The Dress (5 page)

‘And are your family rich?'

‘Why? Are you after my money?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Well, my mother's string of day-pearls are certainly worth more than the average man earns in a year. However, you are not an average man. You must be very rich indeed, otherwise Norah would certainly never have introduced you to me and you certainly wouldn't be making comments like
that
.'

He laughed, and Joy felt as if she was suddenly filled with sunshine.

‘You certainly know your way around these people.'

She smiled. Not just her ordinary smile but the dazzling, from the inside out smile. ‘These people? Goodness, I've never heard us called that before.'

‘Why, what do us ordinary folk call the upper classes in America?'

‘
The
people, Mr... what was your name again?'

He paused and looked at her quizzically. ‘You've got a very short memory for such a smart girl.'

Joy found she wanted to reach over and touch his arm, and there was a moment when she wanted to say, ‘Ask me again why I look sad?' Instead, she quipped, ‘I'm not a girl, I'm a woman. Besides, “smart girls” wear blue, woollen stockings, and as you can see that's not really my style.'

Joy could have stopped the game of verbal cat and mouse but she didn't. This man had noticed the sadness that lay beneath her beautiful veil. Frank Fitzpatrick knew who she was and that was enough for Joy. More than enough.

At the end of the evening, Frank told the Trumans he would accompany Joy home, on the short walk across the park, to her parents' apartment. All the way down in the elevator, walking out through the glittering, holidaying busyness of the Plaza lobby and negotiating the wide car-honking craziness of Park Avenue on New Year's Eve, Frank was the perfect gentleman. He held her slim hand in the wide arm of his cashmere evening coat with the formal care of a benign uncle, but Joy could feel the undertow of passion simmering beneath the surface. She knew he wanted her. Joy met men who wanted her all the time – young, handsome men. She was usually either disinterested or disgusted by their attentions, but tonight she liked being wanted. However, Joy knew Frank would never make a move, so when they had walked a hundred yards into Central Park, fuelled by fresh-air and champagne and the presumption of her beauty and youth, she turned to him and said, ‘Kiss me!'

Frank laughed. They were standing under the shelter of a huge oak. The cold, damp air smelt fresh and mossy. Like home.

‘What makes you think I want to kiss you?' he said.

‘Of course you want to kiss me.'

Although in that moment Joy felt her fragile confidence plummet, she added defiantly, ‘What are you afraid of? My parents?'

‘I don't know who your parents are,' he said, ‘but I'm afraid of no one.'

That was true. Joy felt a shiver run down her spine as he said it. Nonetheless, she could sense he was afraid of her, or rather, afraid of his own desire for her.

Joy let her cape drop from her shoulders and, revealing the bare flesh underneath she moved close enough that she could smell the alcohol and cigar smoke on his breath. Her face reddened, her breath was coming out in white, frosty puffs of air and she said, again, ‘Then go ahead and kiss me.'

Frank leaned down but just as Joy closed her eyes he suddenly lifted her slim body up and held her at arm's length, pushing her against the tree.

Frank was determined to get a grip on himself but she was just as determined to stop him. Joy arched her back against the oak until the damp bark seeped through the velvet of her cape and she coquettishly whispered, ‘Coward.'

‘They call it “gentleman” where I come from.'

His hands on the smooth skin of her arms felt firm. It thrilled her to be held by him, even at bay like this. Joy's eyes flashed triumphantly. But Frank had remembered himself and now he loosened his hold.

As soon as he did so Joy shrugged off her damp cape and let it fall to the ground so that she stood there, brazenly, with nothing but a flimsy evening gown between her bare flesh and the cold night air.

‘I'm cold,' she said.

‘Put your coat on,' Frank said. ‘I'm taking you home.'

Joy shook her head. ‘Not until you've kissed me.'

Frank smiled, shaking his head, and picked up her cape from the ground. His hand lingered as he placed it around her shoulders and Joy closed her eyes as she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. It was more delicious than any kiss.

He held out his arm for Joy to take and as they walked in silence through the park Joy knew she had met the man she wanted to be with for the rest of her life.

London, 2014

Millions of Americans have the name Fitzpatrick and of them many hundreds of thousands must have the forename Frank. Lily knew this and yet when she tried to sleep on the night of her grandfather's funeral the name Frank Fitzpatrick kept dancing around in her brain with a bunch of what-ifs? What if the woman in the
Vogue
picture was married to Old Joe's brother? What if Lily had a whole family in America just waiting to be discovered? The possibilities this shadowy uncle threw up were just so thrilling Lily could not get them out of her head.

She kept telling herself to go to sleep, that it was silly to even think about being related to this random person she had seen in a magazine clipping. Yet the mystery of it was driving her mad.

At 5 a.m. she got out of bed and rang her father's mobile.

‘What's wrong?' Patrick said, his voice thick with sleep and shades of panic.

‘Nothing's wrong. Oh, sorry, did I wake you, Dad? I just wanted to ask you something...'

‘What time is it? Jesus Christ, Lily, it's five o'clock in the morning!'

‘Do you know the name of the woman your Uncle Frank married in America?'

‘For God's sake, what kind of a question is...' Then Patrick realized he was too exhausted from the grief and drink of the day before even to question his daughter, never mind fight with her. Vaguely a name began to filter through. ‘Joyce? Josephine? No...'

‘Joy?'

‘Joy, yes. Yes, that was it.'

Lily could hardly believe it. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm sure that was it. When I was a lad, Mam saw something in a magazine and I remember them talking about it. Your grandad went crazy. He and Frank didn't talk. It was the one time his brother was ever mentioned in our house. That's why I remember the name. Joy.'

Lily punched the air.

‘Is that it? Can I go back to sleep now?'

‘Yes, Dad... Thanks, Dad.'

Straight away Lily switched on her computer. She made herself a pot of strong tea in her favourite art-deco teapot, pulled on her silk 1920s robe to bring her luck and set about finding her family in America.

Lily registered on Ancestry.com, typing in all she knew about him, which was that Frank was from Bangor, County Mayo, Ireland and had left Ireland sometime after 1935, the year her grandfather went into the orphanage. Quickly, she found fifteen Francis Fitzpatricks from Bangor who had sailed to New York City in the years 1935–1945. One of them would have been her great-uncle, but there was no way of telling which one. In any case, apart from the fact that his wife's name was Joy, Lily had no other information about the man. No address, no offspring, no place of work. She googled their names along with some leads from the
Vogue
piece, but nothing came up. Lily was afraid she had reached a dead end and was about to call it a day when, trawling through a heritage chatroom, she discovered a day-old posting from a woman called Maisie Fitzpatrick in Wisconsin:
My aunt, Joy Fitzpatrick, was a wealthy, stylish woman living in New York all through the 1950s. I would love to find out more about this side of my family. Picture on request
.

Lily was beside herself. Wealthy? Stylish? That sounded like her Joy. She replied to the thread and attached her blog email address for them to reply to. This could be it!

Lily was longing just to sit and wait for a reply to pop up on screen but she had an afternoon date with Sally. As a sort of good luck talisman, she printed out the
Vogue
article and put it in her bag. It was the middle of the night in Wisconsin now. The woman would still be in bed, but when she got up and checked her email, Lily would be waiting for her. In the meantime, she would just have to get on with her day.

*

Sally had persuaded Lily to come along to a fashion show that afternoon. Sally's employer, the high street chain and catalogue retailer, Scott's, was having a glitzy show in a warehouse in Shoreditch, at the other end of London. Sally felt Lily needed to get out of the house and back into the real world after all the upset of the past few weeks. This big event, thrown by her boss, the playboy fashion king Jack Scott, would be the perfect event for Lily to re-launch herself after the funeral.

‘Make sure you get dressed up, they'll all be there,' Sally said.

Lily took the bait. As the most popular vintage blogger in the UK, Lily had a reputation to maintain and always went to town on herself for fashion events. Today she opted for a Claire McCardell two-piece in navy and cream. The 1954 wrap-over halter top and full three-quarter length skirt were in mint condition but the design was so fluid, so contemporary, that people always got a surprise when they found out it was ‘historical' vintage, aka pre-70s. To further the deception, Lily kept her make-up light, just her trademark red lips, and wore a pair of Orla Kiely Dotty shoes; Orla Kiely was one of the few contemporary designers whose items worked with her authentic look.

While they walked across the busy streets to the warehouse where the show was being held, Sally filled Lily in on the gossip of the day. As somebody who worked at the high end of the retail fashion market, Sally knew all the most influential people in the London fashion business and kept herself bang up-to-date with all the news.

Today was Scott's debut show for the hot young sportswear designer Karl Bundy, who Jack Scott had poached from his arch enemy and rival, David Durane, CEO of PopShop, Britain's biggest fashion retailer. Scott's was number two. The fashion bloggers had gone wild when the Bundy-stealing story broke.

‘I don't rate Bundy as a designer, actually,' Sally said, ‘but this show is a really big deal. I had to fight to get you a plus-one today.'

‘Gee, thanks,' Lily said, beginning to wonder if she was really ready for such a heavy dose of Sally's fashion-drama.

‘Would you believe PopShop offered me a job last week? Artistic Director. Full time, freelance contract – good money too.'

‘Really?' Lily said, trying to sound interested. Sometimes she got exhausted just listening to Sally talk about her work.

‘Oh, yeah. These retail kings are so competitive it hurts. It's like
Next Top Model
but with men in suits. Durane rang me himself. God, he's a sleazebag. Tragic dresser, fifty-plus and kitted out like a rapper – lots of gold. Very sad. I said no. He's only after me because he knows Scott's will never let me go...'

‘Hmm,' Lily said.

‘...especially not to work for Durane. Jack
hates
him...' she carried on, even as they arrived at the door of the warehouse. Sally flashed her pass at the doorman and, giving the briefest of ‘We're A-list' glances, continued, ‘...partly because Durane's a psychopath but then, as I keep telling him, we're selling clothes, Jack darling, not feeding the world or saving kittens. You need to toughen up.'

Even though Lily was only half listening she could not help smiling at the idea of Sally giving advice to one of the most powerful men in the fashion industry.

Fashion was Sally's life. She ate, drank and slept it every week, every day, every minute of every season. Lily didn't care about what was ‘in', or ‘out', she only cared about the clothes themselves, their quality and fit. As a stylist, Sally would quite happily take a 1950s Robert Piguet cocktail dress and put it under a 70s vintage jacket. It made Lily flinch to see a beautiful piece of couture accessorized with anything outside its original era. It was the only thing the two friends fought about.

‘If Dior were alive today,' Sally once said to Lily, ‘he would definitely put cowboy boots with that gown.'

‘Well,' Lily snapped back, ‘he's
not
alive today and he didn't put them with cowboy boots back then so there is no reason to expect he would now!'

The warehouse was a huge white rectangle that had been customized specifically to house this type of promotional event. The interior was basic, just a catwalk with tiered seating crammed along either side. The cool, street-fashion crowd of journalists and stylists and fashion hangers-on were a fairly homogenous bunch, not like the rich starlets and high-end press that came to the seasonal shows. There was nobody over thirty and nobody, Lily noted, wearing anything more than two years old.

A guy in black with a headpiece guided them to their seats. They were six rows back, in the middle.

‘Why are we sitting in these crappy seats? Hey!' Sally shouted after the security guy, who was now seating row seven. ‘I'm front row baby!'

People were flooding into their seats and the two women would have had to clamber over heads to get to the front row, so Lily sat down in the empty chair and dragged Sally down next to her.

‘We can see everything from here,' Lily said. ‘They're good seats.'

‘Newsflash, Lily,' Sally said, looking at her dumbfounded, ‘these are the
worst
seats. The only place to sit in a high-street show is front row with the C-list celebs or right at the very back with the cool crowd who don't want to be seen.'

‘Well, I'm fine here,' Lily said, sitting down. ‘I don't want to be sitting in the front row with everyone looking at us.'