The Memory Dress

Chapter Eleven

ELEVEN

Carina and I have just finished setting up for the day and now the entire shop smells like the most exquisite floral perfume. It is impossible not to be happy in here. The clean, green youthfulness of the lily of the valley; the powdery sweetness of the freesias; the denser earthiness of the orange blossom and violets; and the lighter freshness of the white lilac that reminds me so much of my mother’s garden. They all combine and blend with the strong, warm myrrh fragrance of the David Austin roses, their pale blush petals an immediate magnet for anyone who enters the shop.

In my first week here Carina told me it was very important that we serve the whole community, not just those who can spend ￡40 on a whim as they pass by on a Friday afternoon. “I never want anyone to feel intimidated coming in here,” she told me. “However much someone has to spend, even if it’s just a couple of pounds, we should be able to help them. Always make sure there are ￡5 posies outside. It will make people feel welcome.”

I think she does it because she knows how it feels to be excluded. The deeper shade of her skin, the wiriness of her hair, and the fact she’s petite and female have resulted in customers talking down to her at times. Not that she has once stood for it. A woman came in last week and before she had even said hello, she took issue with the fact Carina was watering the orchids, openly criticizing her for not knowing they need very little moisture. Carina politely corrected her, pointing out they originate from the tropical rainforests of Asia and so are, in fact, very used to being wet. The woman looked down her nose, shocked that she’d been contradicted, while Carina held her ground, smiling, offering to help but allowing the woman to make her own decisions. It was only after she left empty-handed, because she didn’t have the gall to ask for the assistance she needed after insulting Carina, that I could see the effect it had on her. She made us both a cup of tea, and when she returned, she simply said, “For some people it will never be enough, Jayne. I will never be enough. The years of study it took to get here, the financial risk of setting up this place, the hours and sacrifices it takes to keep it open, and all she sees is a dark-skinned woman that she thinks she knows better than.”

It made me realize just how different our approaches to life are—how she wants to be embraced and accepted and valued while I want to make as little fuss as possible, to have the spotlight shine on someone else. She’s my boss and there’s a line drawn between us, whether we like it or not, but this makes me want to know more, to get to know her better.

“Would you mind doing some deliveries this morning, Jayne? There are so many bouquets to get out. They’re all local, so you can walk them, take a few at a time. It’s a nice morning for it.”

What I really want to do is ask Carina about Princess Diana and see if she knows anything about her relationship with Catherine Walker, but there is too much to do. Besides, if responding to customers’ whims in the shop is my least favorite part of this job, then the deliveries are something I could spend all day doing. I love the reactions, standing there in that couple of seconds, watching someone guess why the flowers have been sent and by whom. I love that as I walk the flowers through the city, people involuntarily smile at them. I can pretend they are smiling at me.

The first bouquet is a luxurious mix of peonies, spray roses, astilbes, and white orchids. One of the most expensive arrangements we offer, and it is heading for an apartment that sits above the shops on the main high street. When Lucy answers the door, I can tell she has been crying. Her eyes are puffy and sore. Perhaps she didn’t sleep well last night. Her hand is at her forehead like there is a headache blooming there. When she sees me and what I’m holding, the corners of her mouth lift gently, but she doesn’t commit to the smile. She’s guarded, not wanting to believe they are for her. “Lucy?” I say, hoping they are indeed for her.

“Yes.” Now her smile deepens fully, she can’t hold it back.

“These are for you.” I hand them to her and watch as her face, her whole body slacken with relief. I’m quite sure these flowers are from a lover, not a friend. Maybe she argued with a partner last night, waking this morning believing it was all over, until this very moment. They’re extravagant, designed to change someone’s mind about something. Force an impact. Something half the price would have been an adequate apology. I watch her shoulders rise and fall. These flowers will change the course of her day, how she will feel for every second of it. And I love that I got to witness it. She thanks me and closes the door, and I imagine her rushing back upstairs to make a phone call that will make someone else happy too.

The second bunch are more rustic, softer and looser, less showy. They’re designed to say I care and nothing more, and when Janet opens the door, clocks them, and cackles, “Oh, the silly sod, I told her not to bother with a thank-you!” I am happy to be right again. I laugh to myself as I walk back down the garden path. But it’s the third delivery that has the greatest impact on me. The house is on Daniel Street, back across the city and in another beautiful row of Georgian town houses.

As I approach, I see the curtains are still drawn, and there isn’t one part of me that wants to knock on this door. I wish I could take the basket of white lilies back to the shop.

When the door eventually opens, it’s an elderly woman I’m guessing must be in her late seventies. She’s pale and drawn, her lips cracked. Her hair is gray, her skin is gray, her eyes are gray. It’s like she’s drowning in grief in front of me.

“Mrs.Matthews?” I ask gently, because she’ll always think of herself that way, won’t she? She nods and I watch a tear fall onto the woolen cardigan she has let fall open across her bony chest.

“I hope these might bring a little comfort to you today,” I say, because there is nothing more I can offer her.

These flowers will have no impact at all. They will sit on a table, unwatered, until they wither and brown before someone throws them out.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t smile but in the depths of her despair she remembers her manners and it makes my heart break right there on her doorstep.

“There is a card with the flowers, Mrs.Matthews, if you needed to call the shop at all. For anything.” I hope she understands my meaning, because I have to back away—my own tears are threatening to come, and I don’t want her to see them.

I walk back past the row of houses on her street, watching people come and go with their grocery shopping, their dogs, throwing bags into the back of the car, about to head out for the day. I wonder if they are grateful for the mundanity of their actions. I hope one of them will think to check on her. I hope they’ll notice that the man who might have accompanied her to the park each morning no longer does.

Will I ever have someone like that in my life? I almost envy Mrs.Matthews her grief because it means she has had a great love. I buy a coffee and sit on a bench in one of the residential parks on the way back to the shop, taking five minutes to gather myself. I have tried so hard to force Alex from my thoughts in the months since we split. And I was succeeding.

But now the image of the two of us in bed together the night before he said it wasn’t working is brought back to me with searing clarity. My body stiffens, just as it did then, when my mind was racing with a thousand disconnecting thoughts that didn’t belong among our tangled limbs. He had been searching my body for a deeper level of intimacy, trying to take me to a place that required total abandonment, to be there with him and shut everything else out. And I couldn’t do it.

How could I explain that I needed emotional closeness first without hurting his feelings? It all just needed to be slower. I needed to see vulnerability, to know he was human and we shared the same emotions. Just the tiniest chink would have been enough. If just once he had questioned himself, paused to ask if I was okay, if I needed less or more or something different. I didn’t have the words and he didn’t have the intuition or patience—it was clear in the way he sulked off to the bathroom while I stared at the ceiling, desperate to be at home in my own bed, not feeling like a disappointment in his. I shudder at the memory of it because I know now Alex didn’t end our relationship because of one awkward night in bed. He ended it because he didn’t care enough about me to uncover why it was that way.

I drain the last of my coffee, check the time on my phone, then head back to the shop, grateful that my afternoon will have Carina in it.

“Here comes a woman on a mission,” laughs Carina as soon as I enter the shop. “You look surprisingly decisive today!” She’s at my side before I know it. “Fancy a cup of tea and a chat?”

There is kindness poured right through Carina. She is nearly at the end of another manic morning and who knows what stresses and rudeness she may have encountered along the way. But she will always find the time and energy for anyone who needs it. Today that’s me. I’ve always been mindful of the fact she’s my boss and kept my personal life out of the small boutique we work in together. There have been times when she has invited closeness—I don’t think she can help herself, she’s the kind of person who won’t ignore someone’s upset because it’s easier not to ask or through fear of prying.

So, I fill her in on the latest with Meredith, the very large task ahead of tracing not just William but Fiona too. Everyone in the building’s lack of interest in helping. Alex, I keep to myself.

“Does the name Catherine Walker mean anything to you?” I ask as she is putting the kettle on for a refill.

“Catherine Walker?” She shifts her gaze toward the ceiling, as if she is running through a mental Rolodex of client names. “She’s not a regular customer, is she? The name doesn’t feel familiar enough. Why? Is there a problem? We haven’t missed an order, have we?”

“No, no, not at all. She’s not a customer, I think she’s a dress designer. Have you heard of her? She has some pretty famous clients.” I take my mug of tea and we both perch on the stools, just out of sight of customers if any pop in.

“Oh, that Catherine Walker! Well, she had the most famous client of all, of course. You might not remember because it was all in the very late eighties, early nineties. I would have been in my early twenties and you were…”

“Born in 1988.”

“My God, were you really? Well, you missed the glory days. I vaguely remember reading about Catherine, but she famously never gave interviews. The press were obsessed with the fact that she never courted publicity when she so easily could have, given who she was working with. She dressed Princess Diana for years.”

“I know,” I say. “I’ve seen all the pictures online. But do you want to know something really intriguing?”

“Go on.” Carina shifts more upright on her stool. Now I’m the one with the power of knowledge, patchy as it may be.

“There is a dress in Meredith’s apartment, a very detailed one. The label confirms it’s a Catherine Walker.”

“That must have cost her a fortune.”

“Actually, I don’t think it cost Meredith a penny.” I smile, enjoying the lack of understanding on Carina’s face. “There is a handwritten note accompanying it, gifting it to Meredith. It’s signed by Catherine and it says, ‘Please accept this dress, she wanted you to have it and so do I.’?”

Carina lowers her mug of tea. “She? Are you kidding? You don’t think it could seriously be…” She trails off, not believing this is a possibility. “But why would Princess Diana gift a dress that’s worth a small fortune to your neighbor?”

“That’s the mystery, isn’t it? But it definitely belonged to her. I’ve seen images of Diana wearing the dress that right now is thrown over a chair in Meredith’s bedroom. She has no idea how it got there or what she is doing with it. Somehow, I’ve got to work it out. I think I’m going to need your help, Carina.”

I don’t need to ask twice.

“Of course, yes, I’m in! Try to stop me! Just give me a job.” She’s off her stool to emphasize her enthusiasm. “Something I can fit around what I have to do here.”

I try to determine a logical starting place. “I’m not sure many leads will come from Meredith herself but perhaps her daughter is the next best bet? I think we need to find her. How about you take on the social media search for Fiona? We know she’s Fiona Chalis and we think she lives in London. That should get you started at least.”

“Do we know for sure she’s Chalis? She hasn’t married?” Carina grabs a discarded till receipt and starts scribbling on the back of it.

“No, it’s an assumption, I’m afraid. But Meredith has never mentioned a son-in-law, that much I do know.”

“Okay. Any chance I can have a recent snap of her? That might help to narrow it down a bit.”

“Yes, I’ll see what I can do. But are you sure, Carina? You could be wading through thousands of possible Fionas, it won’t be a quick job.”

“I’ll get in a little earlier each morning so I can devote some proper time to it. We’ll find her, Jayne, I know we will.”

“I hope you’re right, Carina, because I can’t help but feel that Meredith is running out of time with every day that passes.” I know Carina is excited about the dress and who wore it and so am I, but my bigger concern is how long Meredith can realistically remain in her apartment without proper professional help, the kind none of us can be expected to provide.

“You need to get the others in the house on board, Jayne. Whatever it takes, get them interested. They must have seen or heard things that can help. This Fiona may not want to be found so we can’t rely on that avenue. We need other ideas, everyone’s input.” The bell above the shop door signals that we have customers. Carina calls out, “Hello,” to acknowledge them, then notices the doubt on my face.

“You can do it, Jayne.” She takes hold of both of my shoulders. “You persuaded me easily enough. Everyone will have their reason to get involved. You just need to work out what it is.”

I guess this means I’m having coffee with Jake tomorrow.