The Memory Dress

Chapter Three

THREE

It’s 5:42 a.m. and I wake to silence. Just the way I like it. While I’m waiting for my milk to warm on the hob my eyes find the grainy Polaroid baby photo stuck to the fridge, my faded birth date written in pencil just below the image of a small bundle held in my mother’s arms. My birthday is approaching. Mum will call but I won’t celebrate it. I haven’t since I was a small child. This morning I’m walking Margot and Teddy together, the latter a high-energy springer spaniel owned by Olivia, a digital designer who lives on the second floor. Not long after I moved into the building and she heard I was walking Margot, she knocked on my door and begged me to do the same for her.

Olivia is someone who locks herself out of her apartment at least once a week, adding to her peaked stress levels. She’ll often be heard cursing loudly outside her front door until she remembers I also now have keys to her place. I’ve seen the very long to-do lists she writes for herself to push back missed deadlines and cancel drinks with friends. I’ve seen the half-finished plates of food, the coffee gone cold, the laptop and page proofs that are permanent fixtures on her kitchen table, the blanket that doubles as a duvet on the sofa. I suspect she might never hit a deadline if I didn’t walk Teddy at least four times a week. Sometimes, if she looks extra stressed when I collect him, then I may “forget” to charge her. Knowing that I’m giving her the breathing space to make a dent in her workload and keep her miserable boss at bay makes me far happier than the money would.

I remember the first time I met her. It was early morning. I could hear a commotion in the hallway downstairs, all the way from my sofa, where I was checking emails. Voices were raised and I felt I had no choice but to investigate.

“I’m not sure how many times I can say it. I am not your milk thief.” Olivia was conducting this conversation with Davina and Jake while on the phone to someone else, presumably a work call.

“Well, someone is nicking it from the hallway and now there is no milk for the girls’ breakfast cereal again. I just wonder if we could all stop behaving like impoverished students, please!”

“I’ll grab you some from the coach house, I’ve got plenty.” I could tell Jake was trying not to laugh, despite Davina’s exasperation.

“Maybe he’s nicked it all,” shrieked Olivia. “Did you consider that? Or it could be her!” She points in my direction, making me a suspect too.

“I haven’t taken anyone’s milk,” I added weakly, immediately feeling guilty for a crime I had not committed.

“This sounds like a job for me!” Maggie appeared, wearing a pair of bright pink knickers over some sparkly leggings, a bikini top decorated with slices of watermelon, and a giant magnifying glass pressed to her right eyeball, trailing Willow behind her.

“Why are adults so tragic?” Willow shot a withering look at us all. “Maybe the wrong number of bottles got delivered? Maybe it was the old couple on the first floor? Maybe we could all just have toast for breakfast this morning?” She made some valid points.

“Maybe you should all get out of my crime scene!” bellowed Maggie, and everyone started to laugh, despite the confrontational start to the day.

“D’you wanna put some proper clothes on, Maggie?” Willow turned her sharp tongue on her younger sibling. “Seriously, have you got no shame?”

Maggie looked down at her perfect little body and stunning outfit, confused. “What d’you call these?” She adjusted her stance, legs wide apart, hips thrust toward Willow.

Willow flounced back into the apartment and we all dispersed.

When Olivia eventually answers the door this morning, she has her mobile in one hand, a bowl of cereal tucked into the crook of the same arm, and the lead draped over her right arm and not yet attached to Teddy. An earbud from her usual accessory, noise-canceling headphones, is jammed into one ear, explaining the long delay in her opening the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say for the interruption even though this is my regular day and time to collect Teddy.

I lean forward to take the lead off her and she lets me without once making eye contact. Not even a cursory nod. She just continues with the conversation she’s having and moves to close the door. I can tell by the alarm in her eyes that this caller is not happy with her. Something has been forgotten or missed and tears are not far away. The fact Teddy’s tail is wedged between his legs tells me he senses it too. He is desperate to get out of here and starts jumping up at me repeatedly, which results in me dropping Margot’s lead. I immediately regret collecting Margot first, but I know it helps Davina to have her out of the house as soon as possible in the morning so she can focus on getting the girls ready for school.

While I’m fumbling to get Teddy under control, Margot bolts down four flights of stairs and I can hear her jumping up at the front door, knowing freedom lies just the other side. I can also hear Jake trying to control her. I pick up the pace, taking the stairs two at a time, praying no one is foolish enough to open the front door. Without me there, she’ll bolt. There’s a nighttime’s worth of energy inside her that needs unleashing. And I am almost to the bottom when I see the door to the first-floor apartment creak slowly open. The face of a small older lady appears. It must be Mrs.Chalis, who, along with her husband, are the only residents in the building I have yet to meet, despite the fact I pass their door several times a day.

Davina said I should keep my distance. Apparently, Mrs.Chalis is a bit…eccentric. She’s been spotted wandering about barefoot, sometimes in just a nightie, regardless of the time of day or night. Olivia says she hears her singing through the walls and Jake’s reported the lights stay on in their apartment all night sometimes. What can the elderly couple possibly be up to? I wonder. I know they don’t own a dog, so there’s no potential business there, but still, it seems odd to live in such close proximity to someone and not ever have set eyes on them. I guess I’m about to find out if they live up to the intrigue. The apartment door is wide open now, and Mrs.Chalis is watching me with an air of confusion.

“William?” she asks over the commotion of Jake still trying to restrain Margot downstairs. “I thought I heard William’s voice.”

She looks a little swamped by the blue-and-white cotton dress she’s wearing. Her face looks friendly enough, she has a broad smile that radiates in lines out across her cheeks, and as she smiles her small eyes almost disappear. But not entirely. I can see the distress sharpened there. She looks alert, more than she needs to be. She has a mass of gray hair that looks unbrushed and, I notice, she is wearing only one earring, the other missing from her right lobe. She’s barefoot.

Margot bolts back up the stairs from the hallway with Jake in pursuit, sees the open door, gets confused, and before I can reach out a hand to stop her, she charges into the apartment, causing Mrs.Chalis to stumble slightly against the doorframe.

“Oh my goodness,” she half laughs, half shrieks, and I can see I’ve got no choice but to follow Margot in.

“Sorry, Jayne.” Jake has caught up now. “She wouldn’t listen to me, I’m afraid. Shall I take the other dog while you grab that one?” He nods toward the Chalises’ door.

Margot must be the only female immune to Jake’s charms and I admit the idea makes me feel a little proud of her, especially as I can feel my own features softening at the mere sight of him. It’s his half laugh that gets me. Despite his best efforts, Jake has failed to get Margot under control, and the realization amuses him greatly.

I recall the first time I ever set eyes on Jake. The weather had just turned warm and he was hosting drinks in the garden one evening. An invitation had been pushed under my door a few days before, but I’d ignored it, easily convincing myself it came out of a sense of obligation, invite the new neighbor or it might look rude. What kind of man, I wondered, goes to the effort of dotting lanterns among the flower beds, hanging more from the trees?

The soft sound of laughter had drifted up to my roof terrace. There had been about thirty guests in all—women wearing long floaty floral dresses, beautiful and carefree, some of them barefoot on the grass. The men looking casual yet fashionable as they circulated the garden, seeking out their host. They’d all exuded perfection, radiated confidence, drinking freely of the champagne Jake was generously offering. Since then, it’s been a constant rotation of new faces in our back garden but mine has never been one of them.

I should have gone. I could have shown him not everyone is like that. Some people are more earthy and natural, some have legs covered in bruises. Some like to be coaxed into the conversation, not dominate it.

Jake finally clocks the older woman standing in the doorway. “Oh, Mrs.Chalis,” he says, and then when she shows no sign of recognizing him, Jake adds, “It’s Jake, from the coach house. I haven’t seen you in a while…”

The silence is becoming awkward, so I fill it.

“I am so, so sorry,” I splutter. “I will have Margot out of there in one minute. Don’t worry, Jake, I’ll take Teddy too. I’ve got this.” I give him a firm nod to convince him I will not be outdone by a wayward dog.

“Are you sure, because it doesn’t look like…” He’s smirking at me, finding the whole thing highly amusing, and I wish there was a moment to pause and take in the beauty of him, up close. There is no other word. He is beautiful in a slightly disheveled, totally oblivious to it way. But at the same time, quite put together. The shirt is ironed. The socks match. But his hair is unbrushed, he’s unshaven, and a golden chain at his neck is caught on his collar. He hasn’t looked in the mirror this morning and yet he is easily the most attractive man I’ve seen—although perhaps quite incapable, too, otherwise I’d now be on my way out the door with Margot.

Jake gives me another amused smile before tucking his hands into his jeans pockets. “If you’re sure. Have a good day.”

I watch him nod to Mrs.Chalis, who is still standing by the door, before he turns and heads back down the stairs. I decide to limit the possibility of more upset by tying Teddy to the banister before I dart into the apartment, calling for Margot and searching my pockets for something that might entice her back to me.

But as soon as I am inside, I struggle to see anything. All the wooden shutters are closed across the windows and the whole place is in near darkness. Then I hear the door shut behind me and I am aware that Mrs.Chalis has followed me back in. I feel the faintest tingle of nerves travel up through me and shout Margot’s name a little louder.

“Oh dear, oh dear, where is he?” I hear the older lady mumble.

“It’s a she actually, Margot, I’ll find her, don’t worry. Is it possible to put a light on, please?”

Mrs.Chalis pauses behind me and makes no attempt to reach for the light switch I assume must be somewhere on the wall near one of us. She just stands there, her eyes flicking from left to right. I pull my mobile phone from my pocket, and with the minimal light that offers, I find the switch and flick it on.

“Do I know you?” asks Mrs.Chalis, and I turn to see how confused she looks.

“I’m Jayne, from upstairs.” I needlessly point toward the ceiling. “I live on the top floor,” I say. But she stands, motionless, and none of what I’m saying seems to land as it should. Then finally, she asks, “Remind me of your name?”

“Jayne,” I say again as I turn and start to take in the rest of the apartment, hoping Margot will appear voluntarily any second now.

I can smell something overly sweet, ripe, that doesn’t seem right. Nothing awful but something that feels like a warning to act. Perhaps something has bubbled over in the kitchen during all the commotion. I begin to walk deeper into the apartment and the corridor I entered through leads into a large drawing room. “Would you mind if I open the shutters?” I ask. “It might help me find Margot. She lives with Davina and her two girls on the ground floor, so she’s very used to hiding from drama.”

“It’s not Margot I’m looking for,” she replies calmly, and I decide at this point to open the shutters anyway.

As I do, Mrs.Chalis squints into the light like she hasn’t seen it for some time, and I can immediately see what is causing the smell. There is a fruit bowl full of blackened bananas that should have been thrown out days ago. She notices that I’ve seen them. “He likes them that way, they mash easier, on toast for his breakfast.”

I want to ask who, but I am completely distracted by the mess I can now see around me. Every surface is covered. There are newspaper cuttings, randomly placed stacks of hardback books, some so high they have toppled over and been left where they fell. Old photographs, pieces of fabric thrown indiscriminately over furniture, a huge box of buttons has spilled all over the floor, and under a small desk in one corner of the room I can see writing paper, balled and discarded around the wastepaper bin, like Mrs.Chalis has made multiple attempts to write something difficult. The desk lamp has fallen on its side and been left that way.

The room, the entire apartment from what I can see, is overflowing with belongings. In the center of the room are two yellow sofas piled so high with cushions that it would be impossible to sit down. The fact each one is covered in a different fabric only adds to the chaotic feel of the place. The sofas face each other and around them four armchairs are grouped, not one clear enough of clutter to sit on. The wall above the fireplace, which runs the length of the room from where we entered to three double-height sash windows, is covered in drawings, mostly of flowers, some framed, some not. There is barely an inch of free hanging space. I notice a bottle of furniture polish on one of the shelves, its lid discarded, a thick rim of dust settled around its nozzle.

It’s the same brand my grandmother used, and it reminds me of a terribly sad story my mother once told me. How my grandmother was so lonely after my grandfather passed away that she would routinely polish his bookshelves. He had hundreds of books, but she would take them off the shelves, dusting the jacket of each one, just to pass the hours in the day. To distract herself from the loneliness, the feeling of being no use to anyone anymore. When she put the last book back in its place, she would start all over again. On and on it would go. Anything to avoid sitting with her thoughts. Pretending to have purpose.

“Is everything all right, Mrs.Chalis?” I ask, because clearly, it’s not.

She stands perfectly still, staring at me, still smiling and, it seems, comfortable in my company, despite the fact the two of us have never met before.

“I can’t remember what I was going outside to do.” She’s shaking her head and getting a little frustrated with herself, trying to shuffle a thought back to the surface. Then the phone rings. Again, she makes no effort to move, like she hasn’t heard it at all.

She isn’t that old. I’d place her maybe in her late sixties. I’d imagined a hunched, slow-moving, little old lady from the description the others gave me. By contrast, Mrs.Chalis seems quite young, but something obviously isn’t right.

“Do you need to answer the phone?” I nudge as it continues to ring.

“No. I don’t like the way it makes me feel.” Her smile drops.

“The phone?”

“Yes. It’s never good news, is it?”

“Leave it then,” I say. My heart tugs in my chest as I look at her. She appears so small in this vast apartment. So lost. I never reacted to the constant sight of that furniture polish at my grandmother’s house. I remember seeing it, much later being told why it was there. And yet, I don’t remember it sparking a change. I didn’t suddenly spend more hours with her. I didn’t offer to take her out more and, standing here now, I can’t understand why.

“Would you like a cup of tea,” she asks eventually, “while we search for…” Her face looks blank.

“Margot.” I’m reminded that Teddy is still waiting for me outside.

“No, thank you, but let me make you one,” I offer.

The kitchen feels very dated. There is a bright red Aga instead of a modern cooker, which strikes me as not very practical when it comes to cooking a simple meal for two. The walls are lined with densely patterned wallpaper, there’s a large farmhouse-style dining table and a plate rack dominating one wall, but it’s awkwardly jammed with utensils rather than crockery. There is a microwave, its door hanging open, revealing a bowl of what I think is tomato soup, so old a thick skin has hardened on the top of it. It must have been there for days. I open the fridge next to find a line of single-pint milk bottles—eight of them I count—and very little else. Davina stuck another notice up in the hallway last week asking whoever is helping themselves to the milk intended for other apartments to stop it. I think we have our culprit.

I lift the kettle and flick the lid open, ready to refill it. As I glance down inside of it, there are three eggs swimming in the water there. Mrs.Chalis is next to me now.

“I keep forgetting them and they boil dry in the saucepan, so I cook them in there,” she says with a satisfied smile, and I have to agree that’s quite a clever solution to her problem.

Then we’re both distracted by the sound of Margot’s low whimper coming from a room we haven’t entered yet. I follow Mrs.Chalis through to her bedroom to find Davina’s dog sitting at the foot of the bed, probably wondering what’s caused such a lengthy delay to her daily walk. But it’s not Margot who has my attention now.

In the corner of the room, casually thrown over the back of a chair, is the most incredible strapless evening dress. It’s pink, silk I think, floor-length, and the bodice, which seems to drop lower to the hips rather than the waist, is covered in the most detailed pink-and-white floral embroidery. It has what looks like a matching cropped jacket, too, which has been discarded on the floor. There is a faint familiarity to it that I can’t place.

“We have to wash our hands,” says Mrs.Chalis. “If we want to touch it. It’s raw silk.”

“Is…is this your dress?” I ask.

“No.” She seems very sure of that. “It’s dress number nineteen.” She nods her head, happy that this fact is correct.

“Number nineteen? I’m not sure I understand. If it’s not yours, whose dress is it?”

“I don’t know, but William will.”

“William is your husband?”

“Yes. He’s put it there to be helpful.”

I’m not sure what she means by that, so I try again.

“Are you looking after it for someone? Or did you borrow it?”

“I probably don’t have long left with it.” She raises the fingers of her right hand to her lips and taps them gently there, thinking. “Oh gosh, I don’t know. There is a reason why it’s here, but…” She pauses, casting her gaze back toward the dress. “I know it’s important to me and William and…someone else.” Which tells me very little. It’s clearly a very beautiful dress, quite at odds with the manic snapshot of the Chalises’ life the rest of the apartment has offered up this morning.

“I won’t touch it, but do you mind if I take a closer look?” I start to move toward it.

“I don’t mind.” Mrs.Chalis has taken a seat on the bed next to Margot and is gently smoothing the top of her head.

This is obviously not your average evening dress. It’s far fancier than the sort of thing Mum used to splash out on to accompany Dad to his work events, before he started going to them alone. The intricate pattern of flowers, jasmine and cherry blossom, some miniature orchids and calla lilies, I think, green and star-shaped sequins, gold glass beads and braid has surely all been stitched by hand to perfectly fit the occasion it was worn to. Maybe that’s it, I simply recognize the flowers. It seems very specific. I look at Mrs.Chalis for any hint of understanding, but she is far more interested in Margot, who is offering up her belly for a rub. I check the label at the top of the dress. Catherine Walker . A name that means nothing to me. Then I see the small handwritten note that has dropped under the chair and I bend to pick it up, reading it aloud.

Dearest Meredith,

Please accept this dress, she wanted you to have it and so do I. She says it will make her very happy to think you will gain as much pleasure from it as she once did.

Yours with love,

Catherine

“Meredith? Is that your name?”

“Yes, hello.” She says it like we are meeting for the first time again.

I can’t shake the feeling that I have seen this dress before. I just can’t think of where. As I look up at Mrs.Chalis—Meredith—who is still happily stroking Margot’s head, I make a mental note to google Catherine Walker as soon as I get the chance.

The note is dated June 1997. I look back to Meredith. Who was so keen for her to have this dress? And why? Why did they believe it would make her happy?

Then, as I watch, Meredith’s demeanor changes abruptly. She shifts away from Margot, her eyes flare, her arms fold protectively across her lap.

“Such a rush,” she breathes. “Such exhaustion. I’ll never feel like myself again.” She’s shaking her head, looking weary. “He is tired too. We all are. But what choice is there? I can’t let her down. I never will.”

My thoughts and Meredith’s are interrupted by the sound of Teddy barking outside in the hallway.

“I need to get going, Mrs.Cha—Meredith,” I say as I pull Margot from the bed. She follows me and again I notice the furniture polish on our route back to the front door. Clearly no one in this building has been inside of Meredith’s apartment, they would have helped her if they had, I’m sure of it. But it is the image of the polish that brings this realization into sharp focus. I know what it meant once before. I am convinced it, along with everything else I’ve seen, indicates much more now. Just as I am lifting my arm to open the door, I feel Meredith’s gaze on my back. I turn to face her, and all the happiness has drained from her features, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Who likes the bananas, Meredith? Can you remember?” I ask.

“My husband, William,” she answers. “Have you seen him? He’s missing. I wonder if you might help me find him, please?”