The Memory Dress

Chapter Seven

SEVEN

Jayne

I spend the evening going through work emails and trying to confirm the dog walking slots for the week ahead, eating a sandwich I grabbed on the way home. But I’m distracted, worrying about what Meredith might be doing downstairs. I think about all the closed doors on every floor of our building, the close proximity the tenants share but how shut away we all are from one another. I try to help everyone where I can but there is no sense of community. A whole house full of adults who might be alone and perhaps might prefer not to be. Even at this moment, Davina will either be wrestling Maggie into bed or charging home from an event to relieve whichever babysitter is on duty tonight. I bet Olivia’s working, too, mopping up the missed deadlines from the week or heading out again for another late night. Meredith is alone, trying desperately to remember how she came to be that way. I’m alone too. By choice, I know, but I hope it won’t always be this way. Is it only Jake who enjoys the closeness of good friends? Are they good friends, I wonder, the people who fill our shared garden on balmy evenings? I’ve never seen him sit with just one familiar face, losing the afternoon to close conversation and shared secrets. Is there someone special? Or does he prefer the anonymity of a group, where he can hide among the banter and the polite chitchat, never needing to reveal too much? Where he can flit from person to person, never offering an opportunity to see deeper than the handsome face and the relaxed smile, the chilled champagne and the desirable address?

I take a tea up to the roof terrace and sit there for a while, absorbing the last heat of the day, in my own private walled garden where no one can see me. And in one sense it is heavenly, everything I ever wanted. I can sit high above the city, feel its energy, my proximity to its people, without having to respond to any of it. And in another, which I reluctantly and quietly acknowledge, it is desperately sad because there is no one to share this peace with. Perhaps if there were, I wouldn’t feel this way.

Spending time with Meredith today reminds me of how I learned to distance myself from my own grandmother. It felt kinder. I lacked the words to make things better. All I could offer her was affection, but that didn’t work. I was a visual reminder of everything that was wrong in our family. “Some walls are just too big,” Mum said once. “You can climb so high up them, but you never reach the top.” She told me when Granddad passed away it seemed like the final excuse my grandmother needed. The loss of a love so intrinsic to her life was insurmountable. Home wasn’t home anymore, and no task, however hard she tried, could hide the fact. So, she stopped trying. But should I have stopped trying?

I remember one afternoon, I couldn’t have been much older than seven, Mum had trusted me to drop something off at her house, something she had borrowed that needed returning. My grandmother looked like she had been crying—her mascara had traveled down her face in two wonky lines—and was doing a valiant job of pretending otherwise. It was impossible to miss but I ignored it, knowing the act of intimacy involved in offering a tissue, or merely asking about it, would have brought fresh tears. So I left that afternoon without mentioning it, glanced back over my shoulder at my grandmother waving at the front door looking like a circus clown. She’d told me there was a man coming that afternoon to fix the TV aerial, and I knew if she didn’t see herself in the mirror first, he would be greeted by the same sight. He might even point it out. I felt awful for days, weeks even. Maybe I have never stopped feeling bad.

Perhaps it’s because my birthday is coming that all these feelings are surfacing again. Dad will send a card. Mum will call and we’ll sit together in the small memorial garden she created at the back of her house. It seems almost inconsequential now, just a few neat beds of pansies and petunias and a discreet heart-shaped stone plaque with the words We will love you forever, grateful always that we had you at all . When I was a child it seemed to engulf the whole of Mum’s garden. When we weeded it together, she used to test me on the names of all the different flower varieties, in a desperate attempt to make it more bearable—for me and for her. Back then, the memorial garden seemed to expand and creep across everything, just like her grief. As I got older, Sally and I would watch her from the kitchen window, sitting motionless in a chair, like she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open. “We’ll make dinner tonight,” Sally would say. Then we’d take a plate of sandwiches out to her, some roughly cut cherry tomatoes and slices of cucumber on the side of the plate “for color,” Sally said. “It will cheer her up.” Back then, we truly believed it would.

Sally and I saw the physical strength it took Mum to heave herself out of bed or off the sofa. Eventually the accompanying groans stopped.

Tonight, the enticingly warm glow from the lights inside Jake’s place forces a change in my thoughts. I wonder whom he’s entertaining tonight.

They might come out into the garden later like they do sometimes. Then I can watch them and imagine what it might feel like to be down there with him. Before Alex there were plenty of missed opportunities to get close to someone, when my answer could have been yes but was always no. Because it was easier that way. The disappointment with myself brushed aside far swifter than the piercing nervousness that would hold me in its grip all day until that first date. They rarely made it to a second one.

My past feels like a hard, full stop in the conversation. How can I show a man who I am without talking about it? But who wants to have that unloaded on them on a first or second date? Too many normal, expected questions quickly revealed the hole in my story. I could always see him trying to work it out. She’s a dog walker and part-time florist, and yet she lives in one of the fanciest addresses in the city? I guess most people would simply skirt over it, but I never can. It makes me feel dishonest.

Alex was much easier at first. He was just a stranger on the bench, reading last summer’s instant hit. The same one everyone lying in the park or sitting on the bus seemed to be reading. The choice made him immediately accessible. I liked the obviousness of it. As I walked past, I glanced at the pages, wondering if he’d gotten to the big twist yet. Our eyes met and he said, “She’s not seriously going to say yes, is she?” I opened my mouth to respond and he shouted, “Christ, no! Don’t tell me!” We laughed. People looked. He apologized for shouting and then there was an offer of a coffee. It was all so easy, until it became much more difficult.

Maybe it’s the money. People look at me, see the height first, the lack of eye contact second, and would never guess. Then it feels like a secret I’m deliberately keeping. It makes me feel like a fraud. I didn’t do anything to earn any of it.

I toy with the idea of knocking on Meredith’s door again, inviting myself in for a cuppa and perhaps finding out if there is a family member I can call. Maybe no one is aware of the way she is living, the help she clearly needs. But is it too intrusive? Will she feel patronized? I decide instead to write a note to each of the other house residents asking for their help. Do any of them know any more about Meredith or her missing husband? Has he ever even been seen? Has she, unbelievable as it may sound, invented the whole thing? Surely someone can shed some light on it. I push all the individual notes into the wooden postboxes in the hallway downstairs and hope for the best.

By Monday morning not one person has responded. Not even to say they know nothing and can’t help.

I have forget-me-nots for Meredith, bunny tail grass and dried white gypsophila for Jake, sweet peas for Olivia, and garden roses for Davina. It’s the only idea I have to wrestle some interest from them all, so I’m banking on it working.

It’s four o’clock when I knock on Davina’s door. I can hear Maggie singing on the other side of it. Something unrecognizable that I think she’s making up as she goes along but with total conviction. It’s Maggie who opens the door. As soon as she sees me, she lowers her head disapprovingly, frowns, raises her eyebrows, then tells me off. “You’re late for rehearsals. This is not what I call professional.”

“Actually, Maggie, I was wondering if your mummy is in?”

“I seriously doubt it!” she cackles. “Do you think I’d be wearing these if she was?” She nods toward her feet and I see she is struggling not to topple in a pair of Davina’s skyscraper heels, her chubby ankles wobbling back and forth.

“Oh, they are lovely,” I gush.

“Jimmy Choo,” she informs me. “Mummy puts them at the top of the wardrobe so I can’t reach them.” Then she winks at me. Maggie the rulebreaker.

I’m considering handing the flowers to her when I hear the front door swing open and Davina comes tumbling through it with two supermarket carrier bags, her laptop, a giant bag of dog kibble, and a Tupperware box filled with fancy-looking cupcakes wedged under her arm.

“Coming through! I can’t hold this lot for much longer. Oh no, did I forget to pay you again, Jayne?” She clatters past me. “Get those shoes OFF, Maggie! I guess that’s you not getting one of these delicious cupcakes then.”

Maggie shoots her the sort of death stare a sixteen-year-old would be proud of and I have to laugh.

“No, you’ve paid me,” I say to the back of her head as Davina just manages to place the Tupperware box on the floor before it slides from her grip. “I just wanted to give you these.” I hold the bunch of nectarine-colored roses toward her and suddenly feel very unsure of my strategy. This must look very odd and I can feel the warmth in my cheeks betraying my awkwardness.

Davina’s eyes widen as she takes in the flowers, before her face softens with a small smile. “Well, I’m popular today. A client insisted I bring these cakes back from an event we had this morning and now this. Thank you, Jayne. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve them, but it’s very kind of you. Now, I’m sorry but I have to be out the door again in one hour, so I must get on.” I can see Maggie over her right shoulder. She’s put the shoes back on and is catwalking her way through the apartment, peeling the paper case off a cupcake as she goes, making zero attempt to hide either transgression.

“I just wondered if you had seen my note, was all.” I feel like such an irritation, I wish I hadn’t bothered her now.

“Oh yes, but not much I can add really. Her husband does live here but I haven’t seen him for ages, must be months. But I’m probably not the best person to ask. I’m rarely here myself, and when I am, I’m constantly harassed.” I’m not sure if she’s aiming that comment at me; Maggie, who is singing at full volume again; or Willow, whom I can hear pleading with her younger sister to shut up for once . But I take it as my cue to leave and head up the stairs to Olivia’s front door.

Teddy nearly knocks me off my feet when Olivia opens up. “Oh my God, you couldn’t take him, could you? I’m about an hour away from missing another deadline. Just an hour?” Olivia’s face is tight, the face of someone who knows that deadline isn’t going to be hit whether I take Teddy or not. I wonder if she ever smiles. Genuinely smiles.

“I actually came to give you these,” I venture. “I’m not sure if I told you but I work at a florist as well as the dog walking and…”

“Oh cheers, that’s great they let you help yourself to the flowers at the end of the day.”

“Actually, I did buy—”

“So, d’you think you can? Take Teddy, I mean? Sorry to spring it on you but I’m working again tonight so I’ll have no time to catch up then.” Her mobile starts to scream on the table behind her. I look at Teddy sitting by her ankles, tail wagging, and I know he probably hasn’t left the house this afternoon.

“Of course I can,” I say, smiling. “But did you get my note, Olivia? Do you know anything at all about Meredith?”

“No, never spoken to her. She always darts back into her apartment whenever she sees me. I would avoid her if I were you. Not sure she’s quite all there.”

“Have you ever seen her husband?”

“Jayne, I am always working, every day all day and at least three nights a week too. There is very little time to hang out with the neighbors or take a view on how weird or not their behavior is. But if you are chatting to her it would be great if you could ask her to turn the TV volume down a bit. They watch the same film over and over again. It drives me nuts when I’m trying to work. Speaking of which…” She nods back over her shoulder, then hands me Teddy’s lead from a hook near the door as her phone starts to ring again.

Next up, Jake. Teddy and I head into the garden and he bounds around while, with little enthusiasm, I make my way to the back. The garden is surprisingly small, given the size of the house. It has a neat stone patio filled with potted plants that I’ve only ever seen Jake water or weed. There are two deep borders either side filled with all the usual stuff—rosemary and thyme, fragrant lavender bushes and cheerful chamomile flowers, a couple of apple trees providing some shade to the one metal bench. It looks like this is where the garden ends. But a narrow path breaks off to the right, picking its way under a plum tree, before you reach another small stone terrace and the door to Jake’s coach house.

The exterior is covered in climbing roses, some shedding their petals to form a floating pink carpet below. I recognize the yellow cone-shaped flowers of a hop that is filling the air with its appley scent. A Virginia creeper vine, which will turn a brilliant red and orange come autumn, has tangled its way along the garden wall and is fighting for space on the exterior of the coach house. The door is framed by a heavy arch of roses drooping over it.

I knock and ridiculously hope he won’t answer. I feel stupid holding the flowers. Despite my prediction, no one else seemed to appreciate their flowers and now it feels over the top. I don’t bother to knock a second time before I leave them on the step with a hurriedly scrawled note on the paper they’re wrapped in and my phone number.

I head back through the main house and out with Teddy, pausing as I look toward Meredith’s door. Should I ask her to join me? Might it help? To blow away some of the cobwebs that are hanging heavily over her. The sun is still shining and will be until well past nine o’clock tonight; surely it will do her good. I order Teddy to sit, and tap lightly on the door.

Meredith, wearing a nightie and three cardigans despite the fact it must be eighty-two degrees outside, answers. I feel my heart rise into my throat as she looks at me, her face full of sadness, but still she’s polite enough to smile.

“Hello, Meredith. It’s Jayne, from upstairs.” I return the smile.

She stares at me blankly and her eyes slowly drop. “A different dog today.” She says it with no feeling, no energy.

“This is Teddy. I’m taking him for a walk, and I was wondering if you would like to join us? Not far, perhaps just a couple of streets, if you like. I can keep him on the lead.”

“Forget-me-nots too.” This raises more of a smile.

“Oh yes, these are for you. I know you like them.”

“Always a favorite. From the gardens.” Her smile deepens as she reaches for them. “I’ll have to put my lipstick on. William always buys me the same red from Estée Lauder, the pinky one, you know, it’s called…” She searches for the name of the shade, but it escapes her. “Anyway, I’ll do that and then we can go.”

I can’t let her out of the house dressed the way she is, so I offer to help.

The apartment is even more of a mess than before. I struggle to push the door open and have to poke my head around it to see why it won’t budge. Wedged between the door and the wall is a pile of unopened post that she must have let collect in the box, then retrieved but didn’t open. I tie Teddy to the inside door handle, wondering at the unpleasant smell in the air. Sour this time, not sweet, and definitely less appealing than the overripe bananas or the dried shampoo.

I lead us through to her bedroom, where the bed is unmade and there are clothes strewn everywhere. The Catherine Walker dress is barely visible now below a mountain of clothing she seems to have taken out of the wardrobe, then discarded.

I find a light silk skirt with an easy elasticated waist that she can pull on over the nightie and I help her out of two of the cardigans, doing up the final one across her chest. She just stands there, arms limp at her sides, and lets me. I rummage for two matching shoes and leave her to put them on while I head to the kitchen to investigate the smell.

The surfaces are lined with opened half-empty milk bottles, the contents of which have curdled in the heat. I watch a fly teeter on the rim of one and then fall in, sinking into the thick band of cream. None of the bottles were here before. It looks like she has got a fresh one out of the fridge every time she wanted a cup of tea, then failed to put it back again. I push open a window that looks onto the garden below and inhale some fresh air. This all feels so much worse than just a few days ago. I look over my shoulder to check that Meredith hasn’t appeared behind me, then I start to open some of the kitchen cupboards that line the walls.

Nothing is where it should be. She has teacups and saucers in with saucepans, and cutlery has been placed loose on a shelf instead of in a drawer. A colander is filled with jars of spices and another cupboard has a random collection of items—a bottle of washing-up liquid that’s open and fallen on its side, leaking everywhere, a bag of flour, two pairs of black tights, and a bag of cotton wool balls. There is no logic to any of it and I realize she must have to search behind each door every time she needs something. I remember my own grandmother’s kitchen cupboards, how everything was spotlessly clean and ordered despite the private battles she was fighting.

I open each cupboard and not one of them contains any food. My God, when was the last time she ate a proper meal? My eyes fill with tears and I take a slow, deep breath to stop them overflowing. Why is no one looking after her? Where is William? How can we all go about our business while this lady sits alone in this mess, unable to even feed herself? I don’t understand it and, perhaps more important, neither does she.

“Shall we go then?”

I turn to see her standing in the doorway, lipstick expertly applied, smiling, like no one would ever guess the state she’s really in.

Teddy will have to wait a little longer. I want to try to understand more about what’s happening with Meredith.

“Yes, we should go. But can I use your loo first, Meredith?” I have no intention of using it. There is one more room at the end of the corridor that I have yet to see inside of. Every other room in her apartment has helped to paint a picture of the life Meredith is living. Perhaps whatever lies behind that door will offer more clues too.