The Memory Dress

Chapter Thirty-Eight

THIRTY-EIGHT

Jayne

Meredith seems pleased to be home. But I’m not. As she lets us both in, she heads straight for her memory room and I feel an overwhelming sense of foreboding. What will the following few days hold for her? I texted Davina before we set off so she knew what time to expect us, and within a couple of minutes she joins us.

Meredith is listening to a beautiful piece of music while I make her a cup of tea.

“There it is.” Davina points to the unopened letter she has placed on the worktop. It could be mistaken for a beautiful invitation on first glance. There is a pale pink watercolor of a cherry blossom branching across the front of the envelope and across the back where it has been sealed. It looks cheerful but I’m not sure the contents will be.

“We should open it.” Davina’s tone is grim. She’s expecting the worst.

I sigh heavily. “We can’t. It’s private. We don’t have the right to open her personal post.”

“Jayne, if something has happened to William or Fiona, we really need to know about it, don’t you think? It makes sense to open it. We need to know. And so does she.” She nods in the direction of the memory room, where we can hear Meredith cheerfully humming. “Or we can show it to her and suggest she open it. If she doesn’t, well, let’s worry about that then.”

“Okay, I’ll ask her to open it.”

“I’ll leave you to it. It might be better with just the two of you. But let me know if you need me and I’ll come straight back. Good luck and keep me posted.” Davina senses the doubt still lingering on my face and adds, “It’s the right thing to do, Jayne, really it is.”

I stand in the doorway and watch Meredith sifting through some old photographs in her lap. One of her holding a newborn baby in her arms, another of Fiona riding a bike, a bright red rosette with the number six at its center stuck to the handlebars. What is the worst news this letter could deliver? I wonder. That a missing husband will always remain that way, with no time for goodbyes? Or that Meredith’s broken relationship with her only daughter will never be fixed, that Fiona will forever remain a teenager, pinned to a corkboard?

If she opens this letter in front of me, will she be able to process what the contents mean? Will she accept it? Will she have any memory of it tomorrow? Then I think about how she might react. Like she’s hearing the news for the first time, when the shock will be its most visceral.

I take the armchair next to hers and settle myself in, holding the letter in my hands. I feel stiff from so many hours driving over the past couple of days. I need to get out for an early-evening walk and some fresh air. I miss my dogs.

“Meredith, I have something to show you. I’m not sure if you’ve seen it, but this letter came for you, quite a while ago by the looks of it. Perhaps you ought to open it?” I hold it toward her.

“Oh, thank you, darling.” She doesn’t look up, too absorbed in the photographs.

“It looks important.” I try again and she looks toward me, smiling. I don’t want to be the one to remove that smile from her face. “Here, it’s addressed to you. It must have got missed.”

She takes the letter from me and places it in her lap, returning her focus to the photographs.

“Would you like to open it now, while I’m here?”

“All right then.”

She picks up the envelope and traces a finger across the cherry blossom, then turns it over. She’s going to open it. A deep sense of dread sits low in my stomach and I hold my breath, almost willing her to put it down again.

“You know what I’d really like to do?” She starts to shuffle forward in her chair. “Go for a walk before we miss the last of the sun. Shall we go together?”

Relief washes over me. I’ve got to swing by the flower shop to answer a couple of Carina’s queries, and Meredith could come with me. I imagine she’d love to see it.

“Yes!” I snap straight back. The letter can wait. If it contains the worst kind of news, I don’t want her to know it today. Not when the sun is still shining, and she looks so peaceful.

“Give me fifteen minutes to change my shoes and grab some water for us both,” I say, heading toward her front door. “I’ll be right back.”

Meredith is a little quiet, but I feel a renewed bounce in my step as the steep hill sweeps us down toward Bouquets I’ll be closing soon anyway, and I feel bad enough for dragging you in here as it is. I just need to ask you about the two new corporate accounts you placed in the system before you went away. They’re both due to start this week and I want to make sure we get them right. Meredith”—she turns toward her—“can I get you something cool to drink? Some elderflower? Or an iced tea perhaps?”

“Just a water would be lovely, thank you.” She is staring at Carina’s dress and I can tell she is going to comment on it. “The neckline…” She hesitates and looks away, not wanting to finish her sentence, raising her own hand to her collarbone.

“Oh, I know, I’ve got it all wrong this morning, Meredith. But it’s so hard to find something to wear under these aprons when it’s this hot.” Carina laughs it off.

“The neckline isn’t right. It’s sexy, not formal. More mistakes again.” Meredith is shaking her head, not disapprovingly but like she is trying to wrestle some thoughts to the fore.

“Blimey! I hope it’s not sexy,” laughs Carina. “That’s not the look I’m going for at all. Sexy would be wasted around here!”

“Here you go.” I hand Meredith a glass of ice water and nod to Carina that it’s okay for us to head out the back to check through the orders together on the computer. Meredith seems agitated and I don’t want to leave her too long. “Just shout if you need anything, Meredith, we’ll just be through there.” I point toward the small archway that leads out to an even smaller office space. “If anyone comes in, the bell above the door will sound so one of us will come straight back out, don’t worry.”

The phone rings, loudly. Carina always has the volume turned up high so she doesn’t miss it if her head is buried in a delivery. The noise makes Meredith reel back on her stool, and for one awful moment, I think she is going to topple right off it. “The phone!” she yells.

“It’s okay, Meredith, it’s just someone calling through an order. It’s loud so we don’t miss it.” I try to calm her, but her hand is visibly shaking now, splashing water out of the glass and onto her lap.

“I’d only just put my suitcase on the bed.”

“We unpacked you this morning, Meredith, remember? Everything is where it should be.” I take the glass from her and place my hand on her shoulder, trying to bring her back into the room.

“The phone. It’s so loud, it makes me jump. I’m not expecting it.” She’s whispering now.

I sit with her for a minute and wait until her breathing shallows again. Whatever the panic is, it seems to have subsided. “I need to help Carina now, but I will be as quick as I can and then we’ll head for one of the parks, shall we? Get some fresh air?”

She nods slowly and so I rejoin Carina. I can see immediately why she has called me in. I haven’t entered half the information I needed to, or at least not saved it properly, so she would have no idea how to make the orders up and what to include.

“I’m so sorry, Carina. I think I was so distracted planning the trip with Meredith. I’ll check back through the order book for the notes I took at the time.” While I do that, Carina starts to reenter the information as I find it, me dictating aloud, her tapping the keyboard.

The bell sounds in the shop. “Just one minute,” shouts Carina, and I speed up, we’re nearly done. I’m reminded again how wonderful Carina is. Most bosses would have taken issue with this silly mistake, but not her. It’s hard to imagine what would make her lose her temper. “Are you worried about Meredith?” she asks gently, quietly so there is no chance of her overhearing us.

“I am, yes. I’m also worried about my ability to help her. What if I’m not enough? She’s relying on me and what if I let her down? What if I miss something crucial or make a wrong decision about what’s best for her?”

“I’m still plugging away on Facebook but everyone I have messaged so far doesn’t know Meredith, although there must be at least twenty who have yet to respond to me.”

I feel horribly guilty that Carina could be wasting her time looking for someone who can’t be found, but it feels too soon to share this information when it’s so incomplete, and I would hate to undermine all her hard work so far.

“Even if you do find her, that still leaves the question of whether we should tell her what we know. Meredith has asked me not to, don’t forget.”

“I know, but we don’t always want what’s best for us, do we? Even when we are thinking straight.” She clicks save and we’re done.

We step back out into the shop and I feel all my blood drain through me.

Meredith is gone.

I throw the door open and look both ways up and down the street. She is nowhere to be seen and tears are starting to blind my vision.

“Carina! It wasn’t a customer. The bell ringing was Meredith leaving.” I race back into the store. “She’s got a good head start on us.”

Carina hurries to the door, flicks the sign around to CLOSED , and sits me down. “Breathe, Jayne. It’s all right, we’ll find her. Just think. Where is she most likely to be heading? Home? Or is there somewhere local that has any sort of resonance with her? She was clearly a little agitated about something today.”

“I need to message the others,” I stammer, reaching for my phone.

JAYNE: Meredith has given me the slip. She’s left Bouquets & Bunches without me and I don’t know where she may have gone.

DAVINA: OMG, OK, she hasn’t turned up here yet but obviously if she does, we’ll let you know straightaway and look after her.

JAYNE: Can you do me a favor, Davina? Can you go into her apartment and double-check what the next dress is in the sequence on her wall? After the one Diana wore to Althorp. What comes next?

JAKE: Don’t worry, Jayne, she can’t have gone far. I can come and help you search for her if you need me?

JAYNE: I think I’ll be fine but please hurry, Davina, I need to catch up with her.

DAVINA: On my way up there now.

There is an agonizing wait, while I picture Davina belting up the stairs from her place. Should I leave the shop? Pick a direction and just go? Carina reads my mind.

“Just wait, Jayne, it’s better to have an idea where to head. She could have gone in many different directions from here. This is a time to be measured, not panicked.”

DAVINA: I’ve got it. It’s the full-length dinner dress with sequins at the neckline. Diana wore it in 1994, according to this. To Venice. But Jayne, there’s more.

My mind races back to Spencer House in London, the huge upset the Canaletto painting caused Meredith, even though it was of Rome, not Venice. Then the poster of the Canaletto Venice exhibition right here in Bath. The very first step we took on piecing Meredith’s story back together. She had such a strong reaction that day, I wonder…

JAYNE: She may have gone back to the Holburne Museum, where the Canaletto exhibition has been on. I’ve no idea if it’s still running, but I’m heading there now. It’s going to take me fifteen minutes.

OLIVIA: Good luck, Jayne, please keep us posted.

JAKE: Please call if you need me.

My phone rings then and it’s Davina.

“Davina, I really need to get going, I can’t talk.” I try not to be short with her but I’m struggling to suppress my own panic.

“Listen, while I was in the memory room checking the order of the dresses for you, there was something else.”

“Can it wait, Davina?”

“It was the letter, Jayne. From the crematorium. I saw it on the floor of her memory room. But it was out of the envelope this time. Did she read it while you were with her?”

I freeze, my hand hovering over the door handle. “No. She said she would but then never did. We came straight here, so she never had time. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“She must have opened it while I ran back upstairs to change my shoes. But she gave me no indication that she had. She seemed fine when I returned. What does it say?”

“I haven’t read it. You were so adamant that none of us should see it before her, so I left it on the floor by her armchair.”

By the time I reach the Holburne Museum, I am bathed in sweat. I sprint up the stone pathway toward the entrance, praying that Meredith is somewhere inside. If she isn’t, I have no idea where to head next.

I am stopped at reception by a member of staff.

“Can I see your ticket, please?” she asks.

“I don’t have one, but I really need to get in.” I watch as her eyes scan me. I realize I must look a mess.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, “it’s the final day of the exhibition, and we’re fully booked for the last entry.” Her eyes shift over my shoulder to the next visitor, one helpfully holding a printout of her ticket.

“Please.” I allow my tone to be firm, I want her to know I’m not going to give up easily. “I think my friend is in there and she’s not well. I need to go and fetch her. I really won’t be long.” I’m hoping Meredith had more success than me at slipping unnoticed through the crowd.

The staff member is obviously used to dealing with difficult customers and hardens her tone too.

“I can’t let you in without a ticket, I’m sure you understand. This has been a very popular exhibition and in fairness to those who have paid”—she looks again to the women waiting behind me—“I’ll have to ask you to stand aside.”

“She has dementia, for goodness’ sake!” I raise my voice, attracting the attention of the security guard at the staircase leading to the exhibit. “She’s lost in there, and I’m asking you to help me. Please .”

She sighs loudly and then directs me toward the ticket-booking counter. “If you don’t want to take my word for it, then please join that queue and ask to speak to the manager, but we are closing very soon.”

The queue has at least fifteen people already waiting in it. I can tell from the slumped body language, the bags scattered around feet, that this queue is not moving quickly. I glance at the staircase I know will take me up to the exhibition and seriously consider making a run for it. Then I catch the eye of the security guard positioned on the bottom step, who is watching me. I guess I’ll have no choice but to sit it out and hope Meredith appears.

Then he tilts his head toward the top of the staircase. I frown back at him, not quite sure if this subtle communication is intended for me. “Quick,” he mouths, and tilts his head again. It’s all the invitation I need, and I move swiftly toward him. As I draw level, he gently touches my arm. “My grandmother lived with it for years. Absolutely heartbreaking. Don’t be too long or you’ll get me into trouble.” Then he moves off the bottom step toward a young mum who is struggling to keep an overstuffed pushchair upright.

I take the steps two at a time and rush through the halls, the artwork a blur as I race by. I search frantically for a familiar head until, suddenly, there she is.

Someone has been kind enough to get Meredith a chair and she is sitting in front of a painting entitled The Grand Canal with Rialto Bridge and the Fondaco dei Tedeschi , oil on canvas, 1731–1736.

As I move to her side, she looks up at me and I feel the pain spread through my chest at the sight of her tearstained face.

“I never should have left him,” she sobs. “As soon as I arrive at the hotel it’s time to go back. I don’t even unpack.”

“Oh, Meredith,” I say, dropping to my knees and taking her hand.

“The neckline is wrong, it’s uneven and I have to fix it. The pocket is in the wrong position, too high at the waist, and it needs to be lowered to the hip. Of course, the dress is perfect in the end, no one would ever know, least of all Diana. She loves it so much she wears it to the Palace of Versailles that year too.” Meredith allows herself a small smile at that memory.

A guide approaches us then. “One of my absolute favorites, this one,” he says, looking toward the painting in front of us. “At the time Canaletto painted it, the Rialto was the only bridge to cross the Grand Canal, although it inspired plenty of others, including our own Pulteney Bridge right here in Bath.”

“The detail is just staggering,” I say, leaning in closer to the canvas.

“Well, that is one of the great distinctions of Canaletto’s work,” he says. “He often painted what he wanted to see. Accuracy came second to his idea of what was pleasing.”

He steps away, leaving Meredith and me to draw our own conclusions about the painting’s validity. But my thoughts are elsewhere, just as I’m sure hers are.

“Perhaps you should find Fiona,” she finally says, rising from her chair. “I’d like to go home now.”

I just hope that I can.