Chapter 26
The American takes me to her room which on closer inspection is bigger than my entire apartment.
She instructs me to sit at the desk with a large vanity mirror and then proceeds to hurl dresses out of her wardrobe trying to find something that ‘might work’.
I have tried objecting, tried to say that I’m pretty sure I could just wear the same thing I wore at the last exhibition but she had looked mildly horrified, so I knew there was little point in objecting further.
‘You do your make-up.’ She gestures to the array of products neatly stacked around the vanity with labels like Chanel, Dior, Yves Saint Laurent.
‘Erm…’ I pick up a lipstick that’s probably worth more than my entire make-up bag contents combined. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Honey, just get to it. We don’t have the luxury of time here.’
I watch as she glides around her room, another tasselled sleeve billowing behind her.
She moves effortlessly, quickly, with a new sense of purpose.
She purses her lips at the hangers, holds dresses against shoes, bags, necklaces and then either adds them to the pile on the bed or discards them back to their hangers.
‘Now you’ve obviously got a bit more meat on your bones.’ She gestures to her very slim figure, to where her bosom probably used to be. ‘But these should do.’
I stop trying to patch up my eyeliner and turn to the mountain of ‘options’.
‘There’s dozens.’
‘Well let’s narrow it down. What colour?’
‘Black.’
‘Revolutionary.’
‘Well, I don’t exactly want to look like a complete stranger, this is already more effort than I normally put in.’
‘Praise the lord.’ She holds her hands together and gestures to the heavens. ‘Now come over here and try this on.’ She holds up a long black silk gown that I fear has an actual train.
‘Anything but that.’
‘Oh, live a little.’
‘What about this?’ I hold up a simple black dress with a collar that hadn’t made it out of the wardrobe.
‘I wore that to Jack’s funeral.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Oh no you don’t. What about this?’ She thrusts a mini dress in my direction.
‘Why do you even have this?’
‘It was on sale, you never know when it might have come in handy.’
‘No chance.’
‘Well, there’s always…’ Her voice trails off. ‘Grab the box from under my bed won’t you.’ She gestures to the king-sized bed and its ornate linen headboard.
I do as she says and my hands fix on a white cardboard box tied in a dusky pink ribbon with the words ‘Dior’ printed along its length in cursive lettering.
‘Shut up.’ My mouth falls open. I may not know much about fashion, or go to the same lengths that she does to present myself to the world, but I know this: I know that in this box there is the promise of something more beautiful than I had ever dreamed of wearing.
‘I bought it on my honeymoon.’ She smiles as I open the lid and stroke away the crepe paper, thankfully revealing black fabric.
I pause, look at her, fearful that she is just being nice, looking to see whether she actually wants to let me and my uneducated, unfashionable self touch it, but she just smiles warmly.
‘Well, go on, the taxi’s here in twenty minutes.’
I unfold the fabric, heavy and expensive, and hold it out at arm’s length, taking in the simplicity, how utterly breath-taking it is and similarly so unlike anything The American has ever worn in my presence.
‘It’s got sleeves, three-quarter lengths, square neck, all very sensible.’ She lists off its features.
‘Are you sure…’
‘Just try it on.’ I do as she says and slip off my jeans and shirt and then stand into the dress, pulling it up over my body. I try to manipulate my hands into the arms and then when I shimmy it over my shoulders, I reach for the zip but find only buttons.
‘Here.’ She moves to my back, and I feel her trembling hands slowly but surely fix the dress to me, button by button.
I expect us to get to a point where it struggles to do up, where my unimpressive chest might still pucker its fabric, it is entirely nonsensical to me that something like this could fit me, but The American pats my shoulder and smooths out the fabric so that it sits flush over my shoulders.
‘There, perfect fit, let me take a look.’ I step back to allow her to take me in.
‘You look beautiful.’ I wonder if it’s a trick of the light but there are tears in her eyes.
‘Here, go take a look.’ She gestures to the full-length mirror and when I do, I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger – refined, elegant, a grown up – and she does look beautiful.
‘I have never worn anything so lovely in my entire life.’
‘Not even on your wedding day?’ she asks, her eyebrows drawn up into a look of concern.
I smirk, think of the dress I had bought the night before in Mango, cream because my mum had threatened to disown me if I didn’t.
She was already put out by the fact that it was going to be a registry affair and that our reception consisted of a meal at Antonio’s down the road with twenty friends in attendance.
She had asked me no less than six times if I was pregnant that weekend.
‘Not exactly, I wore…’
‘I don’t think I even want to know.’ The American stops me before I can disappoint her further but softens once I start twirling around, feeling the weight of the skirt flutter by my calves.
‘Now there’s a petticoat somewhere…’
‘No!’ I answer all too quickly. ‘This is fine, this is perfect.’
‘For once my dear, I completely agree with you. Now sit in that chair.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do as I say.’
I sit down and she scurries back over to me, her hands going to my hair, pulling out the claw clip and letting the knotty reality of my hair fall. She tuts at it and combs her nails from the roots to the ends.
‘Now normally us girls would use rollers but we don’t have time for that. No, I think we’ll have to do the trick.’
‘The trick?’
‘Bluette called it the French Trick. She said it was a time-sensitive solution to looking “put together”.’
‘I like it.’
‘Now, head back, pass me the brush.’ I do as she instructs and watch her, face screwed up in concentration as she starts to pull strands together, smoothing my hair down against my scalp with hair spray, until she starts to twist it in her now rather dexterous hand and pins it to the back of my head.
‘I can’t remember the last time someone did my hair like this.’
‘Not your mother?’
‘I was never really the daughter that got her hair done,’ I shrug. ‘She probably would have liked me to be, but I’ve come to realise that parents don’t often get the child they envisaged having.’
‘Now who’s sounding like the sage?’ She looks at me in the mirror, a mistiness transcending over her. Her hand rests on my shoulders, giving me a reassuring little squeeze. ‘Will you do?’
‘I think this passes as making an effort, thank you.’ I crane my neck and press my lips into her powdery cheek. She closes her eyes and takes it in.
‘One more thing.’
She reaches around in a drawer and pulls out a necklace with some blue stones scattered around the neckline. ‘I think you should tell him.’ She says as she struggles with the clasp of the necklace.
‘Tell him what?’
‘Why you’re really here.’
‘I’m trying to get him back not scare him off forever.’
‘Don’t you think that he should know? Then you can start on neutral ground. Secrets aren’t good, Ava, they turn splinters into vast, horrible chasms.’
I shake my head. ‘I will tell him, just not tonight.’
‘But…’
‘Thank you for your help.’ I reach for her hand and squeeze it tightly and I watch as her resolution breaks a little, knows that her pleading is falling on deaf ears for tonight.
She straightens her own outfit and then goes to her phone, pressing one button and then waiting patiently by the handset until there is the faint crackle of another voice picking up.
‘Your carriage awaits.’
‘Maybe I’ll just stay here…’
‘Oh no you don’t.’ She reaches into her bedside cabinet, pulling out a bottle of clear liquid. ‘Dutch courage.’
‘Thanks.’ I take the glass she offers and neck it back. ‘You should come,’ I half offer, half plead.
‘Not tonight. Tonight’s about you. Now get outta here.’ She slaps me on the arse, propelling me towards the door.