The Memory Dress

Chapter Five

FIVE

Jayne

I never set out to be a dog walker. Does anyone? It was a job born out of not knowing what else to do. I’ve always been honest about that. I don’t tell people I’m a business owner. I say I walk dogs. I’d tried all the obvious choices. Office work—with its terrifying reliance on last-minute presentations given while a circle of faces stared expectantly at me—had never been for me. Waitressing had its moments. The tips alone eclipsed what I earn now, and it was fascinating to watch couples eating together. I could tell immediately who really cared, who didn’t let their phones trespass out of their bags or pockets, who had to be reminded of the specials more than once because they were interested in only each other. That was Alex and I once, fleetingly, before…Well, I’m not quite sure who ruined it, me or him.

Then there was a brief spell nannying—the children were truly wonderful but the parents I had a hard time satisfying. Not long after that I saw a man walking a tangle of five dogs through the park, the name of his business— The Dog Father —printed across the back of his T-shirt. It made me laugh and I thought, why not? It’s time to make changes that I know will be good for me. Then the only person I would have to rely on would be me . There would be no one waiting to be impressed. A couple of well-placed online ads was all it took.

Dogs are glorious. You love them and in return they ask so little of you. Okay, some of them have taken a bit more persuading—there is a three-year-old labradoodle whose owners have never invested any time in training him who hated me for a while—but most can be won over with a good long walk, a firm cuddle, and plenty of treats for good behavior. And seven months in, there have been some wonderful upsides. I’ve never been fitter. My legs are toned, and I feel physically strong. I can eat whatever I want in the course of a day and never put on an ounce. Interacting with the owners is minimal, since most are at work when I collect and return their dogs.

But neither can I ignore the downsides. Spending another Friday night alone like this, living on the outskirts of expectations, is a strange place to be. I suppose I should be used to it but I’m not. I love the solitude, but I wonder what it might do to me in the long run. Already I know I could never return to the working world , to wear its uniform, to keep its hours, to play its games. But so many hours on my own means a lot of time questioning myself. I know Mum worries about me. Thankfully my sister, Sally, is too busy to, but that’s fine. One sister attacking life, the other one observing it. Oil and water.

I learned from a very young age to let her go first. Sally wanted someone to compete with. I wanted to let her win. Most people would look at her now—the beautiful, happily married, and respected physiotherapist with a waiting list over a month long—and they would agree, she wins. I’m not so sure. I’m not a slave to the business world but I paid a very different price for my freedom. It wasn’t in lost weekends and evenings glued to a laptop but something far more valuable, a missing piece of me, which is why I’ll always be grateful for what I do have. But it’s also what makes me feel a little lacking sometimes. I’m not everything I should be.

My childhood, even my life now, wasn’t one Mum expected or planned. I know for a long time she grappled with that, but there is acceptance and a deep love laced through our relationship today. She said I rarely cried as a baby. Even then I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Like any mum might, she viewed my shyness initially as a problem that needed to be fixed. There were excruciating summer schools of drama and dance classes for show-offs that I typically lasted a day or two at, never to the final performance at the end of the week. This is when I should have been laying down the groundwork for friendships that would last me a lifetime. But I didn’t like parties. I rarely asked to have friends over. Wouldn’t it have been wrong to fill the house with little girls in pretty party dresses and not a care in the world? It would have made Mum cry, I’m sure of it. She might be able to kiss the bad dreams away or to patch up a rough day at school with a favorite supper. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t ever be able to—fix this. I didn’t know how to tell her then that I didn’t dream of a different me, I dreamed of being left alone to be me.

It felt like it took a long time before she was able to accept that. I don’t know if she saw it as giving up, failing to bring me out of myself, or truly conceding to what was in front of her, but eventually she let me slip into the background, seep into the shadows.

And I was so comfortable there. I could watch and listen, unseen. I could absorb everything I wanted to without ever having to contribute, to offer an opinion or face a confrontation. I’m not built for it. I don’t like to be challenged. Honestly, I prefer to hide. Stepping into the light is exposing. It’s home to the overconfident and single-minded. Those with a skin much thicker than mine.

The downside is there are no old friends to lean on now, just the occasional face in the crowd that seems familiar. I didn’t go to university. I finished school, then I hid at Mum’s place for far too long while I tried to work out what to do with my life. Eventually I realized I had to leave. The hiding had become too obvious.

“Are you sure you should be getting involved, Jayne? I don’t want to sound callous but is it fair for anyone to expect you to take this on? To help Meredith.” Mum places a steaming mug of tea in front of me. We’re sitting at the small wooden table in her garden, parasol up. It’s the place I feel most naturally at ease, but I know this conversation is going to be tricky. “I can already tell from the determined look on your face that you’re not going to leave it alone, are you?”

I take a sip of tea, scorching the roof of my mouth. “No.”

“Jayne…”

“I think if you’d seen her, the state she is living in, you might feel differently. And no one is expecting me to take anything on.”

Mum sits back against the chair, drinks her own tea before responding.

“That’s not entirely why you’re doing it, though, is it?” She half smiles at me.

I knew this was coming. That we couldn’t just have a basic conversation without Mum understanding the deeper meaning in it. The annoying thing is, she’s right.

“You don’t have to do this. It’s not going to change anything. You can’t rewrite history,” she says gently.

“I know that.” I feel my cheeks warm. Are my motives really that easy to see? “But it’s not going to be forever. A couple of weeks, maybe three, just until I can get Meredith the help she needs and try to understand what’s happened to her husband.”

I have so much of what I need in life. Two jobs that I love. The chance to help people who I know have come to rely on me. A better relationship with Mum than ever. A beautiful apartment that I own. But Mum and I both know the deeper sadness that sits behind it all.

“All I’m saying is just think things through properly before you take on something that you won’t easily be able to walk away from.” Mum takes my hand. “Meredith isn’t your grandmother. You were so young when she passed away, Jayne, I wish you’d had more time together, I really do. But…”

“I know, Mum. You don’t need to say it.”

Her body language shifts, she looks uncomfortable all of a sudden. “You should be making more time for you , for…new relationships.” She can’t meet my eyes.

“Leave it, please, Mum.” The last thing I want is a discussion about my love life. “And just in case you’re thinking about it, I would rather not have another reminder of how lovely you think Alex is.”

“Well, it’s funny you should bring his name up because he called again.” She opens her palms to me, indicating this shouldn’t be surprising news but also that it’s not her fault.

“Mum, no.” I harden my tone. She should know by now that this subject is off-limits.

“He’s asked for your new address. Again.”

“Oh, Mum, you didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t”—she sighs—“I know that chapter is closed for you, but he seems pretty determined not to give up.”

“He dumped me , Mum, in case you have forgotten that crucial detail!” I can’t help sounding a little outraged at her ability to feel sympathy for a man who asked me to move in with him before Christmas and then ditched me when he didn’t get the answer he wanted. But I can’t dwell on it. I don’t want to be reminded of the excruciating moments leading up to the end of a relationship I was once so hopeful about. I don’t want those images filling my head, especially not when I am sitting here with my mother. I know her intentions are good, but she has no idea how the mere mention of his name sends a spike of regret up through me, making my jaw tighten.

“I know what he did at the time felt heartless and cruel, but I think it was an act of self-preservation more than anything else. He adores you, and when he didn’t believe the feelings were mutual, he couldn’t face it. It seems clear to me he still loves you.”

“Is that what he told you?” I scoff at his glossing over of the uglier facts, ones that I’m reluctantly grateful he chose not to share with Mum. “Well, you haven’t given him my address and that’s all I need to know.”

Mum is silent for a moment. “I just worry about you, darling, that’s all. I want you to be happy and fulfilled. To have someone special in your life. A true partner.” And I feel deeply for her then because we both understand this is something we share. There is no one for her to confide in late at night either.

I tighten my grip on the small posy for Meredith, a colorful mix of wildflowers that I hope she’ll like, before I knock on her door. She takes an age to answer, and when she does, she just stands there staring at me. Something is wrong. Her hair looks flat, like she has coated it in product, she’s repeatedly scratching at it, and there is an overly sweet smell coming from her.

“Have you found William?” There is urgency in her voice, she’s wringing her hands together, rocking back and forth toward me.

“I haven’t, not yet, but I brought these for you.” I hand the small posy to her.

She takes the flowers and looks into the bouquet. “Forget-me-nots! Oh, how perfect.”

Her eyes come back up to meet mine. She’s scratching again.

“I do know you, don’t I?” She’s smiling, her face warm and trusting when perhaps it shouldn’t be.

“We’ve met, yes. It’s Jayne, from upstairs. I live in this building, on the top floor,” I say. “Can I come in for a moment?”

“Yes, I like you. You’re kind. Where’s your dog?”

I decide not to confuse her further with an explanation about who actually owns the dog and settle for “Just having a rest.”

Meredith’s hallway is covered in floral wallpaper, a pattern that seems far too intricate and repetitive for such a small area, it shrinks the space, and I think she feels it, too, because she stops and stares at the three doors, all closed around us. I watch as her hand rises to her lips and she runs her index finger across them, like she’s struggling to solve something.

“The drawing room.” Her eyes move between the different doors, but she stays rooted to the spot. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Her chin drops to her chest.

I take her arm and lead her forward before she has a chance to get more annoyed with herself. I clear some space on one of the sofas for us to sit. She’s still scratching so I ask, “Your hair looks different today, Meredith. Did you do something with it?”

“I washed it,” she says proudly, and I have to stop myself gasping. It’s shampoo that is weighing it down, not a styling product. I think she has attempted to wash her hair, without actually getting it wet. I don’t want to distress her, so I turn away from her for a moment, breaking our eye contact, and when I look back, her shoulders have crumpled like she has collapsed in on herself. Her hand rises to her head again, and this time, she seems to understand she has done something wrong. She’s connecting my reaction with the smell and the itching and it makes me want to help her, to reassure her it doesn’t matter, we can fix it. Why is no one else doing this for her?

Again, my thoughts are pulled backward to my own grandmother. How Mum’s grief became hers, only amplified because she was powerless to take away her daughter’s pain. The weight of the sadness was too much for her old bones, Mum said. Even when I was small enough to sit on my grandmother’s lap, feeling her arms close too tightly around me, her body shuddering to the sound of muffled sobs, I knew it was the sight of me that was the cause.

I clear my throat before lightly saying, “I think a little of the shampoo might still be in your hair, Meredith. Just a little. Shall I wash it out for you?”

“Oh yes, please,” she says, and I can already see the relief soften her face.

We find the bathroom together and I drag one of the chairs in from the kitchen. I drape a towel around her shoulders, then I get her to sit and lean back while I support her neck with my left hand and hold the showerhead with my right, letting the water loosen and rinse away all the crusted shampoo into the bath. She closes her eyes and a beautiful smile breaks across her face. I sense her whole body relax into the chair and her arms go limp at her sides.

“William only puts conditioner on the ends,” she says.

As I look around, I realize there is no sign of a husband in this bathroom. I remember how Alex had more grooming products than I ever accumulated. I sit her back up and towel-dry her hair as best I can, annoyed that thoughts of Alex, and Mum’s sympathy for him, have intruded on this moment. Taking a look around, I notice just one robe hangs on the back of the door, a single toothbrush in the cup on the sink. There is nothing to confirm the presence of a man. No larger coat hanging in the hallway. No discarded shoes. No second bowl of soup in the microwave. Is Meredith waiting for someone who has no intention of coming home? I kneel in front of her.

“Is it ever a good idea to go back, Meredith?” I realize once I’ve asked the question, I’m not entirely sure what I mean. Back to the source of my problems, back to a former love, back to the child whose juvenile attempts to make her grandmother happy always failed? I’m expecting a look of detached confusion from Meredith, or at least a flat no from a woman of her generation. Shouldn’t it be shoulders back, head high, looking forward, never inward, to whatever challenges we face? So, her response is surprising.

“Back is the only place you can go if you want to make things better, if you want to make sense of things. It’s much braver, much harder, don’t you think? Not going back is like picking up a book and starting to read halfway through, expecting to love and understand the characters. You won’t. You can’t. You don’t know them yet. So much good can come from going back. Everyone should try it.”

We both smile at each other. She looks warmed by the fact she’s said the right thing. And I feel cheered. She may have forgotten how to wash her hair properly, but she’s still got a firm grip on what’s really important in life. How could anyone walk away from her without helping?

“What are you looking for, Jayne? What gives you a need to go back?”

The bathroom walls seem to shrink around us then. There is no obvious diversion to avoid such a direct question from Meredith and I struggle for something to say.

“Do you need a friend?” She asks it in such a gentle way that there feels like no shame at all in admitting that, yes, I probably do.

I nod.

“Friendship comes in all shapes and sizes.” Meredith seems surprisingly coherent on the subject. “But the golden rule is it has to make you feel good. Don’t spend time with people who don’t do that for you, who won’t allow you the luxury of total honesty. The freedom to say whatever you need to, knowing you will always be supported, if not agreed with.” We move back into the sitting room and she throws some of the cushions off the sofa and takes a seat.

“If you need a friend, I’d be happy to be it.” She taps me on the thigh. “We might be very good for each other, you know.” She bumps her shoulder into mine and we both laugh—me at the strangeness of the situation, her because I think she remembers what it feels like to be happy and she wants to be back there, even if it is with me and not William.

“Yesterday, you asked me to help you find your husband, William. Do you remember?” I turn to face her.

“Yes, have you seen him?” It’s said with such enthusiasm, like she truly believes I might have bumped into him at the supermarket this morning, despite me telling her half an hour ago I haven’t seen him, and I wouldn’t recognize him even if I had.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve lived in this building for seven months, Meredith, and I don’t ever recall seeing him. Was he living here with you?”

“Oh yes, he lives with me here.” She sounds cheerful at first but then her tone changes, becoming heavier, wearier. “We used to live in London before. But he’s gone now. I don’t know where.” Then she’s optimistic again. “He’ll come back, won’t he?”

I nod gently. “I’m sure he will. When was the last time you left the apartment, Meredith?”

“I don’t know,” she says, looking around her for a clue to the correct answer. “Quite some time, I think.”