away the decadence of her weekend. “Too good for Walthamstow now?”

  She is grateful for the sight of him, a face from her old life pulling her back to the comfort of the familiar.

  “I was waiting for the call—come and hang out, Mick, I’m bored—but it looks like you got a sweeter offer.”

  “Sweet for now,” says Fran.

  “Don’t tell me…you’ve joined a Colt?”

  “Ha, very funny.”

  “So…?”

  “Oh, Mick,” Fran sighs, her eyes shining with bliss. “We had the most incredible weekend.”

  “Yes!” says Mick. “At last!”

  Fran grins, fluffs the tulle skirt of the ’50s ballerina dress, straightens the strings of pearls and flower garlands, rearranges the drapes of wedding lace that decorate the mirrors. She cannot hold her happiness in. “Honestly, against my better judgment, it just feels so right. In some peculiar way, we’re perfect for each other. I know you wouldn’t put us together, but maybe that’s the point. Love isn’t obvious. It emerges in places you’d least expect it to. I wonder if the dress—”

  Fran winces, catches sight of the Alessandra Colt dress in the corner, its secrets still locked inside the folds of its silk. Is she a fool? Is she naive to think that Rafael’s soul, behind his aloof cynicism, is a good match for hers—a romance-obsessed wedding dress enthusiast? No one, she reasons, in simple surprise, has come close to the boundary of her heart in a decade. And now here is Rafael. And it is happening so fast, so intensely, without her even being sure of who he is.

  She has seen several sides of him now: charming, intelligent, humble, loyal, generous, confident…and cold…and full of rage. Who is he really? The excitement of him clouds with thoughts of Alessandra, the unflattering best man remarks, and Rafael’s own proclamation: I come from a long line of bad men.

  Meanwhile, from behind the shapely form of the ivory 1930s backless, satin, bias-cut number, the waterfall train of which he has just reattached, Mick is watching, anxiously observing the shadow that is gathering behind his friend’s optimism.

  “Three more customers have asked about it, you know,” he says. “One of them wanted to buy it there and then, offered me five grand. I had to promise her you’d be in touch as soon as you’re ready to find a match for it, but honestly, if we don’t off-load it soon—”

  “We’re not selling it yet,” she says.

  Mick eyes her cautiously. “Never covet,” he warns.

  “I know, I know,” she sighs. “But I can’t pass it on until…until I know I can trust it.”

  “Trust? That’s a big word, Fran.”

  Fran shrugs.

  “I’m happy for you, girl,” he says quietly, “but pace yourself, won’t you? It wasn’t that long ago that we were bitching about what a rude, grumpy arsehole Rafael is. You know how protective I am of you—the sister I never had. I just want to be sure you’re sound, that’s all.”

  Fran smiles, tries to hide the discomfort his cautionary tone gives her. She values Mick’s opinion more than anyone’s. He has known her since the days she first started selling homemade fascinators in Camden Market and was there at the beginning of the Whispering Dress. He has helped her find magnificent vintage wedding paraphernalia in the unlikeliest of places, managed to charm her most nervous customers, and indulged every whim of her whisperer’s research—visits to old churches, tea with grandchildren, sifting through mountains of census records, wedding certificates, and faded love letters. Above all, however, he has been an ally during her bleakest hours.

  That aching hollowness returns to her suddenly. All those years she lived as a living ghost, a body with no feelings, desperate to believe that the magic of true love was still out there somewhere, whispering from the shadows. She shuts her eyes, momentarily returns to the cold of the bathroom f
loor, where night after night, she lay sobbing. In the grip of such sorrow, her senses prickled to life, put out the alert: Stay safe. Stay guarded.

  The dress looms in front of her like a marital specter.

  “Who are you?” she whispers, willing it to reply.

  Maybe all Rafael needs is the right person in his life, a person who knows how to use the past for good, who can help him open his eyes, face his story, and learn to accept, learn to let go. Bolstered by this thought, Fran picks out the threads of a loose loop of beads. One of the hummingbirds needs attention—its wing has come away from the silk of the train.

  She smiles again, tells herself to be brave, take a chance. “Look at this embroidery!” she exclaims. “Exquisite! Every bit of it! Honestly, Mick, the train alone must have been weeks of work, months even. Everything hand stitched, every detail perfect. I only hope Alessandra appreciated how lucky she was.”

  “Come on,” Mick urges. “Let’s at least get this big-arse gown photographed and online before you become an obsessive.”

  “Okay, okay. But I’m not selling it…not until I know for sure.”

  Once the last bead has been repaired, they hold it high, brush it down, and shape it around a tailor’s dummy. It looks radiant and Fran cannot help but feel proud of its rejuvenation. She places it in front of an old cast-iron mantelpiece that Mick salvaged from a scrapper’s yard, then stages the surroundings with her velvet chaise longue, a violin, a cut-glass decanter, and an assortment of shells and lace samples. She is, after all, selling a dream, a whimsical fantasy of history. There is nothing more dispiriting in the world of bridal wear than a joyless online sales photo. All those unremarkable gowns dangling glibly from wire coat hangers, sometimes with dry-cleaning film still wrapped around them, against a backdrop of a hallway or someone’s dreary bedroom. A whispering dress needs an entire stage set.

  Fran and Mick take a series of photos, adjust the light, play with filters, add a few more knickknacks, then take more and more photos until Fran is finally happy she has captured the true essence of the extravagance of the Alessandra Colt dress.

  She uploads the photos to her website and adds a brief description:

  Captivating, rare House of Garrett-Alexia 1950s silk and lace wedding gown. One of a kind. Richly embellished hummingbird/lily detail. Four-meter train. Near perfect condition.

  “There,” she says, with an air of reluctant pride. “It’s done. Let’s see what interest we get.”

  But in her heart, although she doesn’t admit this to Mick, she hopes there is none.

  * * *

  “Thanks for meeting me,” says Fran, a little nervous as she approaches the table.

  The venue, a coffee shop in a slightly dilapidated Georgian town house opposite Hampstead Heath, was Janey’s choice. Janey sits by a window, staring at nothing, her latte going cold. She turns, gives Fran a vague smile, then looks back to the window, to the street and the world beyond. The bruise from her fall is still visible, a faded purple-yellow bloom down the side of her face, but otherwise, she seems brighter. There is color in her cheeks, and her hair, still a nest of dreadlocks, has been twisted with wildflowers and piled into a bun.

  Fran wonders how to begin. “I helped take you to the hospital with your brother a few weeks ago, when you hit your head. I wanted to check that you were okay, and, well, if you don’t mind, ask a few questions about your mother.”

  Janey looks blank.

  Fran wonders, despite explaining herself over the phone, if she even remembers. She feels foolish suddenly, embarrassed by the absurd depths her wedding dress obsession lures her to, all in the name of “fieldwork.” She privately berates herself, makes to leave just as Janey looks up.

  “Oh yes!” she exclaims, addressing Fran directly, eyes springing wide. “I remember! You were at the house, weren’t you? I chatted with you in the drive. You were climbing out of a dumpster for some random reason…and then Rafael came along… That was a fight, huh? Same old, same old.”

  “Something like that,” says Fran, guessing Janey has drawn a blank on the stair incident. How odd, she thinks, to lose chunks of your life like that. How sad. “You look well,” she says encouragingly.

  Janey sighs. “Do I? I feel like shit. Here, you haven’t got any tobacco on you, have you?”

  “I don’t smoke, sorry.”

  Janey rubs her arms. “I’m literally roasting for a nicotine fix.”

  “Would you—would you like to go for a walk?” says Fran. “It’s beautiful out.”

  “Sure. Um…who exactly are you by the way?”

  Fran stiffens, caught in the flare of her morality. “I’m an acquaintance of your brother’s. My name is Francesca, but call me Fran.”

  “You’re not press, are you? I’m under strict instructions not to talk to journalists. Not after last time. Raf’ll kill me.”

  “I’m definitely not press. I sell vintage wedding dresses, as it goes.”

  Janey perks up. “Oh? Are you and Raf…?”

  “Not quite!” says Fran, blushing, brushing away the inference. “We’ve spent some time together, but in all honesty, I barely know him. The main reason I’m here, I suppose, is because he passed on a wedding dress that belonged to your mother. My plan is to sell it to a worthy bride, but I need to know more about it.”

  Janey pauses. Her gaze shifts upward. “That old thing? I didn’t know it was still around.”

  “We found it during the clearance, tucked away in a wardrobe…almost as though someone wanted it forgotten.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. She was a peculiar breed, my mother.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean, take one guess why I’m such a fuckup. Although I’m still not sure what it’s got to do with you.”

  “Can we walk? I’ll explain.”

  Janey glances at the wall clock. “I’ve got an appointment in twenty minutes,” she says cannily. “If you buy me a packet of smokes, that twenty minutes is yours.”

  “Deal.”

  As they walk in the sun, over the heath, Janey shivers, her thin limbs addled by the cold and chemicals.

  “I was wondering…I know your family had some difficulties, that your mother, Alessandra, didn’t talk.”

  “Wow. Privy to the Colt Family vault? Raf must like you.”

  “It came up, that’s all. He didn’t say much on the matter. In fact, he got quite cagey. If I’m honest, it felt like he was holding something back. There’s a sadness in him.” She looks at Janey, sees it suddenly. “And in you. The Colt Foundation is so well regarded. Your parents had a wholesome public image, and yet you and Rafael paint a very different picture of behind the scenes.”

  Janey shrinks, unnerved by the observance. “So we’re a fucked-up rich family pretending to be marvelous? What’s new?”

  “What do you mean, ‘pretending’?”

  “The precious Colt name, it cannot be sullied. Which is why bad apples like me get erased from the public eye.”

  “Oh, surely it’s not like that. Rafael just wants you sober. He worries for you.”

  “Says his girlfriend of two weeks.”

  “I’m not… We’re not…” Fran hesitates, scared to declare her connection to Raf. To her relief, Janey talks over her.

  “I thought we were here to talk about my mother, not me. I get enough psychobabble from good Saint Rafael—”

  “Fine. I’m happy to stick with your mother, but just so you know, for what it’s worth, I’m not convinced your brother is that much of a saint.”

  Janey smiles, seduced by this co-conspiracy, but now Fran feels uncomfortable. She never had siblings. She always longed for them, for that particular familial closeness that couldn’t be rivaled by friends or lovers. But this, this is closeness gone awry.

  “So tell me,” Janey says. “Are you and Raf an item? He never lets me m
eet his girlfriends. Not that he ever keeps them long enough for me to meet.”

  Fran blinks, unsure what to say—the wish to know and yet not know. “Has he ever had a long-term relationship?” she ventures.

  “Are you kidding? The eternal bachelor? Raf’s idea of romance is a one-night stand, which is why it’s rather impressive that you’re still hanging around him. You must mean something. Usually he doesn’t let anyone past the defenses, apart from his witch of an assistant and his cleaner.”

  Fran frowns although is quietly grateful that someone else has seen the cow in Mimi. “You make him sound like an arsehole.”

  Janey shrugs, lights a cigarette. “Look, you seem like a nice girl,” she says through a mouthful of smoke. “But I’m warning you, Rafael worries about no one but himself. He’s an island, hard to reach. My hunch is he resents being the chosen one.”

  “The chosen one?”

  “Surely you’ve heard the phrase heir and a spare? Well, you’re looking at the spare right now.” She yawns, stretches. “Plus, I look like my mum, which probably didn’t help my plight. No doubt I just reminded my father of his dumb wife and that put him off, but there you go.”

  Fran slows, faces the sun and the expanse of heathland ahead. “So, about the wedding dress,” she says, keen to move on from the discomfort of Rafael’s faults. “I’ve seen footage from her wedding day—”

  “Her wedding day?”

  “Your mother’s.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mean my grandmother’s? The dress was originally made for her back in the ’50s…1953? 1954 maybe? As a Colt family ambassador, I’m supposed to know this stuff, except, technically, I’m not allowed to be an ambassador anymore, because of all of the, you know…glug-glug, snort-snort!”

  But Fran is distracted, her thoughts elsewhere. Two owners, grandmother and mother? Perhaps this explains the alterations in the waist. It also allows for the conflict of eras. Garrett-Alexia was defunct by the time of Alessandra and Lyle’s wedding in 1978 but was at its peak in the early 1950s.