The Memory Dress

Chapter Eight

EIGHT

As I step inside, I immediately see a network of strings crisscrossing a wall to my left, and attached to it with tiny wooden pegs are a collection of images, many of them dress sketches with what look like locations scribbled in pencil on the bottom of each one.

“This is not the loo.” Meredith is standing beside me, laughing, like she’s enjoying someone else getting something wrong.

“No, it’s not, sorry. But it looks fascinating. Do you mind if I take a peek? Perhaps we can look together?” I venture.

“This is my memory room,” she whispers. “William knows I need it.”

I move closer to the images, the dimness of the room making it hard to see them fully from a distance. Meredith—or perhaps William—has strung them up in date order. I trace the line along, reading aloud the locations and dates and noticing the distinct silhouette of each dress in sharp pencil outline. There is a sentence with each, a prompt that appears to relate to whatever was happening in Meredith’s life at that time.

1989: The Royal Albert Hall . It’s a full-length, textured, body-skimming dress that’s strapless with a high collared jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves. The start of our golden period. Remember the mistake only you could spot.

Could the prompts have been written by William? What Meredith just said about him knowing she would need this room could suggest so.

1989: The Dorchester Hotel . Another full-length dress with folds of fabric that climb up around the neck but this time with a much looser skirt that’s scattered with tulip-shaped flowers. A dress made in reverse and the first time you cooked me dinner .

“Did William write these notes, Meredith? It sounds like he’s reminding you of things you did together.” I lean in closer, my eyes scanning the next one in the line to see if it fits my theory.

“That’s it, yes. He makes a bit of a fuss of doing it quickly, after he collects me from the Fashion Museum, yes, and when I point that out, he says I’ll thank him for it one day. I can’t think why.”

Meredith has buried her face in a large hardback book and isn’t really paying attention to my interest in the sketches and their notes anymore.

1990: Odeon Leicester Square . This ensemble looks heavier, more regal, a long-sleeved coat with dense embroidery that covers the bodice, then drops away at either side of the hips to reveal a straighter-cut dress beneath. No one guessed our secret. They were blinded by your talent .

I glance at Meredith to see if what I’m reading aloud is prompting any reaction in her too. But she’s taken a seat now and seems almost disinterested; perhaps because the notes are so familiar to her, they hold none of the excitement of my initial discovery.

1991: Launceston Place . A detailed long-sleeved bodice is finished with a wide sash tied at the hip before it drops delicately down over the skirt. Soon we will be three .

I say William’s prompt aloud again, feeling sure that will spark a reaction from her, but she simply reclines her head against the chair wing and closes her eyes.

1992: Spencer House . This time a complex-looking dress with a high jeweled collar, a sleeveless bodice cut more daringly under the arms to reveal the shoulders, then a section of tightly folded fabric across the hips before a very full skirt falls to the floor. The happiest day of our lives and a dress that had to grow.

1993: Sandringham . Something much simpler this time. It’s a straighter column dress with some detail running around the neckline and up over the shoulders. Days without you and long sleepless nights.

Sandringham? What could Meredith possibly have to do with a royal residence? And why would William be without her? I can’t immediately guess at a logical answer, so I read on, alert to any more clues.

1994: Home, Northamptonshire . The only shorter dress with a sharply angled, square-cut neckline. It has large buttons drawn in two perfect rows down the front, a striped skirt, and deep cuffs at each wrist where two more buttons sit. It was the straight lines that gave me away.

This feels much more cryptic. “Did you ever live in Northamptonshire, Meredith?” She studies my face like I’ve asked her a very complex question before simply saying, “Never,” and returning her gaze to her lap. I can only assume the words must mean much more to Meredith than they do to me, or anyone else who may read them.

1994: Venice . A classic evening dress this time with what looks like a band of sequins running across the neckline and up around the neck. The skirt is wrapped and there is more detailing on the left hip. An ocean apart but not for long .

1995: New York . The final dress is drawn low at the neckline and dips at the back below the shoulder blades. It feels very modern. Now it’s you without me.

Is this the point when he left her, or they parted? Surely not, given it is dated more than twenty years ago. I search Meredith’s face, knowing that she is not about to fill in the many missing blanks this display has presented. Her eyes are open. Her smile is back. She looks safe and happy in this room.

“This is a lot of dresses, Meredith.” There are nine in total, ten if you count the pink one still discarded in her bedroom.

Meredith is nodding enthusiastically at me, like their meaning should now be perfectly obvious. “William says it will all make sense when the time comes.”

William, I fear, may be wrong about that. Surely the time is now.

“Do you mind if I open the curtains a little more?” I ask her.

She nods her approval.

As light fills the room, a lifetime’s worth of Meredith—the treasured and the everyday—reveals itself. All the fractured pieces of her. The story of her past on postcards, maps, handwritten letters, sepia photographs, concert invitations and RSVP cards, newspaper cuttings, piles of sheet music, programs, recipe cards, a stack of old CDs missing their cases, pages torn from old school reports, guides. In among it all are prompts she seems to have written to herself. Trauma steals memory has been written in capital letters on a bright pink Post-it note, then attached to the bottom of a photograph of a man leaning on his elbows over a high white table. The lettering is indenting the paper, perhaps the pen was pushed too harshly or too quickly. There are larger blobs of ink across some of the letters, too, and the tail of the y trails off like her hand slipped.

Trauma steals memory.

Did something happen to Meredith? Something that caused so much upset that she is no longer able to process or recall it?

She picks up an image of who I assume must be William, discarding a letter that has got stuck to the back of it, then holds it up for me to see as her eyes fill with tears. “I forget names and places, sometimes even people. But I never forget how they make me feel. I feel close to him when I’m in here. For a few seconds some days, it’s like he isn’t missing at all.”

“Have you seen a doctor, Meredith? Has anyone been able to tell you why this might be happening to you?”

“Oh yes, we’ve done that. A waste of time though. William says it’s better for us to handle it ourselves, so that’s what we do.” She sounds definitive. “I protect him and he protects me, that’s it.”

“But maybe it’s worth another try? Maybe—”

“No.” She cuts me off. “I trust William. He knows what’s best for me.” Her faith in her husband is unwavering, absolute.

I look back at the string of sketches of dresses on the wall and the letter she has discarded. Something about the bold letterhead, the string of surnames, holds my gaze. Delaney, Abbott & Curtis. It’s a firm of solicitors, based centrally. I must walk past their offices three or four times a day. I step closer, my intention merely to check the date. Is this something she’s been sent recently? But it’s addressed to William and dated 15 January 2017, well over a year ago.

Meredith’s focus is lost to the dresses, so, despite the obvious intrusion, I read on.

Dear William,

It was a pleasure to see you looking so well last week. I am delighted to be able to tell you that your affairs are now all in order. As agreed, everything is updated and finalized and the necessary paperwork is ready for your signature. We have also set the letter you dictated to Fiona. You can have a final read through this before it is sealed and we will hold it on file for her here, as discussed.

Please call the office when you have a spare moment and we will find a time that suits you.

With very best wishes,

Andrew Curtis

“Who is Fiona, Meredith?” I have to repeat the question before she drags her gaze from the dress sketches, looks at me, and smiles warmly. “That’s her. Isn’t she beautiful?” She nods toward an image of a young woman I’m guessing is in her late teens. She’s standing on the stone steps of an arched entrance to an imposing redbrick building, a sense of pride flooding from her eyes.

“She’s my daughter,” adds Meredith casually.

Now we are three .

“And where is Fiona now?” I hesitate to say the words. Is Fiona connected to the trauma Meredith may have suffered?

Meredith’s head turns back to the photographs on the wall like the answer must be there somewhere.

“In London?” she asks me. “She doesn’t talk to me. She doesn’t love me anymore.” The severity of what she’s saying isn’t matched by the casualness of her tone.

“When was the last time you saw each other?”

“Oh goodness.” She lowers her head. “It’s been a very long time. She’s very busy, always practicing.” Meredith smiles again and nods her head, reassuring herself. “William says everything I will ever need is in this room. All the answers, all the clues, all of me , he says. It’s a map.” She stands and starts to shift her weight from foot to foot and I sense her panic beginning to build again.

“It’s okay, Meredith. We’re going to find him. I promise you.” I cast my eyes along the list of locations scribbled onto each dress, noticing again the deliberate date order. A clue perhaps, laid down by William and Meredith together when she was more able? I think again about the lack of response to my appeals for help from everyone else in this building.

Then I take a surreptitious snap on my phone of the legal letter. If Meredith has a daughter, she is surely the best place to start at unraveling this. And if nothing else, the solicitor must be able to help with determining William’s whereabouts.

Meredith believes she and William once lived in London. She also seems to believe Fiona is based there. The first dress in the sequence on the wall is annotated with the Royal Albert Hall in London. So many pieces, but no clear picture.

“Come on, Meredith, we can’t keep Teddy waiting all afternoon for his walk, can we?”

“Absolutely not!” She’s as keen to get going as he is.

As we pull the door closed behind us, a thought begins to emerge. Perhaps the search for answers that will help Meredith has to extend well beyond the four walls of this house.