The Dress (17 page)

1 rug: worn; 1 clock: cuckoo.

He pretended he was concentrating hard on his list. ‘Erm, I suppose, in a manner of speaking...'

‘What's he like to work for? I work for his wife, but then, I suppose he told you that already...'

Frank coughed, to try to suggest that he was not fully listening. ‘Does that cuckoo clock belong to you, or was it here when you came?'

‘Do I
look
like the kind of woman who would own a cuckoo clock?' Honor made him look up from his pad, by staring accusingly into his face.

‘I don't know,' he said, getting into his stride. Frank was enjoying himself – the flirtatious banter, even the stupid list. He should have been a building superintendent, then he could be married to a woman like this.

‘I don't know what a woman who might own a cuckoo clock would look like. Is there a type?'

‘Well,' Honor said, ‘they don't look like me.'

He looked at her admiringly and for a moment too long, but didn't say anything. He didn't need to; she blushed.

‘Swiss, maybe,' he said. ‘Although what do Swiss women look like?'

‘Statuesque and terrifyingly beautiful, like Katherine Hepburn.'

‘Ah, yes,' he said, still making the pretence of writing on his pad.
Knives: loads; forks, spoons etc
. ‘But
you're
not Swiss.'

‘Are you saying I am not beautiful?' Honor said, arching her eyebrow.

He blushed and smiled and began counting cutlery. ‘I'm just saying, I can tell you're Irish.'

‘Indeed I am,' she said, ‘a little town called Bangor, in County Mayo.' She filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

There's no better medicine than a cup of hot, sweet tea.

‘Do you know it?'

Frank's hand was shaking, as he opened a cupboard and kept writing:
3 cups, plates, bowls, lots of bowls
.

‘My name's Conlon, my father John was the local schoolmaster. You might have known him?'

Frank collapsed inside. He wasn't sure that the words would come out, until he said then, ‘Why would that be?'

‘Well, you're from Bangor, aren't you? It's faint, but I'd know the accent anywhere. Sorry, I don't even know your name?'

She was Honor Conlon, John and Clare Conlon's baby. She looked like home, she sounded like home. The right kind of home; the one small shred of happy memory he had from that wretched place was the Conlons' kindness towards him, a brief moment of joy in fifteen years of brutality and hardship.

It was nearly twenty-five years since he had left that cruel, bleak bogland and yet it was still in him. He kept the boy hidden behind the hard shell of manhood; every man had his secrets, his vulnerabilities. Nobody ever asked, nobody ever questioned him and now, here was the Conlon girl who, by virtue of her birthplace and the sweet, warm nature she had inherited from her mother, was cracking him open like a breakfast egg.

He had to get out of there. Frank abandoned his inner building superintendent, picked up his briefcase with the starched efficiency of a chief executive and went out through the door.

He could see that Honor was confused and hurt and he, in turn, felt guilty about his rushed exit, so he turned at the door and said, ‘My name is Francis.' He had not called himself that since arriving in America and he immediately regretted his weakness.

Frank's legs were shaking as he walked quickly down the steps of the brownstone. He shook the image of her round, happy face out of his head and told himself he hoped he would never see Honor Conlon again.

Yet in his heart Francis Fitzpatrick felt sick with an old longing.

‘It's perfect.'

Joy was standing in front of the mirror in her dressing room. Honor had brought the toile over and it was their first fitting since leaving Breton. Joy picked at the fabric around her stomach and turned to the side, to check her profile.

‘I think we've finally arrived, Honor, what do you think?'

Honor was elated. ‘You look... amazing. It's beautiful already, even in the muslin. Honestly, you could wear it to a ball, as it is.'

Joy was beaming, too. For such an elegant and angular woman she became almost childlike when she was happy.

Honor touched her arm and said, ‘Thank you for pushing me, Joy. I would never have got there without you...'

Joy flicked off the compliment, but she was delighted, not just with the dress but with the new friendship that was developing. Meeting Honor had come at just the right time. It felt strange at first, making friends with somebody not of her standing, but then Joy liked to do things differently. After all, she had chosen an entirely unsuitable husband. She had always feted artists and designers, so why should she not find herself wanting to spend time with, and confide in one?

Honor was honest and intelligent and fun and Joy felt she was a kind soul. Besides, she knew nothing about Joy's drinking past, or the struggles in her marriage. She only knew the new Joy, the fresh clean-out-of-the-box version. Honor made Joy feel as if she was special, as if she was a worthwhile and useful human being.

Once the shape was agreed, the real work on Joy's dress began. Choosing the fabric should have been straightforward, but it turned out to be one of the most difficult decisions Honor and Joy had to make. The silk they used would form the skin of the whole dress. Of course it had to be beautiful, fluid and able to move with Joy's body, but it also had to be strong. There would be so many complex embellishments layered on top of it, they had to be sure the raw material would be able to carry the load. They decided on the finest shot silk taffeta, in a deep shade of rose pink, from the French silk weaver, Tassinari et Chatel, in Lyon. It was as soft as a baby's skin, but so flexible you could build a circus tent with it, a very
expensive
circus tent. The fabric was so costly that the supplier had only four yards in stock and they needed twenty-five, so it would have to be woven to order. From the same place they ordered 100 yards of dyed silk tulle to give the ‘cloud' effect they wanted for the billowing skirts.

‘I know we want a light colour,' Joy said, when they were ready to put in their final order, ‘but do you think navy, or even black, might be more, and I can't believe I am saying this, practical? God forbid we spill something on it. At least if it's dark, it wouldn't be
total
disaster.'

Honor flinched, remembering her coffee spill, then pulled herself together. ‘Have some faith,' she said, determined not to compromise. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to this dress.'

So, although Joy continued to think Honor was being somewhat foolhardy, they commissioned the delicate pink. As soon as they unwrapped the four-yard sample roll, and the delicious fountain of soft silk slithered out onto the table, Joy knew the designer had been right. Honor placed the pool of soft silk across Joy's shoulders, and it fell like milk down her back. Joy's pale skin came alive – it was the perfect shade.

Honor now had enough silk to start work on the bodice and a base on which to start transferring some of her best embroidery work. Now that they had agreed the fabric and shape of the dress, they had to work on the embellishments – on the embroidery, lace and beading. This dress, Joy told Honor, could be adorned to within an inch of its life. Money was no object. Every creative idea Honor had ever dreamed up could be put into it – beading, lacing, the finest fabrics and techniques – whatever it took.

Honor was in favour of not overdoing it. ‘You must wear the dress and not have the dress wear you,' she explained, but Joy disagreed. She needed to send out a message.

It was because of the business, she told Honor. ‘We want this dress to blow the minds of every woman in New York. It must be nothing less than magnificent: your career and my reputation depend on it.'

In truth, though, Joy needed the dress to be perfect for another reason.

The night before, Frank and she had had a row, of sorts. He had called ahead to say that he was having drinks with some colleagues. The novelty of preparing meals for her husband, without the lubrication of cocktails, had started to wear off. Joy had kept his meal warm, and after they sat down to eat, she asked him about his day.

‘Who were you out for drinks with, darling?'

She could see he was agitated but had no idea why, until he blurted out, ‘I lied. I wasn't out for drinks. I was over in one of my properties, sorting some things out.'

‘What things?' she said.

Frank paused and said, ‘Oh, just doing an inventory of some furniture – an old lady died and I promised her family that I would. Anyway, I decided to go around there and sort it out myself.'

Joy let out a little laugh. ‘A furniture inventory for an old lady? What on
earth
is a furniture inventory? Sounds like something you'd do in a museum.'

Frank seemed embarrassed, then said, irritably, ‘Forget it. It doesn't matter.'

‘Well, it obviously
does
matter,' Joy said, ‘if you felt you had to lie to me about it. Although I'm not surprised, because I
would
have told you off. You work too hard as it is. You have staff to deal with tenants, Frank. What's the point in paying someone to do something for you, if you end up doing it yourself?'

Frank pushed his food aside, got up from the table and said, ‘I don't
have
to do anything, Joy. That's the problem. You may enjoy living on this higher plane of servants, mixing with privileged idiots. But an ordinary family needed my help, and I wanted to help them myself instead of sending someone else over. Is that so hard to understand?'

Joy apologized, but the small argument had got her thinking. She knew her husband was a man of simple tastes. She had tried being an ordinary housewife for him, but they both knew it just was a game. Frank had made a lot of money, but Joy had always had her own fortune to fall back on.

She thought about Betsy Huntington and Amanda and the way they deferred to their husbands. Joy never deferred to Frank on matters of how they should decorate the apartment, or what designers she should consult for her wardrobe, but she knew he was happy about that. She had tried involving him more in decisions about their social life, but Frank never seemed to want to go to anything, anyway, unless it was likely to be useful for his business.

The more Joy thought about it, the more she came to realize that the problem with her marriage was that Frank thought she didn't need him. Of course, she did need him, desperately, and she was always telling him that. However, he believed it wasn't true. Her independent wealth stood in the way of him feeling truly close to her. This, she became convinced, was the cause of their problems. Her husband felt undermined, because she was financially independent. Now she was going to remedy that.

When she told Honor that money was to be no object in making her dress, she meant it. The garment was to be a statement of love to her husband; not only would it bring back the beauty of her youth, it would also cost Joy her inheritance, thereby proving her commitment to him, at last making her dependent on him.

She told Honor to call in the finest fabrics, the best crystals, ermine, marabou, feathers and fur, whatever she wanted. She could, Joy told her, hire other women to do the beadwork and the lacing, but Honor explained she intended to do as much of the work as she could by hand, herself.

‘There is a belief that the spirit of the woman who makes the lace works itself into the fabric. That's why the only lace I would use is from the St Louis nuns in Carrickmacross. What they make is delicate, exquisite, but it's also pure in spirit.'

‘Good, I can always use a bit of pure spirit.'

Honor laughed. ‘They are
wildly
expensive, and work a long time in advance – months. You could wait up to a year for a bodice piece.'

Joy closed her eyes in irritation. ‘Just draw up a design, Honor, and tell me where I can get hold of them. Everyone has their price, even daughters of God, and I can be
very
persuasive.'

Over the coming few days, Honor started work on the dress. She used silk organza as a backing fabric to the charmeuse, dipping it first in water and air drying it to prevent shrinkage later – then ironing both fabrics, wrong side out, with a steam iron, to be doubly sure. Making the bodice seemed endless but, as a seasoned couture dressmaker, there was never any question of Honor compromising on the process. Honor stitched the bodice by hand, breaking three ceramic thimbles, as she worked her fine needles through the thick webbing pockets that would hold the steel boning. She understood that, without this strong underpinning, the beauty of the beading and other embellishments would be meaningless.

‘Will you be wearing gloves and a stole with it?' Honor asked, knowing that these accessories were usual for a strapless evening gown.

‘No,' said Joy decisively. ‘They aren't obligatory and I don't want anything to clutter up the lines of the bodice.'

Once the bodice was ready Honor started to go through her notebooks, searching out ideas. There should be pearl buttons, from neck to waist at the back, she was certain of that. There would be embroidered panels and beading around the train and hem, but of what design she was not yet sure.

Honor sat in the small apartment and sketched, searching for interesting themes and ideas, but as her mind wandered, all she could think of was Francis. Why had he run off like that? She had been so sure that he would call on her again, yet it had been a week and there had been no sign of him in the building. She had thought of asking the neighbours about him, or even asking Joy if her husband knew him, although she doubted Mr Fitzpatrick would personally know the superintendents of the buildings he owned, but then she thought better of it. It was best not to chase these things, but leave them to fate.