The Memory Dress

Chapter Thirty-Seven

THIRTY-SEVEN

William

1994

It should have been one of the easiest dresses to make. I have made it before, in fact. The blueprint was there. But this one is for Diana, she personally selected it after a visit to the studio some weeks earlier. It shifts the balance in my mind, making the pinch of pressure a touch more intense. I know immediately the newspapers will love it. The coverage will be extensive. It’s a much sexier dress than she’s used to, the way the black velvet wraps at the waist, draping toward the hip and held at an embroidered pocket. It skims her body, elongating her shape. I’m nervous before I even start. I pause over the table, almost not wanting to begin. Then I look toward Meredith, bent over her own table, her shoulders contracted with concentration.

Inspiration can strike from the most unlikely places. The idea for the embroidery on this dress is taken from an antique picture frame, one finished with exquisite marquetry and edged in lead shot. The black bugle beads and small boulle work perfectly in re-creating it. It is designed to frame her face and neck. But that’s the problem, I just can’t get the line right and I don’t know why. I refer back to Catherine’s sketch constantly, drawing line after line, rubbing out those that seem furthest from the original idea. Time is running out. I finish the pattern, giving the go-ahead for the fabric to be cut. The finished dress is perfect. It leaves for Venice and so does Meredith. She will be gone for two nights this time. I envy her the hotel room. The large uncreased bed. The coolness of the sheets. The space to breathe. The spotless cleanliness. The order and the service.

I wish I could take a pause. The hours have been long and drawn-out. The sleepless nights the same. I just want to clear the backlog of private commissions. I promise myself that when Meredith returns, I will take a long weekend, maybe suggest that she does too.

There are only a handful of us left in the workroom tonight. I am working on the pattern for a poppy-red silk crepe dress that is mercifully simple, its fluid shape forming easily on my tabletop, my hands gliding across the paper, the instruments feeling instinctively a part of me again.

It’s getting late. Too late to bother with a dinner break now. I will have whatever is left in the fridge when I get home. Some cheese and a glass of red again, probably. Maybe Fiona will even be asleep by then. Leonor, our brilliant Portuguese neighbor, will have settled her. She raised four children of her own, and I sometimes feel she is raising ours too. What started as a few hours here and there when we needed it has stretched, bleeding into every corner of our lives so that now I feel we rely on her, we couldn’t cope without her.

I’m not sure at first why the wall is suddenly pressing into my back. I think for one disorientating moment I have fallen asleep standing up. Then the nausea hits me, and I know it’s because I haven’t eaten. No one notices at first, so I just stay here for a minute, waiting for my center of gravity to right itself. But it doesn’t. I try to move to sit down but my legs feel at sea.

“William?” Peter is approaching me. Is he moving in slow motion or am I just seeing it that way? “Are you all right? William?”

I can’t answer him. I feel out of myself as if I am watching this happen to someone else in the room. All I can think is how much I would love someone to turn off the harsh strip lighting above me. I can’t look at it.

I’m helped into a chair and someone puts a glass of water into my hand. Someone else is making a phone call. I can tell from the way they are looking at me that I am the subject of it. I look at my watch and notice it’s seven fifteen p.m. exactly, the day has got away from me again. I can hear them discussing the dress, who will finish it, like I’m not going to be here. Their voices sound muffled, like we are all underwater. I want to correct them. It’s poppy red, not russet. The whole thing lasts just a couple of minutes, but Peter insists on driving me home.

Fiona is already in bed. I vaguely remember saying goodbye to Leonor, paying her. Then I sleep so soundly that when I wake the next morning, I know I wouldn’t have heard Fiona if she cried out in the night. I sit bolt upright in bed, listening for the slightest sound that tells me she has been awake, calling for me. I look at the clock on the bedside table. It’s gone nine a.m. I planned to be at work two hours ago. Then confusion pours over me again. Meredith is sitting in the armchair in the corner of the bedroom. She is wearing yesterday’s clothes. She’s smiling but she looks so terribly sad.