Suddenly she hesitates, struggles to organize her thoughts.
“The—the first thing I noticed was that it was made by a fashion house from the 1950s called Garrett-Alexia.” Leave the emotion, stick to the facts. “Not many people will know of the label these days, but anyone who can tell their Dior from their Balenciaga might recall the story.”
“Oh, tell us more. We love a story, don’t we, Kath?”
“We do.”
“At the peak of success Gilles Alexia was supposedly attacked by his partner, Benjamin Garrett, during an argument. All that the pair had worked for fell apart and that was the end of the label, lost to history. In recent years, Garrett-Alexia evening dresses have become highly collectible, but their wedding dress, this wedding dress, the only one of its kind, has remained a forgotten mystery, until…until I found it in a house clearance.”
“A house clearance?”
“Not just any old house. It was the estate of a…very old English family.”
“Fascinating. Who?”
“Um…”
“Do tell. Your work is so intriguing.”
“I—I don’t think I’m at liberty to…”
“Oh, come on,” says Ayesha with a chummy smile. “Off the record, just between you and us.”
“Every detail helps,” adds Kath. “Obviously we want to talk up your work as much as possible, so if we can get a really clear sense of the origins of the dress—”
They wait. Fran shuffles in her seat, worries about how much she should and shouldn’t say. She wants, so much, to relish this opportunity, but the scrutiny makes her nervous.
“I think it was the Colts,” she says quietly, hoping the name will mean little.
“The Colts? As in the charity family? The philanthropists? With the daughter who’s always falling out of nightclubs and the snooty son?”
“Are you saying the dress originally belonged to a Colt bride?”
Ayesha and Kath exchange glances.
Fran purses her lips. Stick to the dress, bring it back to the dress. “The thing is,” she says, fanning her reddening cheeks. “What I try to offer my brides is…not just dresses, but their wisdoms.”
“And what wisdoms are you offering Karina T.?”
“I guess I’d like her to be more honest with herself.”
“Honest? About wanting to marry Jez? Aw, they’re made for each other, don’t you think?”
“No…yes…I just… Honesty’s always good, isn’t it? Good for the soul. If you can face your truth, learn to be comfortable with who you are, where you came from, then I think that’s a healthy basis for letting another person into your world.”
“Not just a vintage wedding dress expert, are you?” says Ayesha. “You’re kind of a marriage counselor too. Cute. So how will this fabulous wedding dress show Karina T. how to be honest? What can the Whispering Dress teach her that Vera Wang can’t? I expect our readers will be curious.”
Fran feels very hot suddenly. “Within the stitches of every item of old clothing,” she says, “there’s a story. And wedding dresses, I suppose, have the ultimate stories, because they mean so much to us. When a bride steps into such a dress, she absorbs something of its wisdoms. Honestly, I’ve watched it happen. It’s…transformative.”
“Right.”
“I research all my gowns thoroughly, get to know their provenance inside and out. It makes all the difference.”
“And what research did you have to do for Karina’s dress?”
Fran pauses. “I—I traveled to Paris.”
“How romantic!”
“It’s where the dress was designed and made,” Fran says carefully.
“By Garrett-Alexia, the fashion house you were telling us about? How did that play out, then? I thought you said they were doomed.”
“They were, but I got to meet with Gilles Alexia’s son. He runs his own label. He was…delighted to know that the wedding dress still exists.”
“And will he get an invite to the big day, do you think?” says Ayesha, grinning.
“Oh no. Monsieur Alexia wouldn’t want… His feelings toward the dress are…complicated.”
Kath nods.
“I can see why you get so caught up in your work, Francesca. This wedding dress story just gets more and more curious.”
“So do you think the Colts will get an invitation?” says Ayesha.
“I doubt it,” snaps Fran.
“Ouu, sounds like bad blood?”
“There’s no bad blood. It’s just…Raf and I…”
“Raf? As in Rafael Colt?”
Fran stills, stiffens, winces. Emotion has gotten the better of her. She has said too much. “Er…” She’s flustered. “Is that the time? I really ought to go now. I’m terribly sorry. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“If we could just get a quick photo?”
“Yes. Yes, a photo. Where do you want me?”
* * *
Work continues. Rafael buries himself in its routines and rituals. Mimi is a constant. She hasn’t much to say about his strange diversion into love with a vintage wedding-dress seller—a match so inappropriate it’s laughable—or the fact that it has now, thankfully, waned, but she does everything she can to make sure he’s busy, focused, distracted. There are meetings with donors, a tour of a special needs school, an interview with GQ magazine (some positive, well-controlled press for once), board meetings, going-away parties, and a selection panel for new bids. This is his realm, he thinks, where he thrives, where he does best. Yet, even so, he misses her impishness, her green eyes, her tumbling red hair. With every cell in his body, he regrets that he has not had the courage to speak to her in person, but he has been doing a little better recently. He fears rediscovering the bruise of her sudden, humiliating exit, just as he has started to think about letting go. They are not good for each other and that is that.
But still…
It pains him so much.
All through the day and night, his mind is peppered with thoughts of her. And then one morning, as the clouds gather over the green of Regent’s Park, Mimi bursts into his office with a frenzied look on her face.
“I thought you’d cut ties with that woman,” she snaps, thrusting a magazine in front of his face.
He looks down, sees a photo of Fran’s face next to that ghastly looking reality TV star. Karina T.? The headline, in bold type, stark across two shiny pages, reads:
Karina T.’s Wedding Dress Secrets Revealed!
He reads on, Mimi leaning over him.
As Karina T.’s star-studded big day approaches, here at Good Life HQ, we got the scoop from vintage dress expert Francesca Delaney about the eerie secrets behind Karina’s choice of gown. According to Francesca, who loves researching the stories behind her vintage bridal attire, the unique dress, which will be revealed on the big day, once belonged to the illustrious Colt family. Our sources have hinted that the dress may also be linked to the original designer’s demise in 1954. The dress, originally made for Mrs. Janice Colt, was then handed down a generation and worn by the late Alessandra Colt, who then fell into decline after a period of mental instability. Francesca, who has grown very close to the Colt family, personally reveals that their struggles continue, with tragic youngest daughter, Jane Carolyn Colt, heading back to rehab, and Rafael Colt, once voted Britain’s most eligible bachelor, now struggling with sex addiction. Let’s hope the dress brings more luck to Karina and Jez!
Rafael shudders, shuts his eyes. Sex addiction? That’s a new one. Typically there is no mention of the foundation and all that it contributes to the upkeep of those that society has otherwise overlooked. He clenches his jaw, tension coiling in the pit of his stomach. How could she do this to him, to Janey, just as she’s starting to make proper progress? The phones start ringing. He looks out of the window, sees a mob of photog
raphers circling. He knows from bitter experience that if no better story comes along, they will wait there all day. He’ll have to call Janey, send her extra security, instruct them to make sure she doesn’t venture out unattended, not while she’s so vulnerable.
Fran has no idea. Any regret about her sudden and unfinished exit from his life—those pangs of longing to have her back in his arms—is gone in that instant. He is done.
* * *
The moping has drained Mick’s reserve of patience. It is obvious—to him at least—that Fran cannot shake this man. Despite getting rid of the monster dress, despite all the fun of her newfound fame and success, she is lost. She needs closure, resolution, or, best of all, restoration.
“Just call him,” he says. “Don’t be proud. If he likes you enough, he’ll have you back before you can say ‘wedding dress.’ If he doesn’t, well, at least you’ll know he wasn’t worth the trouble.”
Trouble? She’s the trouble. He did nothing wrong. She curses herself for her weakness, for her inability to express and share the pain she has masked for so long.
“Perhaps if you explain yourself,” says Mick, “he’ll be able to understand. I know what went you through, Fran, but he’s got no idea. Sometimes we have to show ourselves, really show ourselves. That’s where I failed with my Theo. You know what he said on the day he left me? He said, ‘I would have liked you more, Mick, if you’d just shouted at me once in a while.’ I thought I was doing the best thing, being Mr. Nice all the time, always placative, the one who walks away from the argument or softens the bad mood with a smile. But actually, what he wanted was a fight…not even that, Fran, he just wanted me to share, share myself, the person I am on the inside, which, I tell you, isn’t always Mr. Nice. Show yourself to Rafael, Fran. If he loves you, truly loves you, he’ll forgive. Who knows? Maybe he’s missing you as much as you’re missing him. But one of you is going to have to back down and make that call.”
Fran fingers her phone, turns it over and over in her hands. She feels like a teenager again, aching with first-love blues. She wants to put it right, make it good, get back to where they were, rolling through the haze of bliss, but the fear is big. Rejection is costly.
Her phone buzzes. She blinks, nearly drops it.
“Oh my god! It’s him. It’s Rafael! Mick…it’s Rafael! He’s calling me.”
“Telepathy,” says Mick with a grin. “Must be a sign.”
Fran’s spirits soar. Mick is right—always right. “Raf?” she says, trembling at the thought of his voice.
There is silence, a quiet sigh.
“Raf? Are you there?”
“Yes.”
Something is wrong. His voice sounds flat, as cold and emotionless as it was the day she first met him.
“I—I’m sorry about everything,” she says, desperate to pull him back to her.
“So am I, Fran,” he says. “Sorry I ever wasted my time on you. Sorry I ever fooled myself into thinking you were someone I could get close to, someone I could love, someone I could trust—”
“Wha—?”
“Bailing out of the Café Royal dinner was unhelpful, but what you’ve done to me now… You’ve got some gall, Fran.”
Fran blinks, bewildered. What has she done? “I don’t understand—”
“How much did they pay you?”
“Huh?”
“Whatever it was, I hope it was worth it. Oh, Fran, I was giddy about you. I was transfixed. I never let anyone get as close as you have. I allowed you in, and now…all you’ve done is betray me.”
“What? Tell me. What have I done?”
“You sold us out, me and Janey. You did some tacky little interview with Good Life magazine and gave them everything they wanted. Now everyone is jumping on the story, and my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I wouldn’t mind you doing interviews, Fran, snatching some positive promotion for your business, but surely you knew I’d never want the dress linked to me. Do you have any idea how much damage this could cause? Listen to this: ‘Jaded family’s dirty money: how a vintage wedding dress holds the key to corruption.’ Or how about this gem: ‘Rafael Colt, heir to the Colt fortune, linked to an age-old crime.’ And then of course there’s this one: ‘Jane Carolyn Colt: My Drinking and Drug Shame.’ She’s beating it, Fran. She’s doing the best she’s done in years. She doesn’t need a fucking media storm.”
Fran opens her mouth. She cannot find the words she wants or needs. His anger is raw and true, from the core, and she can’t deny him it. She knows what it means to him.
“Don’t ever come near me again,” he says with the finality of death, then the line cuts out and she is left to her silence.
* * *
She shuts her eyes, senses Mick watching her. She doesn’t want to hear his wisdom now. She just wants to reverse time and erase all her blunders, take back every overeager interview comment, cancel the dress sale to Karina, remove all traces of her self-inflicted ruin. She pictures those two gushing women with their leather jackets, big smiles, and wall of questions. So kind, so interested, they made her feel like a star, a shining, bright light that the world wanted to see. And she fell for it. What a fool. It washes over her, the feeling that she has come undone, and worst of all, she has done it to herself.
“I need it back.”
“What?”
“The Alessandra Colt dress.”
“From a bride whose wedding is…this afternoon? You can’t, Fran! You of all people know how devastating that would be—”
“For what? For Karina’s wallet? For her Instagram profile? She doesn’t love Jez Butler. And he doesn’t love her. It’s a media sham, and I don’t want to be part of it. I should never have been part of it, Mick. It’s not what a wedding should be. That dress—for all the trouble it’s caused me—it deserves better. I’ll pay her back the money. I’ll buy her ten dresses in any style she likes. I just need that one dress back. If I have any hope of proving to Rafael that I didn’t sell him out intentionally, that I’m not a shallow, doting idiot who can’t get my shit together, then I need to stop that dress from being exploited.”
Mick shrugs, knows better than to argue. When Fran has a passion, she stops at nothing until it’s satisfied. Besides she is already frantically searching through her gowns, looking for substitute offerings. What would Karina T. want? Need? How should she fix such an already heartless betrothal? The 1930s fishtail is too fabulous. The ’50s tulle prom dress is too sweet. Then she spots it—the perfect alternative, languishing inside the art nouveau wardrobe.
chapter 8
The Bentley Rooms are awash with gold: ribbons, bows, sashes, flowers, balloons, novelty sequins, and paper pom-poms. Head bowed, with an armful of dress, Fran races up the stone steps, Mick beside her. They brush past the doorman with such determination he can only assume they are part of the emergency cheering crowd, called on to soothe Karina T.’s crazed tantrum. The lobby, grand and old school, at odds with the explosion of gold frippery, is swarming with people of all types and purposes. Fran sees a huddle of casual-dressed paparazzi in the corner, their cameras slung over their shoulders. She bristles with anger.
“Blend in,” she whispers, as they head for the stairs.
She has attended enough of these occasions to know that, at this stage in proceedings, people are too busy to care who’s in and out of the door. Just as they reach the first floor, however, their shoulders are clamped by a burly security guard, hands like frying pans.
“Bride or groom?” he says, his deep voice booming.
“Bride.”
“Let’s see your ID then.”
They scrabble in their pockets. Mick produces a pocket watch and a beard comb. Fran produces a Whispering Dress business card and a thimble.
“What about your lanyards?”
Fran shrugs. Lanyards? At a wedding? The thought depresses her.
“If you haven’t got clearance, you’re not going up. Strict orders.”
“Please,” says Fran, holding up the dress. “I’m the famous London-based vintage wedding dress expert. We have to get this to Karina urgently. She’s waiting for it.”
The security guard gives a belligerent sneer. “And I’ve got to do my job. You press will try anything, won’t you?”
“We’re not press. We’re—”
The guard folds his arms. “Come back when you’ve got your lanyards.”
* * *
Fran and Mick march out of the building. There is less than an hour to go. The parking lot is filling up. Guests are starting to arrive. Suddenly an almighty banshee cry comes from the upstairs bay, followed by a pair of hair straighteners, which fly from the open window and land in a baroque fountain.
“Well, at least we now know what room she’s in,” says Mick.
“Maybe we can climb up there,” says Fran, pointing to a secluded, wisteria-clad porch. “It’ll give us something of a ladder at least.”
“Are you kidding? I’ll never manage that.”
“Got a better idea?”
Before he can argue, Fran jumps onto the trellis, tests it for strength, then begins to ascend.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this sort of thing before?” says Mick, slinging the spare wedding dress over his shoulder.
“Hasn’t everyone?”
“Oh, Fran,” he sighs. “The things I do for you.”
Eventually, after some heaving and hoisting, they find themselves in a never-ending corridor of yellow damask, gold sconces, mahogany doors, and maroon carpets. Members of the wedding party flit from one room to another, forcing Fran and Mick to press against the wall.
“Okay,” says Mick. “I admit, this does have some excitement factor, but we’re running out of time.”
“This is it,” says Fran, taking the dress and approaching the door of the executive suite.
The Second Chance Boutique Page 21
