The Memory Dress

Chapter Thirty-Three

THIRTY-THREE

William

1993

I always knew she was the talented one. I suspect everyone does. You have only to look at her table to see it. No matter what time it is, she will never leave for the day unless it is spotlessly tidy with everything in its rightful place, ready for her the next morning. That never changes—not even when she was heavily pregnant with Fiona. I miss watching her work, tuned out to everything that is going on around her. If I want her attention, I have to leave my table and physically touch her, only then will her brain disconnect from the movement of her hands. She smiles when she is sewing. No matter the pressure or the closeness of the deadline.

Now that she’s at home and we are forced to spend our days apart, I can feel the absence of her talent in the room. There’s a lack of surety in the air that wasn’t there before. I wonder if the others feel it too. Maybe it’s just me? Maybe the shape of the person covering for her is just a daily reminder of my own shortcomings, ones I worry will be discovered now she is no longer here to cover for me.

It’s not that Eliza, her replacement, lacks ability, but my Meredith is missing, in the small details of the day, all the glorious things I love so much about her, like the way she handles the fabric. The tautness of it between Eliza’s fingers isn’t the same. The invisibility of Meredith’s stitching, the extra sprinkle of brilliance that is hers alone. This dress is technically sound, I have made sure of that. Professionally it’s a complete success and yet…Meredith is missing from its layers.

It’s simple. A clean, defined silhouette. One I have shaped many times before. Minimal embellishment. It relies on the precision of the stitching. The perfect partnership of lining and fabric, so not even the faintest crease can ruin it. When it is finished, I step back and examine it on the stand. I can tell from three meters away that it isn’t Meredith’s work. No one else will notice but the sections of velvet are fighting each other. This fabric can’t be pressed, it has to be steamed over a needle board, so it won’t mark. It’s like a delicate fruit, the softest nectarine, Meredith would say, it bruises easily. She always insists on doing the job herself, never trusting anyone else to reach her same standard. She has her own way of doing things and this isn’t it. She’s just the same with Fiona, her patience far exceeding mine. Is it wrong of me to say that despite how much I miss her during the day, I am glad she is doing the job I know I couldn’t do?

Maybe I also have to admit that it is her brilliance that has made my work shine brighter these past years. Why else would I question my own ability now in a way I never have before? Is it good enough? Did I prioritize speed over precision? I wonder how many more errors I missed, Meredith spotted, and dealt with discreetly so no one else in the workroom knows? I can’t ignore the evidence in front of me. Two dresses this year, so similar in style to our own work but created in another designer’s workroom. Silhouettes, textures, and detailing that we are known for. The midnight blue columnar halter-neck evening dress, simply trimmed with black satin crossing over at the back and the waist, the skirt sharply slit at the side. Then the ruched asymmetrical bodice of the black silk crepe cocktail dress, with its low cap sleeves that attracted so much comment, as I’m sure she knew it would, bought off-the-peg from another designer. I obsessed about those dresses, studied those images of her at the Serpentine Gallery parties, rolling the same question round and round in my head for days until it almost drove me mad. Was it my fault that she chose to wear other designers while Meredith was off? Am I not what I once was? Am I, in fact, nothing without Meredith?