“Don’t,” says Fran, shutting her eyes.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk about reality. Don’t remind me.” All she wants to do is revel in spontaneous decadence. She sighs, hears the ticktock in her head that tells her she has brides and dresses that need her attention. “I have to get back,” she says. “I have wedding dresses to match, love to improve.”
“And you really believe that?” says Rafael, leaping back onto the bed. “That your dresses have such power?”
“But you saw for yourself, at the weddings. Melissa, Rachel, Kate—they were…enhanced.”
Rafael shakes his head. “It was you that ‘enhanced’ them, Fran, with your good advice. You may be bonkers, but you’re not without sagacity. You said the right things, gave them the pep talk they each needed to hear, and somewhere deep down, it had an effect on them.”
“Oh no,” says Fran. “I was simply nice to them. The dresses did the work.”
“And you think this work will have a lasting effect?”
“Obviously.”
“In that case,” he says, smiling, “I challenge you, Francesca Delaney: in six months, go back to your brides, go back to Melissa and Kate, and see where they’re at. If they’re still happy,” he says, a glint in his eye, “then I’ll marry you.”
She stares at him, mouth open.
“Well, given your gift for engendering marital harmony, I’d be mad not to,” he says.
“And if they’re not happy?”
“Then we’re all doomed.”
chapter 7
Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. Apart from their working hours, Fran and Rafael are barely apart. They don’t think about it; they simply follow the instinct that tells them to connect—dinners in Rafael’s favorite restaurants, evening swims at Hampstead Ponds, movies in tatty old cinemas, lots of sex, and lots of walks.
Mimi has few positives to say about Rafael’s amorous inclinations, despite her own wedding day looming. She finds him vague, distracted, and irritatingly pleasant mannered. Fran meanwhile is not such a dedicated wedding-dress seller suddenly, but a love-struck dreamer. Mick scratches his head in frustration, finds himself unable to galvanize her into action. He can sell a dress when required but doesn’t have her knack. He struggles to match a rayon ’70s maxi with an angry teacher from Cardiff. He does his best with an embroidered white organdy number from 1959, but his bride of choice, a second-time-lucky divorcée from Bristol, keeps missing appointments. And he has no luck finding a tall, serious bride for the 1938 ivory fishtail. Even the Alessandra Colt dress lies dormant, lurking in the corner of the shop, as Fran pays no attention to the inquiries about it.
One evening, as they lie in each other’s arms, overlooking the lights of London, Rafael sits up. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to be official.”
Fran arches an eyebrow. “As in…?”
“I have an engagement coming up, a London dinner. It’s a big, stuffy affair that happens annually. I don’t care for it particularly, but it’s one of the highest profile social events in the capital, and it’s important for the foundation. I’ll be making a speech. I’ve been going for years on my own, which hasn’t helped the speculation around my ability to maintain honest heterosexual relationships. One minute they shortlist me for bachelor of the year; the next they link me to a string of gay nightclubs, then the next, I read about how I’ve supposedly slept with three female prostitutes in one night. Which I’ve never done by the way, nor am I gay, nor do I care to be a high-status bachelor, but such is the way.”
“I wouldn’t care if you were any of those things.”
“You’re sweet, but I’d rather you did care.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really.”
“So if I care, what does that mean?”
“It means we should go public, make it official. We are a couple.”
Fran smiles. “Rather than an indecent womanizer from a corrupt family and a deluded wedding dress fanatic getting up to naughty things under willow trees?”
Rafael laughs—then turns serious. “You have to understand, Fran, official in my world isn’t a minor matter. I’ve had to give this some thought. Don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re a bit…maverick. You’re not the type of girl they’ll expect to see on my arm. I mean, if my grandparents or my father were still alive, they’d have paid you off weeks ago, had you removed to some remote corner of the globe, and shoved some well-connected debutante horror in front of me, insisted I produce a ring.”
“You mean I’m too common for you?”
“I mean they were too old-fashioned. But they’re long dead, Fran. And I couldn’t give a toss. Their marriages were built around status, money, and maintaining appearances, but they were…toxic. Love didn’t come into it. The point is,” says Rafael, cheeks flushed, “will you be my official girlfriend?”
“I’ll think about it,” says Fran, teasing, coquettish, while inside she is bursting.
“One thing,” says Rafael. “Please behave yourself. Or at least try to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The press will be there. If there’s any nonsense—”
“Impeccable behavior. Scout’s honor.”
“And you’ll need a dress—”
“The best part!” says Fran, jumping up. “What kind of dress?”
“Something fabulous, but it can’t be too revealing. No loud prints. No giant safety pins. We don’t want dear old Lord and Lady Eyebright choking on their lobster bisque.”
“Trust me,” says Fran, “if there’s one thing I’m capable of, it’s coming up with the right frock for the occasion.”
* * *
Regent Street is lined with paparazzi. Suited men and women in ball gowns flow along the red carpet toward the entrance to the Hotel Café Royal. The fame-hungry stop to pose or give a comment, the important give a nod or a very serious wave, but everybody fans themselves because the air is so close, dense with heat and the promise of a storm.
Rafael’s car pulls up. Fran stares out of the window at the grand stone facade of the hotel. She stifles a giggle—no nonsense, best behavior. She is determined to do him proud, to make the best of their moment of official-ness. She has chosen a 1940s long gown and sequined bolero dinner jacket—elegant, sophisticated, with a hint of sexiness.
“Will it do?” she says.
“It’s perfect,” says Rafael. “Here, I have a gift for you.” He hands her a box.
She looks at him.
“Open it.”
Inside is an antique diamond bracelet. Fran gasps. She has never been given diamonds before. He has chosen well, a graceful Edwardian filigree bangle, special more for its age than its value.
“I believe,” he says, taking her wrist and slipping it on, “it’s over a hundred years old. Who knows? Maybe it once belonged to a suffragette.”
Fran smiles, kisses him a thank-you.
“Shall we?” He offers his arm.
She threads her jeweled wrist through the crux of his elbow, and they step out of the car. The city is alive. The evening traffic rushes beside them as they stride toward the red carpet. The neon lights of Piccadilly glow bright against the gathering clouds.
“Stick with me,” whispers Rafael. “As we get closer, they’ll start calling my name. Don’t panic about the flashbulbs. They’re a little intimidating at first, but you’ll get used to it.” He squeezes her arm. “Ready?”
“Ready,” says Fran, exhaling.
They step forward. The cameras snap and flash. The frenzy of light is so dazzling Fran is momentarily blinded. She hangs off Rafael, pulls him close, draws from his confidence. She thinks of Alessandra, immersed by the crowds on her wedding day, Lyle on her arm, the glory of her dress
belying her shyness.
“Mr. Colt!”
“Over here, Mr. Colt!”
“Congratulations, Mr. Colt! This is going to be a big night for you. Can you give us a few words about the foundation’s future plans?”
“Mr. Colt! Would you be so kind, with your partner, to pose for a moment. We’d love a few pictures.”
“Is this your new girlfriend? Give us a smile!”
As they enter the doorway, Fran turns and smiles, happy to let the cameras catch her joy, but Rafael is impatient.
He grips her arm, a little firmer than necessary, leads her away. He wants to be inside the building, away from the all-seeing eyes of the cameras. They enter the lobby, its historic opulence now refreshed with modern design, the warmly lit surfaces of marble and mirror dominated by a dazzling glass chandelier. An usher greets them with champagne.
Fran gazes around her, entranced by the thought of the hotel’s many famous patrons, of Virginia Woolf, Oscar Wilde, and David Bowie, whispering through the wrought-iron balustrades and the gilded ceilings.
Ahead, they see Mimi. She is wearing head-to-toe black, a column dress with no embellishment, poorly fitted. With her height and figure, thinks Fran, she could—should—be more daring.
“Good evening, Mimi,” says Rafael. “Obviously you’ve met Fran already, but before the evening gets underway, I just want to let you know that we’ve decided to make our relationship official, so if the press start asking questions”—he looks at Fran, smiles—“we’re together.”
“As you wish, Mr. Colt,” says Mimi, begrudgingly acknowledging Fran with a nod. “Here is your speech. I’ve highlighted the key points.” She hands him a tablet.
He looks to Fran again. “I think I might need a minute to go through this. Will you excuse me? Perhaps you two could get a drink or something?”
Mimi scowls.
“You’ll look after Fran won’t you, Mimi? Maybe show her the ballroom. Did I tell you, Fran, it’s where my parents had their wedding reception?”
He walks away, leaving Mimi and Fran in prickly silence, neither of them wishing to engage with the other. Around them, the new arrivals—men in tuxedos, women in ball gowns—gather and chat.
Fran studies the paintings on the ceiling.
Mimi looks at the wall clock.
Eventually, at the same time, they declare their positions.
“We don’t have to be friends,” says Fran, just as Mimi asks if Fran would be able to find her own way to the ballroom.
“I’m sure of it,” says Fran, sweeping her dress as she turns away.
How does he stand her? she thinks, as she glides down the corridor with irritated bluster—but her ire is soon mellowed by the sight of the ballroom, with its explosion of Louis XVI grandeur, fluted Corinthian pillars, and gilded mirror frames. Everywhere Fran looks, the light bounces, twinkles, and shines.
“So,” she whispers, casting her eyes to the elaborate ceiling, her thoughts flashing to the Alessandra Colt dress—the only dress that could upstage a venue like this. “Here is where it happened. Here is where Lyle and Alessandra danced and drank…and celebrated.”
She stalls on the word, turns to look in the mirror, and feels it creeping over her—that sorrowful anguish she’d felt at Dryad’s Hall, Alessandra’s inner pain. She imagines the two of them, newlyweds, preparing for their first dance—Lyle, with his dark, deerlike eyes and coat-hanger shoulders, immaculate in a tailcoat and bow tie, luring Alessandra over with the curl of a finger. But all the while, his eyes roam the room, looking for the admiration of others, delighting in the power he perceives he has over any woman he desires. He grips Alessandra’s wrist, pulls her close, forces her tiny, nervous hands to his waist. They start to move, then he orders her to kiss him… A kiss for what? Not for true love, of that Fran is certain. His mannerisms—the finger curl, the domineering grin, the self-satisfied glint in his eye—they are not the body language of affection. They are gestures of a power play.
Fran stills.
Is she kidding herself that Rafael will break the mold? Maybe the signs are there: telling her what to wear, how to be behave, when to be official.
Once we’re married, I’ll change him. She thinks of these words, said so often in the Whispering Dress, and recalls the number of times she and Mick have caught each other’s eye, quietly shaken their heads in dismay. Perhaps he is merely concealing his dark side, suppressing the twisted dysfunction he was raised in. When it seeps out, no doubt it will get the better of him. In her mind’s eye, she sees the dance get faster. Alessandra cannot keep up, the weight of the wedding dress is too heavy, the train too long, but Lyle forces her. They swirl and turn, until they are little more than a macabre blur of ivory silk and heartless laughter. Suddenly it feels like the air in the room is thinning, restricting her, suffocating her. She feels dizzy, staggers backward, then a hand tugs her arm.
“Fran…Fran, let’s go. They’re calling us in.”
“Yes,” she says absently. “Yes, of course.” She feels vulnerable, defenseless, a hundred knots of secret anxiety twisting in her stomach. “I just need some air first,” she says.
Before Rafael can argue, she hastens through the crowds, out of the main entrance, to the front steps, where the lights of Piccadilly and the traffic and the paparazzi are still active.
“Fran, what’s going on? We have to go back in.” He sees the camera lenses shift his way. “Come on,” he insists, but Fran is distracted.
“The past is everywhere,” she says, staring into the headlights of the oncoming cars. “I—I think the dress is trying to tell me something.”
Rafael sighs, frowns, checks his watch. “Fran, we haven’t got time for this,” he says. “Get yourself together. Come on.”
He bows his head in frustration. He doesn’t mean to be so cutting, but she infuriates him. This is not the time.
But Fran doesn’t hear his plea. Her attention is elsewhere. For a moment, she doesn’t believe it, cannot bear to believe it…
She hasn’t seen his face in years, but a second glance confirms it is him, definitely him. She’ll never forget those devilish green eyes, that crown of curly hair. Besides, his name—in enormous font, across the side of a number 88 bus—declares it: Miles Ferguson. Her legs and arms flood with adrenaline as the sting of the pain she’d tried so hard to escape—the rejection, the sorrow, the humiliation—takes hold.
Rafael, meanwhile, perplexed that she has stumbled into this disturbed trance, whispers to her, tries to take her hand and lead her inside. She shakes him away, stares wordlessly at what she can only understand as a sign.
In the background of her daily distractions, she’d always known Miles’s star was rising. She’d deliberately stayed away from media gossip, from television and film reviews, but when someone makes a blockbuster movie that’s so successful it sees their face splashed across a poster on a double-decker bus on the other side of the world, well, it can no longer be avoided. His face, his horrible, great big, devious face, bigger than life, bigger than bearable, is right there in front of her, declaring victory.
As the shock sets in, a cloud bursts overhead. The first fat raindrops hit the ground.
“Come on,” pleads Rafael. “They’ll be waiting for me.”
Fran sniffs, holds her hands to her head. What to say? Where to start? All that soul-crushing, heart-slaying, awful, hideous hurt that has made her feel she can never trust her heart with another person again—could he even begin to understand? Her thoughts are pulling in too many directions. The fear has gripped her again and she just wants it gone. Her mind floods, swills with panic. Tear-stricken and shaking, she breaks away from him, hitches her skirt, and bolts from the scene, leaving a cacophony of chatter and flashbulbs.
* * *
They were nineteen. The play was William Shakespeare’s As You Like It. He had a minor role, but it
afforded him a few good lines, which he performed with gusto. Fran could tell he was destined for greatness. Miles Ferguson. When she saw his name in the program, she read it over and over again. Everyone in the company loved him. His eyebrows seemed to dance when he talked. His hair was a shock of brassy curls, which flopped and bounced with every eloquent, witty, exaggerated expression. He was foppish and charismatic and young enough to get away with it. Backstage, he was often the topic of excitable gossip, mainly from the chorus, who all vied for his attention, but it was Fran who caught his eye—little Fran with her costumes.
The feeling was mutual. When charged with fitting his doublet, she had to bite her lip to stop from smiling as she worked her hands around his taut chest. Little did she know that he was smiling too, because he’d watched her during rehearsals, sitting in the back row, stitching, always stitching, the dead spit of her mother, who was forever in the costume department, into everyone’s business.
They stayed back late to hang out with the lighting crew, who always had beers in the theater after the show. One night, he made one of the technicians mic him up, then asked Fran out over the loudspeaker. She blushed and said yes, but only if he promised never to embarrass her again. He took her to a boring exhibition at the British Museum, which they both pretended to be fascinated by. They had miniature bottles of wine and salad platters at the Café in the Crypt in Trafalgar Square, which felt very sophisticated indeed, especially when their diet consisted of Pizza Hut and instant noodles. They kissed on the steps of the National Gallery, the whole of London at their feet. In less than a week, they were deeply in love. Within a month, they had moved into a room in his brother’s flat in Camden, where the windows rattled whenever trains went by. The brother was also an actor, mostly toothpaste ads and voice-overs. He had different girlfriends every week. Must be his minty fresh breath, they used to joke.
When they had no money, they spent hours lying in bed, kissing and screwing and telling each other stories. When they were flush, they’d buy pizza and tobacco and sit all night at the top of Primrose Hill, talking about what would happen when Miles had his big break, which was coming, he assured her. And she believed him. After all, he was Miles. He was everything. She spread her little life beneath him and let him lead. She loved him so much, so intensely, it was all she could do. There was nothing else she needed nor, indeed, wanted. Stoked by the know-it-all will of her early twenties, she refused to pay attention to her mother’s words of caution. Because her mother, although keen to offer counsel, was hardly an expert in successful relationships. The best of her wisdom seemed to be: be careful, actors are tricky. Fran had grown up with the backdrop of her mother’s fleeting, tangled love affairs—a different actor-boyfriend in every play she’d worked on. She always seemed to favor the arrogant ones. So really, it wasn’t her place to cast aspersions on Miles, whose flirtatious habits were all part of his theatrical personality and, therefore, forgivable.
The Second Chance Boutique Page 18
