The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  Her mind is jumbled, wretched. Her beautiful dresses, her incredible historic dresses—all the veils, the tiaras, the flower garlands, her mother’s wedding lace. Her research, the newspaper cuttings, love letters, photographs—and the wall of dead grooms, beacon of hope when the manners of modern man elude her, all torn and scattered across the floor. She stares in despair at the ragged mess.

  But there is something missing.

  As the realization drains through her, she looks up, eyes wide with alarm.

  “The dress!” she gasps, cupping her mouth with her hand. “Oh god, the dress…Alessandra’s dress…it’s gone!”

  A sickening thought begins to grizzle in her stomach, bourgeoning dismay that she may have brought this trouble upon herself, after displaying such a valuable dress for all to see across her website. Rafael sighs, rubs her shoulders, contemplates the empty sewing table where the dress once lay.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” he says, “but I want it back. At least I want you to have it back.”

  “Francesca?” Rishi from the chicken shop appears at the door. “Oh, Francesca, are you okay?” Mouth open, he hands Fran a box of chicken. “I came to bring you your favorite hickory wings, thought you might be hungry, but…what on earth’s happened?”

  “There’s been a break-in,” says Rafael, eyeing Rishi warily.

  Fran sniffs, wipes her cheeks, nods between them. “Rafael meet Rishi. Rishi meet Rafael. Did you see anything?”

  Rishi shrugs. He loves Fran, loves seeing what she wears each day. The dainty, old-fashioned cuts of her dresses, the peculiar footwear, the fanciful bags—they are the antidote to all those gray tracksuit bottoms and football shirts, uniform of the bloke that he has to endure over the road among the fryers. “Sorry, Fran. I was in the kitchen all day. We were short staffed. The guys would have said if they’d seen any trouble.”

  He thinks for a moment. “Come to think of it, they did mention someone. Earlier today, they mentioned a young woman hanging about. I just assumed it was one of your ladies, but the thing is, they kept going on about her, ridiculing her, because she had this…crazy hair”—he gestures big curls around his head—“like dreadlocks, with flowers in them.”

  Rafael pales, shuts his eyes, rocks back on his heels. “Oh, Fran,” he says, the exasperation raining down on him. “I’m so sorry. I know exactly where we’ll find the dress. You better come with me.”

  * * *

  They jump into Rafael’s Jaguar and speed toward the West Way. Rafael drives like he’s entitled, faster and pushier than anyone else on the road.

  “She must have found out I gave it to you,” he says, hands tense around the wheel. “Then got wind that it’s worth something and looked up your address. I tell you, she’s something else.”

  Fran bristles, remembering the conversation with Janey on the heath. She’d made it clear that the dress was valuable but hadn’t sensed any interest on Janey’s part. Then again, maybe it is never wise to rely on the surface reactions of Colt family members.

  “Perhaps—perhaps she hopes to wear it herself?” Fran replies sadly. “I mean, it is kind of hers by rights, given it was worn by her grandmother and mother.”

  Rafael scoffs. “Janey doesn’t care about the dress, Fran. She’ll sell it, take whatever amount she can get for it, then spend the money getting wasted. She used to steal from me all the time—watches, books, laptops. Once I came home to find she’d stripped my kitchen of small appliances. I’d go to pay for things and then somehow, out of nowhere, my wallet would be empty. When I put a stop to it, she started shoplifting. She’s been up in court three times.”

  “But why does she need to steal? Surely she has money?”

  “I went to the family lawyer, got him to freeze her allowance. It was the only way. She was drinking it dry. I always take care of her, give her what she needs, and I’ll reinstate her own money when she’s ready, but my requirement is that she sorts herself out…which seems less and less likely these days.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To her flat. She’ll be there, partying with her favorite troupe of dropouts and bottom-feeders I expect.”

  They crawl into the mesh of Hampstead’s residential streets, among the grand redbrick mansion blocks.

  Once parked, Rafael squeezes Fran’s hand. “You have every right to be angry with her,” he says, “but just so you know, I love her dearly and I believe she has a good heart underneath it all.”

  “I know,” says Fran.

  The heavy wooden door of Janey’s flat is ajar. The interior is dim, but through the corridor, they hear dance music and laughter. A party is in full swing. Rafael pushes his way through the crowds in the living room, approaches a skinny man in a leather jacket. “Where’s Jane?” he demands.

  The man grunts, looks away.

  “You know me,” says Rafael fiercely. “We’ve spoken before.” He gives the man a nudge, bordering on a shove. The sight is unsettling.

  Fran has never known, let alone cared about, someone like Rafael before, someone who has the ability to flip from quiet defender of decency to commanding menace in so short a time frame. She watches, a little wary and a little endeared.

  “Tell me where she is.”

  “She’s in the kitchen, mate. Settle down, yeah?”

  Rafael pushes on, Fran behind him. They find Janey sitting on her kitchen counter, swinging her legs, sharing a bottle of vodka with some “friends.” She is wearing the wedding dress over the top of her jeans and sweater, casually flicking cigarette ash on the skirt. Fran stares in horror. After everything the dress has been through and is answerable for, that it should end up here, worn in jest at a seedy house party, flaunted like a scrap from a playroom costume box.

  Rafael turns the music off.

  The silence spurs Janey to look up. When she sees the new arrivals, her expression turns to fury. “Who invited you?”

  “You’re despicable, Jane!” says Rafael, snatching the vodka out of her hand. “Take the damn dress off!” He then turns to the guests. “Go home, everyone. The party’s over.”

  They dither, exchange awkward looks.

  “Now!” shouts Rafael, scaring them toward the door.

  Janey hops down from the counter, yanks the dress off, and dumps it on the floor.

  Fran runs to the mound of silk and lace, scoops it into her arms. There are spills of drink down the front, and the train is gray and gritty where it has been dragged through dirt, but it is back in her grasp at least, and still in one piece.

  Meanwhile Rafael marches Janey to the bathroom. “Take a cold shower,” he demands. “Get yourself sharp, then you and I need to have a talk.” When he returns, suddenly, spontaneously, as though he cannot help himself, he pulls Fran toward him, hugs her tight. A sunray beams through the window and bathes them in light, while the dress, pressed between their warm skin, binds them with its mysterious energy, the atoms of history fizzing and crackling through its fibers.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, stepping away. “So sorry about all this.”

  “It’s fine,” says Fran, flustered, blushing.

  Janey emerges minutes later, wet and bedraggled, lips blue, a tatty robe wrapped round her. “What are you trying to do to me?” she sniffs, sad eyed.

  But Rafael has no tolerance for her tricks. He has been here before. She is playing for sympathy, the please-don’t-moan-at-me-I’m-fragile look. At least she is calmer now, more willing to reason, instead of plowing on with her own deluded rhetoric. He orders her to drink a strong coffee.

  “Was it really necessary for you to mess up Fran’s shop?” he demands. “She’s done nothing to you.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “Don’t play innocent, Janey. You’ve already admitted it. You wanted the wedding dress, I get it, but you didn’t need to trash Fran’s livelihood in the proc
ess. She’s spent years building her business, collecting those dresses. They mean everything to her.”

  “It’s my dress!” Janey rails. “My fucking wedding dress! You took it and gave it away to that…fairy woman. Well, I want it now.”

  “No,” says Rafael. “I gave it to Francesca. That’s final. Besides, it’s the least I can do now that you’ve destroyed her shop. Honestly, Janey, what were you thinking? The damage you caused…it’s criminal. You could go down for this, you realize? Breaking and entering? Damage of property? Theft?”

  “So?”

  “So…don’t you know what that would do to you? To us? To the foundation?”

  “Oh, yeah, boo-hoo, the poor foundation.”

  Rafael groans, screws his fists into two tight balls. “I despair.”

  “It’s my dress,” she persists, now sulky and sullen. “And I want it.”

  “What? So you can pawn it and waste the cash on discount vodka? If I thought for a second that you genuinely cared about it, I’d give it to you without question.” He narrows his eyes, forces her to look at him. “But I know you don’t care, Janey, because if I know you at all, I know you feel the same way about it as I do. It’s nothing more than a specter, an abomination from our past.”

  Janey scowls, pushes her bottom lip out.

  Meanwhile Fran catches Rafael’s eye, surprised—and a little pleased—to hear him talk so protectively about the Whispering Dress. They take each other’s hands.

  “Who exactly is she anyway?” says Janey, riled by the tender interaction between them. “She’s not one of us. She’s not family.”

  Rafael sighs. “Like you ever cared about family. I’ll have to pay for the damages, of course. I don’t want you to lose money, Fran.”

  “And what about my money?” says Janey.

  “Oh, grow up. I’ve told you a million times, you’ll get all the money you want once I can be certain you won’t use it to do yourself over with a mammoth cocktail of toxins.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Jane, this has to stop.” Rafael’s eyelids lower, dragged down by the burden. “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore.”

  “So don’t,” she snarls, standing up at the island. “Leave me alone. Get on with your own life. The world loves you, Rafael. The public loves you. Even she loves you. The prissy fairy dressmaker loves you.”

  Rafael twitches. Love is not a word he is used to.

  “I might be drunk half the time, Raf, but when I’m sober, I’m sharp as a tack. I can see it all. She’s in love with you, and you’re in love with her.”

  At this, Janey crumples, buries her sodden dreadlocks in her hands, and sobs, tears running into a stream of snot.

  But they are different tears, thinks Rafael, to the ones she usually squeezes out on cue. These are raw, unprocessed, honest even. Could it be that Fran—tiny, kind Fran—is a threat to her? Is she frightened that Fran might take her place as his number one priority?

  “Oh, Janey.” He pummels his head in despair. “If you only knew what matters in life, what truly matters, then you’d let go of all this game-playing bullshit. You deserve to be happy. I deserve to be happy. Without jealousy, without bitterness, without shame.”

  “You can’t leave me, Raf. You can’t forget about me.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Janey. I’d never do that. But if you really want to know…yes.” His eyes brighten. “I am falling in love with Fran.”

  Fran’s mouth drops open, and a million tiny butterflies flood into her heart. Those words. It has been so, so long since someone has said those words to her. She stares at him. Her heart wants to burst. But her amazement is quickly eclipsed by Janey’s spite.

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” she says, laughing cruelly, “along with all the others you fell in love with. What were their names? Bella? Rosie? Megan? Victoria? Angelique? Oh, Angelique—remember her? The professional skier? You really fell in love with Angelique, the one you proposed to on top of a mountain. Didn’t work out though, did it? When she discovered you were sleeping with a bunch of barmaids and threw the ring back in your face.”

  Rafael straightens, his entire body tensing.

  “I was barely twenty years old,” he spits. “Trying to make the wrong girl commit to me. I made a mistake…big deal.”

  “So let me ask you this, Raf: Why is it okay for you to make a mistake but not me? Why am I always the fuckup?”

  Rafael has no answer for her.

  Janey straightens, widens her eyes as though coming to a place of clarity. “Oh, Raf, it’s not my fault. I don’t want to fuck up all the time. I want to be better, but it’s them. It’s their fault. They’re the ones. They ruined us.”

  She doesn’t need to explain. He knows whom she means.

  “Why couldn’t we have been born into a normal family? With nice, normal parents with a normal marriage, parents who loved each other, who were kind to each other. Look at us. What have we done with our lives? I’m a loser and you’re a workaholic who’s frigid about relationships. They never showed us the right way to live—or to love. There was no warmth, no stability, no loyalty. All the crap we’ve hidden from, Raf, it nudges at the door, no matter how deeply we bury it. And it won’t disappear simply because we don’t want to deal with it. It’ll lie in wait. We’re fucked.”

  Her eyes flood with tears, the guilt of decades, the anguish of a lifetime, hitting her like lightning. She falls into his arms and they hug—for the first time since childhood—and a feeling passes between them, stronger than love, stronger than hate, the bond of blood. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “Me too,” says Rafael.

  “I mean it this time,” says Janey.

  And she does, he thinks, as a haze of long-wanted relief and tenderness descends upon them both.

  Fran, meanwhile, slips quietly away. She has heard enough.

  * * *

  Years of collecting and caring run deep. Fran stares around the Whispering Dress—her work, her life, her security blanket, her everything. The tulle of the ’50s ballerina dress has been torn in three places. A gown that has graced the aisle of a cathedral, dazzled three hundred guests, made a minister blush, then survived nearly seventy years in a suitcase, traveling from England to India to Jakarta to France, tremulous with a lifetime of hope and warmth, now wrecked in an instant.

  The 1938 ivory satin fishtail, due to be the jewel of the art deco window display, never mind that on the eve of World War II, its eye-catching cut stopped traffic as the bride and groom left the church—a last burst of glamour before the darkness descended. So much power, so much to say, and now it lies in a crumpled heap, with a footprint on its skirt. Poor thing.

  Fran gathers it in her arms, cuddles the satin to her cheek. She will fix it, she determines, and love it a little more, so that its story can continue, so that one day it can mean something to another deserving bride.

  She gathers all the scraps of antique fabric and lace. She rebuilds mounds of beads and sequins, rehangs flower garlands and tiaras, piles her sewing table with cotton reels and pins, then retrieves the scatter of newspaper clipping and letters, and the photos, her dead grooms.

  “I’m sorry,” says Fran, dripping silent tears onto their sepia faces—Anthony Clay and James Andrew Percy and all the good men who have watched over her from the wall, her great hopes, her protectors. They never lie, never cheat, never cause her doubt or pain or confusion—with them, she had the safe way to cherish, admiration at a distance, only paper and daydreams, no real hearts involved. She patches them up, tries to rearrange their portraits as neatly as she can. With a twinge of self-pity, she goes to the art nouveau wardrobe in the corner. How ironic that the only gown that hasn’t been mortally damaged is the one she would most like to get away from, the one that hurts most.

  Slowly, she opens the door. There it is, her own ex-wedding dress. I
t has been years since she’s looked at it, but tonight, the melancholy grips her—all her happy passion, her delight in other people’s wedding joy, that sees her bounce from one day to another, suddenly it is funneled into a narrow vial of despair.

  Anguished and crying, she tugs the dress from its hanger, takes it over to the mirror, rips the eyelets apart, and steps inside its viselike bodice. It still fits, but the fabric is scratchy and stiff. The seams are cheap, hastily machined in some anonymous mass-production sewing room—a dress from a factory, hardly romantic, no heart in those stitches. She remembers the chain store where she bought it, the obsequious smile of the sales assistant who assured her, even though it was synthetic, that it would move like the genuine organza she’d admired, that strapless gowns were the most sophisticated of all when, in reality, they were the most common and most encouraged because of their basic form and ease to fit and alter.

  She knew so little back then but was blinded by the buzz of becoming a bride. She didn’t know the pain it would bring her or how she would come to regret the moment she ever said yes. She runs her hands down the creased skirt. Suddenly it feels like the pain will never leave her, that it will always be there, whispering from the shadows. In anger, she throws her fist at the mirror. The glass cracks and a red ribbon of blood trickles down her wrist. Aghast, she collapses in a heap, broken and pitiful.

  * * *

  Sometime later, serene after a long cry, Fran picks herself up, bandages her hand, and starts to work cleaning and repairing the Alessandra Colt dress. Usually she finds sewing alone in the moonlight the most soothing of any activity, but now she feels frantic. It is written across the furrow of her brow, in the tightness of her lungs. The pressure keeps squeezing. She wants the dress more than any she’s ever encountered, and yet she fears it too. She shakes the bodice, sponges the beer stains, brushes off the grit, then notices another spatter of marks on the skirt—very faint, unobvious to the unknowing eye, the damage of a substance hastily applied. A crime to a dress so valuable, but when you’re in a hurry, under stress, trying to get to a wedding on time? It could be rubbing alcohol or even a little diluted ammonia—trusted remedies for the removal of stains…stains like blood.