The Memory Dress

Chapter Fifteen

FIFTEEN

Jayne

When Meredith answers the door, I can tell immediately that my face is unfamiliar to her. She’s looking at me expectantly, her eyebrows lifted, waiting for an introduction. I predicted this might happen, so before I left the shop, I grabbed some more forget-me-nots for her. They seem to help and reassure her that, even if she can’t place my name or my reason for being at her door, I am someone kind and friendly. It forms the thinnest thread of trust between us.

“Hello, Meredith, it’s Jayne from upstairs. I was wondering if you feel like joining me on a bit of an adventure this afternoon?” I haven’t mentioned this to the others. I don’t want to be talked out of it and I have a feeling Olivia may have tried.

“Are we going somewhere nice?” she asks.

“I thought we might take a little train ride if you feel up for it?”

“With egg sandwiches and the red flask of tea?” Her wonderful smile is back.

“Why not! I’m taking you somewhere I hope will remind you of William.”

“Well, that makes me very happy.” She beams as she reaches out and gives my hand a tight squeeze. “You always were such a kind girl.”

I don’t feel entirely kind as I am noting down the name and number of her GP from the card on her fridge.

The dress in Meredith’s apartment, her reaction to the gown at the Fashion Museum, the personal letter from Catherine Walker, and the deliberate lineup of sketches in her memory room are the most significant clues I have to the life Meredith has lived. And perhaps the first of those dresses chronologically is the most obvious place to start. I remember the dress was full-length, it had a short, high-collared jacket with it, and the words The Royal Albert Hall, 1989 written at the bottom. It was, according to William’s note, the start of our golden period .

“Give me thirty minutes to get everything ready and I’ll be back.” I race up the stairs to my apartment.

What other choice is there at this point? There is no word from Davina yet on her call to the solicitor. Carina’s task won’t realistically get started until I get her that snap of Fiona, and I can’t call Meredith’s GP until they open again tomorrow. I have a free afternoon and nowhere to be. The same is certainly true of Meredith. So, really, what’s stopping us? It is perhaps the nagging doubt that this is not my business to interfere in and whether I have the right to take a woman from her apartment when she has shown herself to be not entirely capable of sound decision-making. Olivia made it clear she thinks the whole thing is a terrible mistake and yet…I pause, the butter knife still in my hand. Will Meredith even notice if I don’t go back downstairs to collect her? I think of my grandmother’s mascara-stained face and the many small ways in which I could have helped but didn’t. The problems I chose to ignore. It was forgivable then perhaps, but not now.

I make the sandwiches, fill a flask with hot, sweet tea, and head down the stairs. There is a train to London in forty-five minutes. Meredith is standing in the hallway waiting for me with a black canvas utility bag looped over her right wrist.

“What’s in there?” I ask, nodding toward it.

“All my essentials,” she says, smiling. “Obviously I can’t go without them.”

We sit in the quietest carriage I can find. I settle Meredith into a seat facing the direction of travel and get the flask and sandwiches out onto the table so she can feel some sense of familiarity.

“Oh, a new flask.”

What she means, I think, is that it’s not the red one she is expecting.

“Is this a work trip?” she asks as I feel the tug of the train leaving the platform.

“No. It’s just a bit of fun. Think of it as a girls’ day out.”

“Now that we’re friends?” She leans her weight into me, emphasizing the closeness I am so pleased she feels between us.

“Exactly!”

She keeps her gaze on me for longer than necessary and asks, “I have my William, but who is looking after you?”

It throws me a little and she registers my lack of an immediate response.

“Well?” She’s not going to let me wriggle off the hook.

“I’m not sure I need someone, really. I’m happy on my own.”

She smiles and nods in a way that suggests she doesn’t believe me at all. Like maybe there was a time when she used this excuse too.

“I’m sure you’ve had offers, you’re very beautiful.”

I try to bat away the compliment, but she sits, staring at me, waiting for a response, so I make a better attempt to be honest.

“The thing is, Meredith, I’m sort of happiest in the background, you know? I’m not sure it’s in me to get out there and compete for attention.”

She nods slowly, considering her response.

“I see. But doesn’t that mean you’re missing out? Opportunities are passing you by? Someone else is claiming what should be yours?”

“Maybe.” The thought is not a comfortable one. “But if they are, I don’t know about them, so it’s not like I can regret them, I suppose.” It sounds so weak, so defeatist.

“You may not regret them now, but what about further down the line when you’ll have less time to do something about it? Sometimes going after what you want is uncomfortable and exposing, but doesn’t that just make getting it all the more satisfying?” She hugs her arms around herself, perhaps remembering a time when she did just that.

I love the way she smiles and raises her eyebrows at me. Her silent way of saying, You know I’m right . It makes tackling the subject of my reticence a lot less challenging. It opens up a little space for me to consider what she’s saying, rather than mentally running away from the idea. I think she can see that, because she continues.

“You don’t have to be the loud voice in the room. What those people never work out is that they are tolerated, not loved. You can be the sunshine, not the north wind. Didn’t your mother ever read you the Aesop fable? Gentleness and kind persuasion win where force and bluster fail.”

Once again, Meredith has managed to distill my complex thoughts into something far simpler, more relatable. Considering the jumbled state of her own mind most days, it’s quite a skill.

“If there is something you want, I’d reach out and grab it if I were you, before it’s too late.”

The only image filling my head then is Jake. How much I would love to give it a try. To see where it may take us. But does he feel the same?

“I thought so!” chuckles Meredith. “What’s the worst that can happen? He says no. So what? We’ve all been there.”

I’m sure the color of my cheeks is all the evidence Meredith needs that she has called this one exactly right.

Then she opens the flask and happily pours herself a tea. When she’s drained half of it she asks me where we’re going, and I realize I’ve forgotten to enlighten her on that point.

“To London, Meredith. There’s something I want to show you.”

“St. James’s Park? We like to eat our lunch there on warm weekends, on one of the benches near the palace.”

The park is a very short walk from our destination so I promise her we will go if there’s time.

The bold redbrick and terra-cotta curve of the Albert Hall is impressively silhouetted against a bright blue sky, its glass dome blending into the feathery clouds above as our black taxi pulls up outside on Kensington Gore. The sheer size of it immediately dwarfs us both. We’re too early in the day to clash with a performance time, so despite the heavy traffic nudging its way slowly toward Hyde Park Corner, it is relatively peaceful. I help Meredith onto the pavement and watch as she immediately clutches one hand to her mouth, then straight to her black bag, reassuring herself that it is still there.

“Do you remember this place, Meredith?” I prompt.

“Oh, the sparkle.” She smiles and closes her eyes. “All those flashbulbs bouncing off all those oyster pearls. Twenty thousand, they say. So many photographers here. They are all penned in over there.” She points off to the right. “And not one of their cameras is still. They can’t hide their excitement. I suppose most of them would normally just prefer to be getting off home to their wives and children. But not now.” She looks back over her shoulder toward the park.

“It’s October, the leaves are turning, there is a chill.” She waves a hand across her face. “She makes us all forget that the second she arrives, looking so radiant.” Meredith raises her hand to her collarbone. “Nothing at her neck. She lets the dress do all the work. I am so pleased about that.”

Meredith looks down at her watch, taps its face.

“Bang on time, as always, exactly as they said she would be. No waiting around. I stay here.” She starts to follow the curve of the building around to the right. “The only unmarked door, not numbered like all the others. She has her own staircase too. Can you imagine it?”

It’s the most coherent I have heard her talking about the past, perhaps because she isn’t placing the memory in the past. It’s as if she is reliving it all now, as we walk around the building together. It’s obvious Meredith has been here before, on an occasion that feels rooted in her memory through all the detail she observed.

“The effect is almost blinding. And the noise the second she appears is like nothing I have ever heard before.” She raises both hands and covers her ears briefly. “People are shouting for her attention. Really shouting. They lose themselves around her. I can feel the joy as it sweeps through the crowd, traffic is at a standstill.” Meredith is smiling in a way I have not seen her do before, it’s full and infectious. Her entire face is animated. She’s almost laughing. “People are waving from the tops of buses. Faces are pressed into the windows of the mansion blocks.” She points up to those same windows now. “I am so happy to be a part of it. I stand in the gallery, so high above everything, and watch. I feel special, too, but…” She trails off, losing her thread, like she’s suddenly hit a blank spot. Her eyes have found the upper windows of the neighboring Royal College of Art, the lifeless, armless tailor’s dummies silhouetted there.

“What is it, Meredith?” I keep perfectly still, not wanting to break whatever train of thought she is trying to follow.

“Something isn’t right. I’ve done something wrong. I’m annoyed with myself.”

“Take your time, there’s no rush.”

Her gaze drifts back toward the entrance.

“William. He’s cross with me.” I can see how much the thought upsets her. She has dipped her head, breaking her connection with the building, not wanting to see any more.

I let my hand find hers and lace our fingers together.

“It nearly ruins everything.” She gives up trying to force the memory forward. Her eyes darken, like clouds covering the sun.

“It is the slight flush of her cheeks that gives away her nerves. Nothing else. I keep my eyes on the hem and those heels. And the high collar, Elizabethan, so close to her earrings. No one else could wear that dress like she does.”

Meredith takes a long thoughtful pause, allowing her eyes to travel up to the windows above. She steps back and looks up at the domed roof.

“But what did any of this have to do with me? Why are we here?”

I study her face. The pained expression that has settled there. The deep, deep frustration that her mind will let her go only so far. But it’s a long way, isn’t it? Just being here has ignited something in her that I don’t think was there before, or at least she hasn’t shown me before.

“That’s what we’re going to work out together, Meredith.” I smile to let her know that we are a team now. It’s no longer just her problem to solve.

We both hear the music at the same time. There is an intensity to it that rises and falls. Melodic strings, then the delicate, unrushed sound of featherlight fingers on piano keys. Both our heads lift and tilt in the same direction, around toward the main entrance of the hall. We walk together slowly, following its faint trail.

“Chopin. Piano Concerto Number 1 in E Minor.” Meredith comes to a stop, her face lifted to the sky, her eyes closed, as the music softly peters out.

“Do you know this music, Meredith?” It seems highly unlikely that most people could name it from the little we have heard. I don’t recognize it at all.

“I’ve heard it many times. But never live, as I should have. It’s my greatest regret.” She shakes her head and pulls me on, not wanting to linger or discuss it further.

There is plenty of time before we need to think about our train home, so we cross the main road and enter St. James’s Park, joining the network of paths up toward Kensington Palace. There are dogs galore, and I know Margot would love it here.

As the imposing redbrick outline of the palace takes shape, Meredith’s pace slows.

“The gardens are always stuffed with forget-me-nots,” she says. “Masses of them clustered in the flower beds of the formal gardens.”

I watch as her eyes move across the exterior, taking in the uniform rows of paneled windows.

“It’s where Princess Diana lived for some time, isn’t it?” I nudge. “They’ve had some wonderful exhibitions here over the years.”

She looks back over her left shoulder toward the Albert Hall.

“Have you ever been inside, Meredith?” I try to keep her focus on the palace now.

“Yes, I must show you the photograph. William looks so handsome in it.” Then she looks at her watch. “We better get going. It’s Sunday, I always cook his favorite lamb on Sundays.”

By the time I deliver Meredith back to her front door, it’s nearly nine o’clock. I’m shattered, so she must be exhausted. I hope what I did today was the right thing. She is happy to go in alone, but before I let her, I remind her of the photograph.

“The one of you and William,” I prompt her. “You told me about it today when we were in front of Kensington Palace. You said he looked very handsome in it.”

She laughs at me then. “You do say some very funny things. I think you need an early night.”