The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  For three years, they were glued—or so Fran thought—to each other and to the nocturnal mayhem of theater life: late nights, mad weekends, performance highs, and after-show comedowns. They’d sleep through the morning, wake around midday, spend their afternoons in town, lazing on the lawn in Hyde Park or mooching in the cafés of various museums and galleries, being very arty and serious. At night, when Miles was at the theater, Fran would stay home, play house, sit alone in the living room mending and sewing, happy in her cocoon, waiting for her actor.

  He wasn’t the best at looking after himself. She called him the man-child. Left to his own devices, he would fall into unhealthy ways, drink too much, sleep too little, eat nothing but freezer food for weeks on end. She held him together though. She cooked him vegetables—from a freezer bag, but they had vitamins at least. She talked him up whenever he seemed mired in self-doubt. She adjusted his costumes, made sure he always looked immaculate onstage. She helped him learn his lines for performances and auditions, and encouraged him be his best self.

  When a scout from the States contacted his agent to suggest he’d be perfect for the “Englishman” role in an upcoming soap pilot, Fran was thrilled—and a touch nervous that everything would change. How could a big break feel as frightening as it did exciting? Her fears were allayed, however, when, out of the blue, up on the crest of Primrose Hill, he pulled out a ring and proposed. It was his pledge, he told her, that no matter what happened in his career, she would always be his number one priority, that he couldn’t imagine life without her. She fell into a fit of delight, so sure, so romantically defined.

  She knew there and then, as the city unwound for the night, that she would make her own dress. The next day, woozy from the two and a half bottles of cheap champagne that they’d swigged, she set to work researching and planning and sketching. It couldn’t be any old wedding dress. It had to be the dress that exemplified their moment at the altar. She pawed over archives of bustles and petticoats and peplums and veils. She spent more time thinking about the dress than anything else. The cake, the flowers, the vows were all quick decisions. The dress was monumental.

  But when Miles came to her in a fluster, saying he’d been offered the soap pilot in the U.S. and would therefore have to spend the whole summer in the States, the wedding plans flew into the wind.

  “We could always bring it forward,” he suggested, pained by the sight of Fran’s disappointment, desperate to please. “But that would only give us a few weeks to get everything sorted.”

  Perhaps she should have pulled back then. Perhaps she should have listened to her instincts and questioned the prudence of squeezing a wedding into a gap that simply wasn’t big enough, but the matrimonial dream had been set in motion. Her heart was on fire, and in the depths of it, there was a burgeoning fear that she might, without sealing the bond, lose him to success. And so Fran’s elaborate vision for a self-created dress never came together. Instead, she made a hasty purchase in her local bridal shop and the big day spun forward.

  Ted Bowls was to give her away. Her father was supposedly a well-known opera tenor, not to be troubled, though probably, thought Fran, more likely to be Ted Bowls, the technician from the Wyndham’s who looked out for her like a father. The day was beautiful, warm but not hot, with no clouds and a high sun. Her mother helped her get ready. She’ll never forget that final moment in the mirror, the dress encasing her like a silver flower, turning her into The Bride.

  The drive to the church was thrilling. The service was to be held in a little Norman chapel in Miles’s home village on the Oxfordshire borders. He and Fran weren’t fussy about the nuts and bolts of religion, but his parents had insisted. Tradition. Fran liked that, the idea of a family with traditions, rather than the wonderful but unstable reality of touring theater and cooking her own dinners since she was eight.

  An idyllic village wedding, the path to the church door scattered with daisies. When they reached the churchyard gate, asway with the purple-and-blue-floral bunting she’d wanted, Miles’s father rushed out, his face twisted with panic.

  “I’m sorry, Francesca,” he gasped. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s…despicable. We’ve tried to talk him around, but I’m afraid he’s resolute.”

  “What?”

  “He’s gone. I’m so sorry, my dear. It’s off. He’s called off the wedding.”

  “How? He can’t—” In that instant, all she’d lived for since she was nineteen, her first and only love, crumbled.

  He had a lot to say. There were letters, phone calls, and messages about how sorry he was, what an arse he was, how he shouldn’t have led her on, about the fear that had gripped him as he’d stood at the altar, that it wasn’t her—oh please—that it was him. His life, he’d realized, had a different path. He’d had a call two days before the wedding, from an agent in America who was so excited about the upcoming pilot, loved his “English gent” charisma and wanted to offer him representation. Apparently, he’d felt torn—so torn that he’d booked himself a flight to LA for the day after the wedding. And when challenged, had admitted he didn’t love her anymore, or at least not enough to include her in his bigger and better fortunes.

  She chose to hate him. Not so much for the fact that he had picked his career over her, but because he had taken her to the point of absolute degradation. Nothing, she learned, is crueler than a public breakdown of love, in front of all your family, your friends, your frenemies—the holes blown up inside you, on show for all to see.

  She hid for a month, spent most of her days and nights—since she rarely slept—despairing about what she would do, now that her life map had been swiped out from underneath her. It was her mother who encouraged her to make fascinators—as she’d made such beautiful ones for her not-to-be bridesmaids—if nothing else than to occupy her time, given that the prospect of returning to work in the theater made her feel physically sick.

  Little by little, Fran dug in and found her nerve. She took her fascinators to Camden, where she met Mick, who, twenty years her senior, gay, and benignly avuncular, offered uncomplicated friendship and a patient ear. He introduced her to the vintage clothing sellers in the stables, and there among the stalls of suede jackets, patterned shirts, feather boas, and retro cocktail dresses, she got her zest back. A chance encounter with a box of unwanted wedding gowns—the stallholder gave them to her for free, since they were too “novelty” for him to shift quickly—led to an obsession that would take over her life.

  In the worst hours of her despair, with the doomed wedding still a fresh wound, she made twisted sense out of her decision to rush and buy a soulless, last-minute, mass-produced dress, rather than hold out and take the time and care to create her own heartfelt design. Could this have saved the wedding? Her moment of undoing, a curse on the nuptials? Good weddings, she concluded, needed good energy. And what energy could be better than the authority of been-there-done-it experience?

  The Whispering Dress was born. Wedding dresses of history would guide the way for modern brides, and she would lead the crusade. For all that Miles Ferguson had taken from her, he wouldn’t take away her belief in true love. If anything, her zeal for it expanded, her fulfillment now bound in the magic of enabling others to find themselves through her dresses and, in so doing, open the door to wedded bliss.

  But not for her.

  Her own heart had closed.

  * * *

  The pain of it ticks as she walks over the Thames, crossing at London Bridge. She has walked all night, barefoot, in the rain. Her elegant dress and bolero, now sodden, look ghoulish in the dawn. Each step along the bridge takes her back to the steps she never took up the aisle.

  Rafael calls repeatedly, but she doesn’t answer. She knows she owes him an explanation, but she is scared, sickened at the thought of bringing the past back to the surface.

  The sunrise splinters over the steeple of Marylebone. She sits on a benc
h and watches a pair of pigeons scrap over a half-eaten burger bun. The church bells sound out the glory of Sunday morning. She recalls the nervousness of Alessandra as she walked out with Lyle. If she’d only listened to her anguish and not worn the family dress, not gone through with that extravagant, showy wedding, maybe she would have lived a happier life. Fran thinks of Rafael, the first, the only, person who has gotten past her defenses. He cares for her, of that she is certain, but it feels too dangerous. The gap between them, where their personalities clash and their pasts interfere, can it pull together? Can it be love, safe and true? She closes her eyes and aches.

  * * *

  He opens his door. The sight of him is bruising. She breathes hard, waits for the invitation to enter.

  “Oh, Fran. Thank goodness.”

  At the sight her tear-stained cheeks and dirty, cut-up feet, he ushers her inside, leads her to the terrace, where she immediately curls up in the rattan armchair, lets the warmth of the morning sun bury her. He brings her coffee and toast, but her body has no desire for physical nourishment, so they sit together, share the silence, watch the boats on the river. The streets are quiet, save for the odd early jogger and the nannies in cashmere pushing their rich infant charges.

  “I’ve failed, haven’t I?” she says finally. “My opportunity to make us official…”

  “Yes,” says Rafael solemnly. “I rather suppose you have.”

  This isn’t the answer she wants, but she understands it’s the answer she deserves. She hangs her head.

  “It was just a dinner, Fran—listen to some speeches, take a drink, make some small talk. I appreciate I built it up into a thing of importance, the ‘officialness,’ but really, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I hate to think what the papers will make of your panicked flight. They all think I did something horrible to you, you realize. They’ll be crowing about it, working up some new way to portray me as a posh degenerate rogue. But you knew that. I warned you. And still you made a fool of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Fran.

  “I’ve been up all night,” he continues. “I’ve been searching the streets, calling you constantly. Didn’t it occur to you that I’d be worried? And what exactly is your explanation anyway? One minute we were insanely happy, then suddenly you were tearing away from me into the storm. I thought you’d seen something awful, a car crash or a mugging, but…it was nonsensical. You just ran. Then I had a bank of photographers on my case, asking if you were all right. I didn’t know what to tell them.”

  Fran sniffs, holds her head in her hands. The thought of Miles’s matured face now ugly with vanity, his name stated in bold, like the world should be made to sit up and care. Is it not enough that he left her high and dry at the altar? Should she really, ten years later, have to have his movie-star success rubbed in her face? She wonders if he thinks of her ever, whether he regrets the callous act. She doubts it. But bitterness is ugly. It corrodes. She has to forget—just forget, block it out, shut it down.

  “I got spooked,” she says, bailing from the detail, reinforcing the wall.

  “Spooked by what?”

  “My past.”

  “Exactly what from your past?”

  “Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just…I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s not good enough,” he says. “Everyone has a past. We learn to live with it, then we let it go. You taught me that. If you can be so quick to dole out advice to others, then you can damn well take it yourself.”

  If she would only face herself, face him, tell him what’s truly on her mind.

  “The whole night was a mess,” says Rafael, frustrated by her secrecy. “If you’d just answered my call, let me know you were okay. I just wanted to know you were okay, Fran. I nearly missed my own speech because I was looking for you.”

  “Because it’s all about you, right?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, Fran.” He’s riled now. “Don’t be so petulant. There are millions of people in this country who rely on the support of the foundation. I have to take care of things. I can’t just run away. It’s easy for you with all your fluffy whispering dress bullshit, but I have responsibilities. The foundation comes first. Always.”

  “Whispering dress bullshit? If that’s what you truly think, Rafael, then clearly you don’t accept me for who I am.”

  Without a word, she gets up from the chair, goes inside, and starts shoveling her things into bags. She should never have let him in, never given away the only fragment of her heart that remained.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving,” she says. “I don’t belong here. I need to go.” Part of her hopes he will snatch the bags from her hands, beg her to stay, work it out, put things right, but he does nothing.

  “Yes,” he says coldly. “Yes, I guess that’s for the best.”

  * * *

  “I must say,” says Mick, “I was never entirely sure it was that healthy in the first place. Such a whirlwind for you, Fran, after years of, you know…dearth. You practically got through your first meeting, first date, first kiss, first foreign trip, first taste of spending every waking minute with each other within in a matter of weeks. The only thing missing is the wedding dress.”

  “Except it isn’t missing, is it?” says Fran solemnly. “It’s the dress that brought us together.”

  All the while, the Alessandra Colt dress sits in the corner. It blocks the sewing table and gets in the way when Mick wants to snooze on the chaise longue. He despairs at how Fran just sits there, staring at it so solemnly, as though she’s in mourning.

  “Sell it,” he says. “Give it away. Wear it. Dance in it. I don’t mind, Fran, but just stop moping about it.”

  She cries anew, so Mick fixes her a double whiskey, which, he assures her, is how he solved the pain of his second breakup.

  As Fran stares into the drink, she pales. There is no point looking for an escape, she thinks, when there is no way out. In frustration, she shoves the whiskey across the table. It won’t help.

  Mick sighs, rubs her shoulders.

  She resigns herself to selling it to the next bride who wants it, never mind its significance or legacy, never mind the risk. It is best to get rid of the dress and all the drama trapped within it, put the whole affair behind her—and then curl up alone, safe within her world, bury herself deeper and deeper into the love-misted sanctuary she has so artfully created. It is all she needs.

  * * *

  Later that day, Fran adds a link to her website, then posts images wherever she can think of—bridal forums, buy-and-swap sites, vintage clothing hubs. There isn’t time to be discerning. She just needs that sale.

  An hour later, the call comes in.

  “Oh, hiya, is this the Whispering Dress? I’m interested in a wedding dress you posted for sale, some ’50s designer thing? Is it still available?”

  Fran stiffens.

  “It is.”

  “Then I need it,” says the voice. “I’m desperate. Had our first date last month, got engaged last week.” Squeals of excitement. “Whirlwind romance, right? We want to do it straightaway, no hanging around, so I’m on a mission. I need a knockout dress like no one else will have.” The woman talks quickly, in husky tones, barely breathing between words. “Just so you know, it’ll be a high-profile event. I’m Karina by the way. Karina Thomas.”

  “Um—”

  “I’m in the media. I’ve done a load of reality shows, but most people know me from Instagram. Your dress popped up on my feed, and I just knew straightaway…bang on. I showed it to Jez, and he said, ‘Babe, make it happen.’ So what do you say?”

  “Uh…”

  “Can I come to your shop and try it on?”

  Fran hesitates.

  “Pretty please?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. How about this evening? Around six o’clock? Come to
my shop in Walthamstow. It’s near the tube.”

  “Sweet.”

  That afternoon, Fran prepares the Alessandra Colt dress. Despite all it has been through, with a bit of careful preening, she makes it look almost as fine as it did the day Alessandra stepped out of the church at Marylebone with her nervous smile and hidden pain. The way it fills the room, almost human in its energy, its personality bigger than all of Fran’s other dresses put together, it has certainly tested her. She hopes Karina will take it, not just for the money, but for Fran’s sanity. Even so, it is strange and sad to think this is the last she might see of it. She brushes her hand down the lace, caresses one of the hummingbirds, closes her eyes…

  But there is no time to wallow in self-pity. Karina is on her way.

  At twenty past five, Fran spots a lurking car, one of those big American-style Hummers, way too flashy for her neighborhood. A tall, curvaceous, big-haired woman climbs out, leans into the driver’s window, says something, then totters toward the front door. Lip filler, cheek filler, white veneers, tiny nose, perfect forehead, shelf-like false eyelashes, fake tan—Karina is definitely not the type of bride Fran imagined for the dress.

  She goes to the door, greets Karina with the best smile she can muster. Up close, Karina is startling. Her prodigious, magazine-grade features burst from her face with terrifying splendor. Her body is unfeasible, aided, no doubt, by a surgeon’s scalpel.