The Memory Dress

Chapter Nine

NINE

Meredith

1989

It is an almost impossibly complicated series of drapes and pleats, woven together across the bodice before rising high around her neck, falling away to a long streamer down her back. Shoulders exposed. Meredith studies William’s every move. It’s like watching a mathematician work his equations with the patience and precision of an origamist.

He must work in reverse at the mannequin. This time it’s the fabric first, the paper pattern comes second. Pleating, refolding, calculating, pinning, marking every placement of the material between his fingers until finally he is satisfied. There is a network of pins that he lifts from the stand, removing them one by one, when he is sure he has marked their individual positions. Only now is he confident the fabric can be unfurled and laid flat over the paper. He begins to score, running the small tracing wheel back and forth to re-create his work on paper so it can be shared, bringing to life the two-dimensional drawing that took shape in Catherine’s imagination. In the weeks to come it will float along the red carpet, then travel around the world in the newspapers and on the TV screens of millions.

Meredith can see his discomfort. Day after day on his feet, never sitting. Needing to be bent close to the fabric or angled over his table, connected to his tools, seeking precision.

Tonight Meredith stays late, even though her own work is done and she could leave.

“Can I help, William?” She approaches the table where he has worked all day with only short breaks to eat.

He doesn’t hear her, so engrossed in his passion. What should have taken ten days has already taken twelve, and she knows when the fabric is delivered to her, Meredith will have to work quickly herself to finish on time.

“William?” She knows she is risking his irritation by interrupting him.

He looks up, surprised to see her there. “Oh, Meredith. It’s late, you should go home. I’ll finish tonight and tomorrow you can start. Get a good night’s sleep.” He smiles and she can see the relief starting to soften his features. He knows he is nearly there. His brows are more relaxed than they have been in days. His shoulders slightly lower. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, then stretches out his shoulder blades, cracking the tension away. He squints into the harsh lighting.

“Are you sure?” It’s been dark for hours. She doubts he’s given any thought to what he will eat tonight.

“I appreciate the offer, Meredith, but no thank you. I’d rather you feel fresh tomorrow for when it comes to you. I’m sorry I’ve made the timing so tight.” There is a kindness in William’s eyes that she noticed the very first day they worked together. Others miss it, too intimidated by his sharp skill, his quiet confidence. They back off when, she suspects, he would rather they didn’t. There is an openness to William, a willingness to share his expertise, if you choose your moment wisely.

“It’s okay, we’ll manage, we always do.” She checks everything is in her bag. The small Tupperware box of last night’s leftovers that passed for her own lunch, an uneaten apple, a bottle of water, barely touched. She would prefer to stay and keep him company. Once she leaves there will be no one left to insist he calls it a night.

“I’m cooking lamb and there is plenty for two. I’m happy to wait, if you’d like to join me after you’re done?” She’s not sure what prompts her to extend the offer—they have never spent time together beyond the workroom. It’s a presumptuous invitation but one she is willing to risk. Does his admiration for her exist beyond the skill she demonstrates at her table? She finds herself curious to know.

He raises his head and holds her in his gaze.

“Lamb? I can’t resist—it’s my favorite. How did you know?” he finally says, allowing himself a small laugh.

They walk the half an hour back to her apartment and sit at the small table in the kitchen, covered in a plain oilcloth, mopping up the juice from the lamb with hunks of white bread that will be too stale to eat tomorrow. They share the last of an opened bottle of red wine between two glasses.

“I never actually apologized to you and I should have,” he says when they have finished the last of it.

“For what?”

“I never told you, but it was Peter who made the mistake with the Albert Hall jacket, he was just never going to admit it. It took me a while to work it out, but that day, he was distracted. Do you remember? Catherine came into the studio to discuss a very last-minute commission. She was talking to us both about it and it threw him. When he turned back to the cutting table, he mistakenly cut a lining piece for the sleeve from the real fabric. It was never going to fit together with the other half of the sleeve, the proportions were slightly different, of course. But you were the only one who spotted it—and I’ve since made sure everyone understands that.”

“Well, thank goodness there was enough fabric left for us to rectify the problem quickly and easily,” Meredith responds as she stands and clears the plates from the table to the sink.

Suddenly, William is behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “It was that moment I realized quite how brilliant you are.”

He turns her gently and places the softest kiss on her lips. She’s only dared to hope before this. William is a consummate professional—he’s given no hint to his feelings before, but there is a tenderness and intent behind his touch that tells her he has wanted to do this for some time.

As they approach the workroom together the following morning, they share a look that passes as an understanding between them. No one else needs to know. But Meredith knows. And the memory of it will burn inside her all day long. How this man, so professional now in his white coat, so economical in the way he speaks to colleagues, so reserved and respectful, was a different man last night. There were no boundaries between them then and no restraint, until the final frantic, passionate moment when he took her breath away.