Chapter 2
Lucy
Next day, I drop into Jill’s Frocks and Fancies. A magnificent glossy green gown in her shop window beckons me inside. It gestures from the mannequin, whispers possibilities – perhaps even a promise, so I enter the frock shop with a spring in my step.
It’s cool and quiet in here, with a hint of fragrance – coconut and lime – probably from the gift candles for sale beside a tempting display of costume jewelry.
When I left Bart, my only emotions were anger and fear and exhaustion.
I’ve survived, but now I’m ready to thrive, and one thing is for certain.
I am tired of being the invisible support person.
Maybe if I’d taken more care of my appearance over the years, Bart and I would still be together – not that I miss him.
So much in my life is wonderful – my friendship with Donna, my lovely apartment, the excitement of exploring my new neighborhood, good health, and .
.. my beautiful diamond rings. I thought I’d have to sell them, but so far, so good.
I flutter my fingers so they sparkle. I do love my diamonds.
They’re my forcefield, my portable manufacturers of rainbows.
Did I mention I love rainbows? Actually, I love everything about life.
Never mind the divorce. The trick is to stay in the game, and now that I’m almost settled again, I’m ready to play – no apologies.
I always dressed well at the network, but with motherhood, gardening, and then using paints and glue all day for my shabby chic business, I was often in stained overalls.
Glamor makes no sense when you’re busy unpacking for people, either, but these days, in my new life, when I’m not at work, I want to look good.
I don’t ever want to be the woman Bart discarded, to always look in the mirror and feel rejected. Somebody has to stand up for me. It’s time to honor myself. To make the most of myself.
I raise my head to catch the eye of the attendant.
She’s a mature woman, not unlike myself, in glasses with heavy frames and with an instant smile.
A potential accomplice, maybe even a friend.
I could offer to do hair and make-up presentations for her customers.
Why not? My life now is about the future, with all its possibilities. My past can only enrich it.
But first things first. I smile back at her in expectation, because dressing for success is an art and a joy.
I should know – makeup artist to the stars.
At least I was until the great Bart Hardenburg monopolized me for himself for a few decades, then ditched me for his assistant. But none of that now. I’ve moved on.
“Welcome,” she says, as she approaches. “I’m Jill. How may I help you today?”
“You’re Jill! I love your boutique.” I give her my warmest, most dazzling smile.
Moving to Brighton Court is my fresh start and I’ve given myself permission to celebrate, to spend some of the money I’ve earned working with Donna.
My attorney says my divorce settlement could take another few months, but she’s making progress. I’m going to be okay.
I sigh and smile again as I scan Jill’s racks of exclusive attire, so artfully combined with scarves, belts and bags. I can barely wait to try a few; to find a treasure or two to mix and match with the outfits I retrieved from the house, the best of my classics. The possibilities practically sing.
I pounce on a purple evening purse. It’s Donna’s favorite color. She’ll love it. I place it on the counter, buy it for her, then keep browsing.
“Such a gorgeous shop, Jill!” I say, then drop my pitch and volume, conspiratorially, and face the glossy green winner in the window. “I’m in love with this gown already.”
I reach out to caress its three-quarter sleeve, the sheen of it almost iridescent. The fabric is heavy with quality, the gown’s cut and color magnificent. I’m sure it will fit.
“It’s a one-off,” says Jill. “A Georg K.”
“Yes,” I say. Will Jill be a bore? To place a gown in a window and refuse to undress the mannequin for a potential customer amounts to false advertising.
Jill’s glance drops to my fingers and I wiggle them obligingly until the rainbows sparkle. The gown will be exorbitant, but diamonds speak. I suck in my waist and stand tall as Jill surveys me with a fixed smile.
“I’m sure it’s my size,” I say. “Georg’s gowns are a marvel.” I have actually seen some before, at the network, back before everything. I can be an aspiring Georg K owner. There’s no law against it.
But still Jill hesitates. I give her my extra bright smile.
“It may take me a few moments to arrange, Mrs ...”
“Of course. Please just call me Lucy.” I step deeper into the shop, survey the skirts and trousers, run my hand along the rack of blouses, in various shades of color. I hesitate. Necklines are so challenging these days, but these cuts are clever.
I pull out a scarlet silk number, of the exact fabric of the dress in the window; another Georg K. I check the size and price – eye watering – before glancing back at Jill, who maneuvers the mannequin closer and starts to unscrew its arm. Good.
I pluck out another blouse, in a soft lilac, and another, in a sumptuous orangey red. I frown at the prices, then smile. The future is wide open.
A gleaming red convertible pulls up outside, an older man in the passenger seat. Fit. Broad shoulders. He’s definitely familiar. I stare. He smiles a little self-consciously. Intriguing. Very appealing.
Jill clears her throat, the gorgeous green gown over her arm.
“Shall I place this in the change room for you?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you so much, Jill. I thought for a moment I saw someone I knew.”
“Of course. And would you like to try these as well?”
“Yes. No. Actually, would you have this blouse in a paler pink, please? I love the little bow at the neck.”
“I may have one out the back. Shall I go check?”
“Please.”
I watch the man get out of the car. He’s tall, in long gray trousers, a tailored navy jacket with brass buttons, and a gray-blue tie. Better and better. My pulse jumps. A man who knows how to dress is rare in this world. Perhaps he has a club and visits frequently. Perhaps he owns a club. Or two.
Maybe uptown is full of tall, eligible men. Regrettably, he disappears into one of the coffee shops. Still, if I’m quick with the gown, I might catch him when he emerges. I zoom towards the changeroom and am out of my clothes and shoes in moments.
The emerald gown is a dream; the satin silk slides over my skin like a waterfall. And the color and fit are perfect. I whip back the curtain and stride towards the door, the fabric whispering around my ankles.
Jill runs after me.
“Oh there you are, Jill,” I say. “Would you help me with this zipper, please?”
Up goes the zipper, and the fabric snugs against my waist and settles in a heavy swish, as if it’s alive and begging me for the last, treasured dance with the king of the prom. Perfection. This dress belongs with glass slippers, at a ball.
“I love it! I love your boutique! Would you have some high heels I could try it with? I only ever shop in my flats.”
“Of course.”
Jill disappears again as I back up, twisting and peering at myself in the mirror between the racks.
The back of the dress is divine, with a v-line so deep and wide it shows off my shoulder blades.
There’s much to be said for our backs – covered and invisible for most of our lives.
As long as we remain upright, the back divulges few clues to the actual state of our front.
I begin to laugh at my own joke when – smack! I’m staggering, tripping on the hem of the gown. I grasp at space to avoid falling, and find warmth, fine linen and, beneath it, a firm physique. Mint. Spice. Definitely not Jill.
Blue sports jacket, white shirt, gray tie. It’s him! An apologetic smile; a smile of concern, of interest. A strong, steadying hand on my upper arm, and then at my waist. Heaven. It’s been a while.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, regrettably removing his hand and stepping backwards. It’s him; the man with the red convertible, the appreciator of art. Be still, my heart! “The coffees. The dress. No. Have I burned you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Burned me with his hand, yes, but most of the coffee is on the long hem and Jill’s polished floor boards.
“Oh Dirk!”
“Jill,” he says. “Sorry. Slammed right into your customer here. And the dress. I’ll make it up to you. To both of you.” As his glance finds my face, I rearrange it. Joyous pleasure is probably inappropriate. I clap my fingers to my smile, then slowly let them drop.
I remember this silence. Dirk’s eyes linger, on the curve of my cheek, my neck and decolletage and up to my lips and briefly, not too briefly, on my eyes. His are gray with blue flecks – shocked. Interested. They duck away, down to the spreading darkness on the fabric, and back to my waist.
I turn to Jill, treating the stranger to a glimpse of the extravagant scoop of back, so perfectly framed in this gown. It’s my best side, at least in this exquisite dress.
“Magnificent,” he says. “Devastated.”
I study him. His comment is general, about the gown, not me, but the words are thrilling.
Jill, one high heel dangling from each hand, shakes her head slowly.
“I meant well, Jill,” he says. “I brought you coffee.”
“Thank you, Dirk.”
Oh. Perhaps they’re married. Maybe he owns the shop. I clear my throat.
“Would you undo the zip for me, please, ah ... Dirk? I’m Lucy, by the way. Lucy Beston.”
“Of course, Lucy,” he said. “Anything.”
I pull my hair to the front to allow him full access.
If his hand hesitates a little as the zip slides down, the warmth of his fingers is more than welcome.
Perhaps it’s residual heat from the coffee, but everything about this morning is unfolding exactly as it should.
Despite everything – don’t mention my Ex and the Minx, nor Phoebe – life is a dream. A good one.