The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  “I’m Karina,” says Karina, absorbed by her crystal-encrusted phone. “And you’ve still got this dress?”

  She waves the photo that Fran had posted. When Fran nods, Karina smothers her with an excitable hug. Up close, Karina smells of vanilla frosting. Her skin is warm and oily. As they enter, she continues to chat, apologizing for the urgency, for her hectic schedule, and the trail of paparazzi that are desperate to get the scoop on her engagement. Fran suspects she is telling her this not really to apologize but to make it known: she is a person of fame.

  “We’ve only been together a few weeks, so the papers are loving it. We met on the set of Celebrity Love Snap. Did you watch it?”

  Fran shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t have a TV.”

  “No TV? What do you do all day? Anyway, it’s Jez, obviously. Jez Butler.”

  Fran shrugs again.

  “Blimey, you are out of touch! He does fitness videos online. He’s got loads of followers…but not as many as me, hah! I tell you, though, he’s the kind of guy I always thought I’d marry. So buff. Honestly, he’s got proper ripped abs, and his biceps are like this.” She traces an oversized circle around her arm. “We’re perfect together.”

  Are you? thinks Fran. You with your lip fillers, him with his proper ripped abs. A really sound basis for a marriage. “Perfect together”—a phrase she’s heard too many times, usually from the mouths of those who are clamoring to convince themselves, let alone others, that their love is a plush, pink, heart-shaped cushion when, in fact, it’s a rag…

  She stops, shivers as though she has walked through a ghost, shocked by her own thoughts. What has happened to her? When did she grow so cynical? When did her views on weddings and love—so purposefully rose-fresh and optimistic—take such a nosedive? She moves aside, allows Karina to see the full glory of the Whispering Dress.

  Karina, however, is already back on her phone. She holds up a finger, then yaps into it while maintaining a stream of dialogue with Fran.

  “It’s him,” she says. “It’s Jez. He’s with my driver outside. They’ve managed to park. He’s badgering me to come in. Can he come in?”

  “Actually, I generally don’t have grooms in here. No sight of the dress before the wedding day and all.”

  Karina laughs. “Oh, c’mon. You’ll love him. He’s lush. Funny story…the other day we did this photo shoot at this really cool rooftop—All right, Jez, hang on!—this rooftop bar in Brentwood, and it had a pool and all the barmen were topless, except they had these little fake bow ties and one of them fell in the—”

  “He can’t come in,” Fran interrupts, the tips of her fingers pressing together, a tiny subconscious shout of dismay. “It’s a superstitious thing.”

  “A what?”

  “For luck. No grooms.”

  “Oh, okay, whatevs,” says Karina, plowing her glistening mouth into her phone again. “No, Jez, this is a girls-only thing. Wait there. Love you. Kiss kiss.”

  Then she thrusts her entire body through the shop, flinging her arms up as she feasts on the spectacle of the Alessandra Colt dress.

  “So cute!” she declares.

  Fran winces, while Karina, without invitation, starts shoving through the folded piles of silks, chiffon, and sheers, scooping the dishes of carefully restored, century-old beads as though they’re candies. She stops at the dress, flicks her hair, pouts, and takes a selfie.

  “Do you think it will fit around my implants? I had them done to a G last year.” She prods her chest. “And I’ve got this,” she adds, pulling down the sleeve of her stretchy yellow jumpsuit, revealing a full back and shoulder tattoo, a menagerie of roses, skulls, and nymphs in chains. “Cool, isn’t it? My new direction. I’m trying to get an edge. My manager says bling is dead, so I’m going more hipster. So this dress is perfect. It’s old, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s a big princess dress. Because obviously I want to be princess for the day.”

  Of course she does. Everyone does. The biggest cliché of them all.

  “A vintage princess. That sounds so fucking cool. I’m thinking of, like, Jessica Rabbit. She’s vintage, right?”

  “In a way.”

  “Look.” Karina moves close, intensifies her gaze. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got a massive magazine deal hanging on this wedding. The right dress could make me—and you—a lot of money. You get me? There’ll be photo shoots, interviews, loads of press coverage.”

  Fran nods, wonders whether she should be pleased. After decades of relying on word of mouth, finally here is a golden opportunity to get some proper attention. Yet somehow her soul is shriveling. She is losing herself. All her life, she has worked for love. And they’ve felt it, her brides, the curious transformation the minute they don their Francesca Delaney vintage, bespoke wedding gown. It isn’t something that can be rushed. It has to be handled with care. It cannot be faked. It cannot be forced. Yet here she is, pushing a cursed dress onto a fake bride who is clearly more interested in followers and magazine deals than in creating a sound marriage.

  Suddenly, the door flies open. Before Fran can react, her sanctuary is invaded by a tall, dark-haired gentleman, whose swagger is as insolent as his low-crotched tracksuit bottoms and designer T-shirt.

  Karina throws out a cheerful “hiya babes” and starts furiously photographing. “What would you call this style of interior?” she says, working the phone around the room. “Gypsy chic? A sort of hippie-boho-Ibiza vibe? I like it. I think I could do up a restaurant like this. I’ve always wanted a restaurant.”

  Fran surveys the intruder, Karina’s fiancé, Jez. He is everything she imagined he would be—not that she had much time to get a picture of him in her mind—with his square jaw; massive, muscly body; and statement clothing. A poseur.

  “You’re so impatient, babes,” says Karina. “I told you, stay in the car.” Then, she waggles her thumb in Fran’s direction. “It’s not me. It’s her, the dress lady, she’s funny about having blokes in here.”

  Jez turns to Fran, a cocky fix in his green eyes. “What, you think I might be a weirdo or something?”

  “Not at all. I just…” She realizes she cannot be bothered to explain. In fact, she has no explanation—no rational-sounding one, at least. Just that…she doesn’t want this. Any of it.

  “Listen,” says Jez, raising his hands, as if to reassure her that he’s harmless. “I won’t do anything. I won’t touch anything. I won’t even say anything. Just let me rest here, on this fancy chair.” He pats the chaise longue. “The thing is, I need to approve this dress pronto. It’ll be paying for some hefty bar bills, so it’s got to look banging. Not hard for Karina though, is it? I mean, look at her.” He admires his future bride up and down. “She rules every nightclub from Essex to Sussex. Social media loves us together. They’ve been bidding for aisle-side exclusives. I like your cave, by the way, all this old-fashioned shit.”

  Then he pulls her aside. “Okay,” he concedes, with a whisper, “whatever you’ve heard about me, it’s probably true. I’m a bit of an arsehole when it comes to commitment, but I could be loyal, with the right person. I just don’t do possessiveness. I mean, what is it with you women? The moment you get it up in your heads that you’re ‘the one,’ all the fun stops, and we get hysterics on the sofa at midnight, just because a text wasn’t answered.”

  His phone pings to announce he has reached a million followers, and the delight of this eclipses everything. “Yes!” he says, punching the air. “C’mon!”

  Sullen, Fran watches as he launches himself onto the chaise, leans back, and splays his knees with classic alpha arrogance. Once settled, he pulls a baseball cap from his pocket and covers his face, attempts to snooze. She hates the way his tracksuit bottoms sag and bunch. It is one thing to enter the Whispering Dress with the worst of modern manners, but another altogether to bring the worst of modern tailorin
g. Somehow she knows this betrothal isn’t going to end well, regardless of the unsettling energy that surrounds the Alessandra Colt dress.

  * * *

  Fifteen thousand pounds. She knows it is worth so much more, but it gets them out of the shop. A quick fix, the cash in her hands. The trouble is, the sale is joyless. As the dress is driven away, she stands at the door and sighs, remembering the first wedding dress she ever matched, an adorable 1920s cocktail dress, knee-length, drop waist, shimmering with silvery beads, half of which were damaged or missing. Its poor state of repair didn’t affect the magic though. It was the epitome of fun, the sartorial antidote for a bride who’d taken her vows so seriously she’d forgotten how to enjoy herself. The wife-shaped woman, Fran thinks. Where is she now? Wedded bliss? Big house? Three kids? Hopefully she is living it up every now and again, despite her devotion to her family.

  Then there was the darling 1964 traditional gown. Fran thinks of it and smiles, remembering its fun, feminine style—raglan sleeves and a full-length A-line skirt with little bows around the neckline. It had been donated directly by the original bride, who had given up her partying lifestyle to care for her sick husband, whose sudden and grave cancer diagnosis had hit a mere month after the wedding day. Life, she’d said, handing over the dress, had its habit of throwing curveballs. She understood Fran’s mission innately, had much to say about what marriage had taught her, not just about being a pair, but about being an individual within a pair, about patience and tolerance and the deep peace that can come from selflessness. She hoped the dress would make another bride feel as strong as she did, a dress of warmth and hope. A few months later, Fran found its perfect match: a spoiled, stroppy madam who did nothing but moan until the day of her dress fitting.

  And of course, she couldn’t forget the 1941 wartime austerity dress, hastily adapted from the original wearer’s Sunday best—a grounding tonic for the bride whose main obsession in life was how much money her husband made. And the floral-print ’70s maxi. And the 1984 ecru ball gown with the enormous chapel train. So many dresses, so many brides… Where are they now?

  “Penny for them?” says a voice behind her.

  “Mick.”

  “Chin up, girl,” Mick sighs. “I don’t know, Fran, that dress has a lot to answer for.”

  “That dress,” says Fran, unsure whether she should be celebratory or sad, “is no longer our problem. I sold it half an hour ago.”

  “Oh,” says Mick, a little dejected. “So that’s that, then.”

  * * *

  Three days later, while Mick is sweeping up the scraps from a rehemmed veil, Fran spies the folded pages of the day’s half-read Evening Standard strewn across the countertop. She puts her sewing down.

  “It’s me,” she says, eyes wide, astonished.

  Mick peers over her shoulder, reads the headline: Leading the Way with Vintage Wedding Dresses.

  Their eyes scan the half-page article. Fran’s heart thumps fast, nervous as to what she might read about herself, but the piece is flattering.

  “They’re calling us a brand. The Whispering Dress is a brand…although I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. I’ve never seen my work in that way, but oh, Mick…Karina was right. She said there’d be lots of interest.”

  “Relish it,” says Mick coolly. “Most businesses never get this kind of exposure. You’ve done it.”

  Fran hugs the article to her chest, takes a breath, then reads again.

  “It’s very complimentary,” she says, unable to contain her pride. “Listen to this: ‘With one of the hottest weddings of the year on the horizon, speculation reigns over TV and media personality Karina T.’s choice of wedding dress. Our sources reveal that Karina is working with the London-based brand and vintage wedding dress experts the Whispering Dress.’”

  Mick grins.

  “Well, perhaps this is the first day of the rest of our lives. The Whispering Dress is about to go nuclear.”

  “Now you sound as deliriously optimistic as I used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  “It’s been a long week,” she says.

  “I know you were fond of that monster dress, Fran, but that train was ridiculous, too much, too showy.”

  Fran stalls, suddenly overwhelmed. Her hype collides with the searing image of Alessandra, freshly married, standing beside her husband on the steps outside Marylebone church, that anxious smile, those sad, self-conscious eyes, the lace of her sleeve tugged over her bandaged hand. The dress was a prison sentence.

  Just then her phone buzzes.

  “Answer it, then,” says Mick. “Could be another young bride who’s seen the papers and is eager to jump on the latest wave of vintage cool. Go make your fortune.”

  “In a minute,” says Fran, her insides churning.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Why do I feel like I’ve sold my soul?”

  “Fran,” he says, “it’s just a dress.”

  She nods, smiles in agreement, but it isn’t just a dress of course.

  It is more, so much more.

  “So,” barks Karina, her sentences coming through the phone faster than Fran can take in. “I’ve been in talks with my manager. We’ve had five of the top-selling magazines make six-figure bids. We’ve gone for an exclusive with Good Life as they’re the best of the best. They already work with Jez and their online platform is global. Honestly, this is going to be massive. They think the vintage dress concept is a winner and guess what. They want to do a piece on you!”

  “Me?”

  “That’s right. I told you, didn’t I? I’ll get you deals. Welcome to my world. Your whispering-vintage-bespoke whatever is about to get a serious attention fix. Consider yourself the hottest new bridal wear business in town. Rags to riches, babes, you watch.”

  Fran sets her gaze on the rippling satin of the 1930s fishtail. It shimmers in the sunlight. Pinch me, she thinks as an incredible lightness fills her body, makes her feel weightless, as though, without anchor, she might float up entirely, drift to the sky. Is this right? Is this really for her? She listens for Mick’s worldly-wise tone.

  “You deserve it, girl,” he says. “You deserve it.”

  “The thrill of the chase is what keeps fans keen,” says Karina. “Don’t say anything to anyone about what the dress is made of or what color it is. Save it all for Good Life, because they’ve got the exclusive. They can have a few nuggets, just so they feel like they’ve got their money’s worth. After all, their check is paying for half the wedding.”

  “Okay,” says Fran, baffled by the game. “Nuggets.”

  “Don’t worry. The Good Life girls are lovely. Complete pros. They broke the story when I had that sex-tape thing with my ex—they were brilliant. I made nearly seventy grand from that one.”

  So this is the value of modern love? What happened to holding hands, kissing in the dark, opening doors, and giving up seats? Suddenly Fran feels sorry for poor Alessandra and Janice—if they only knew that their extraordinary wedding dress would be reduced to this.

  * * *

  Press follows press. There is a full-page spread featuring silhouettes of gown shapes from different eras, called “Karina T.’s Guess the Gown Competition,” endless hints and tips on how to wear vintage, and half a dozen articles about famous wedding dresses and the stories behind them—Grace Kelly; Wallis Simpson; Diana, Princess of Wales; Elizabeth Taylor. The nation has gone crazy for bridal wear of provenance.

  Fran is inundated with messages from bloggers, vloggers, and Karina T. fans, all wanting to catch a hint of what the dress is about. It is enough to fill her days, but on Karina’s instructions, she keeps the details quiet, offers nothing more than the odd hint or suggestion.

  Two days later, Fran finds herself in the lustrous offices of Good Life magazine. Everyone in the building is excruciatingly young and fashionab
le. Nuggets, she thinks as the two women interviewing her lean forward for a handshake.

  “My name’s Ayesha, and this is Kath. We’ve been lifestyle reporters for Good Life for about six years. Best job in the world, isn’t it, Kath?”

  “Totally. Lovely to meet you, Francesca. We’re really excited about this interview. We love Karina T. She’ll make a stunning bride. We’re doing a six-page foldout, looking at every aspect of the wedding, from the cake to the flowers to the guest list—and then there’s the dress obviously. Who doesn’t love a big old wedding meringue, hey? By the way, don’t be intimidated by the tape recorder. Just pretend it’s not there. So, Francesca, have you worked in the bridal industry long?”

  Fran winces. She hates the word industry, but she loves this, the sharp-focused attention on the work she’s so proud of.

  “All my adult life,” she says, trying not to gush. “I never went to fashion college or anything like that. I grew up in the theater. My mum made costumes for operas and touring plays. She taught me everything I know about dressmaking.”

  “Aw, sweet. And what got you into wedding dresses?”

  “Um…”

  “Are you a big softy? Do you love romance?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Tell us a bit more about the dress. We understand it’s antique. Vintage is so popular right now. When Karina T. told us about you—she’s fab, isn’t she?—we just knew we had to do a feature.”

  Fran smiles nervously. “I like old dresses, that’s all. Dresses that are special.”

  “Okay…and what’s so special about Karina’s dress? We’ve heard it’s beautiful, but…”

  Fran presses her hands to her lap, leans forward, considers where to begin. This is all she has ever wanted, to be able to share the power and magic of history’s bridal wear—and now she has a captive audience.

  “The thing that struck me,” she explains, retracing the moment she first set eyes on it, how she hadn’t been able to resist trying it on—and then Rafael had seen her, their gazes had met across the dusty silence, and it had all begun…