The Dress (15 page)

This garment had been, quite literally, made of money. If Lily was going to do this dress justice, she was going to need cash, a lot of cash, to make it.

New York, 1959

After her experience with Breton's young designer Joy found herself getting back into her stride. Her clothes were her armour, her face was her shield, her fortune her protection. Those were the weapons her mother had taught her to use to get her through life, and now was the time she needed to use them.

Good clothes made Joy feel strong, and she
loved
her green dress.

She hadn't been sure at first – the colour had seemed rather gaudy and shiny to her when she took it out of the bag – but once it was on, with the wide cummerbund belt neatly fastened at the waist and the tweed jacket lined in the same shade as the dress, the whole ensemble felt elegant and refined. She decided to put it to the acid test and wore it to a ladies' luncheon at the Waldorf, where the most critical members of her set were always waiting to pull her down. Joy knew if she could survive them she would be OK.

Betsy Huntington was one, a notorious couture snob, who despite invariably being the first on the boat to the shows in Europe, always managed to look gauche and cheap. Today she was wearing a lavishly embellished Dior cocktail dress, built for a woman half her size.

Now she said, ‘I'd recognize the cut anywhere, it's Jacques Fath. I discovered him, when he was here, in '48. I've had a few nice pieces from him since then. He was all the rage, but didn't he die a few years ago? That suit must be a few seasons old, Joy, you're slipping.'

Only Betsy would be cheap enough to price a dress by the date of its designer's death.

‘Actually, it's not Fath,' Joy said.

‘Well,
who
is it?' Amanda Hutton asked.

‘Chanel?'

‘Balenciaga? It's not Dior, anyway.'

‘It
could
be Chanel...'

‘Don't be stupid. Dessés? Ah, that Irish designer, Connolly? Sybil Connolly, that's it!'

‘You're just guessing,' Betsy said, as if she were an expert on the matter. ‘I tell you, it's Fath – Joy is just teasing us.'

‘It doesn't matter,' Joy said, knowing that nothing mattered more to these women than
who
she was wearing, ‘you won't know her. She's a new name...'

‘She!'

‘I told you it was Chanel...'

‘Stop,' Joy said laughing. ‘She's young, she's just starting out...'

‘Well, she's bloody good,' Amanda said, sticking her cigarette in her mouth so that she could reach over and finger Joy's cuffs. ‘Look at the finish on this jacket.'

‘What's her name? Come on Joy... spill. Is she in New York?'

‘Don't be stupid, there is no way that outfit was designed outside Paris,' Betsy said.

Joy had expected to be made to feel awkward over giving up drinking, but found that when she ordered soda and lime, instead of her usual Martini, nobody had passed any comment. In fact, many of the women chose not to drink at lunchtime. Joy was amazed at how much fresher and more confident she felt, how much more in control of things she was, when she wasn't drunk.

‘She
is
in New York,' Joy told them, smiling. A flutter of excited shouts rang around the table. ‘And I'm
not
being difficult, ladies, but let's just say she's something between a find and a protégé. As soon as she's open for business, I'll let you know.'

Joy excused herself to go the ladies' room and, as she turned her back on them, she could feel the gaze from a dozen pairs of eyes from her table follow her across the room. Women rarely went to powder their noses alone, but Joy did. She never asked for the company of the other women and they never volunteered it. Instead they would all stay back and talk about her. That was the price she paid for being a beautiful woman.

Despite her successful lunch, Joy did not become entirely convinced about the green dress and tweed jacket ensemble until later that evening.

Joy had taken to preparing dinner for her husband. Well, that was not entirely the case; Jones either prepared a simple meal himself or called something in from a local restaurant. He would leave the food in the kitchen, then Joy would don an apron and serve it up. Joy was a lousy cook, everyone knew that, but since Frank had given her this last chance, she was making an effort to be more domesticated for him.

It was late afternoon when Joy got in. Jones was out so she checked the food he had left out for dinner. They had discussed it that morning: two steaks ready to be fried (Joy could fry a steak) with the pepper-cream sauce in a saucepan on the counter, then a jug so it could be poured at the table. In the oven were some Dauphinoise potatoes heating and there was a Sara Lee cake in the freezer. A couple of weeks after waking from her drunken haze, Joy had begun to listen to Frank's tales from work and realized that all of the men in her husband's office went home to a hot meal cooked by their wives every evening. Joy became determined to give her husband that same experience and, in fact, found that she had started to rather enjoy the ritual of pulling the ribbons of a frilly apron over her head and pretending to be a perfect housewife.

‘Hey, what's for dinner?'

Frank was early.

‘Pepper steak. You want to sit while I cook?'

‘Sure,' he said, and he went to the fridge and got himself a beer.

Joy felt an excited flutter of love. This was all going so well. Everything was all just so... easy. No arguments, no fighting, no sneaking around. If this carried on much longer, pretty soon she'd be able to go back to drinking in a nice civilized way again. It wasn't right Frank not being able to enjoy a glass of wine with his dinner, just because she couldn't join him.

‘Where did you get this?' he asked. He picked up Joy's new jacket from the chair.

‘Oh, it's new, I got it today. Do you like it?'

‘It looks like Foxford tweed,' he said. ‘It's...' and he tapered off. He was stroking the jacket. ‘...it's a type of wool, I haven't seen it for years – it's Irish.'

‘It goes with this dress,' and Joy took off her pinny and did a twirl.

Frank smiled a big broad Irish smile and Joy felt impossibly sad, all of a sudden, as she realized she had not seen him smile like that for a long time.

‘It's so... green,' he said, laughing, ‘but I really like it.'

Frank had never shown much interest in Joy's style. Many of the ladies' husbands accompanied them to the Paris shows every year, picking outfits they would like to see their wives in, checking the quality and provenance of the huge investments they were making in their wives' wardrobes. Joy had never even suggested Frank come with her. He placed little importance on her clothes and she was free to spend his money as she liked.

Nonetheless, Joy believed the pride she took in her appearance, the time and energy and money that she put into dressing to perfection was essential to the success of her marriage. If she let herself go physically Frank would leave her, there was no doubt in her mind about that. Her beauty was what she had brought to the party – always. What she lacked in reliability Joy knew she made up for with her looks.

Joy had been living with the fear that Frank didn't love her anymore since she had stopped drinking. He had not said ‘I love you' for as far back as she could remember.

However, as long as Frank thought she was
beautiful
there was always a chance he could find the love again.

Frank reacting at all to an outfit was remarkable but the fact that he said he
loved
it? Well, that gave Joy the brief and delicious feeling that he loved
her
.

‘It's beautiful,' he said, then seeming to check himself and think carefully he added, ‘...and you're beautiful in it.'

Joy was filled with a feeling that should have been love, but felt more like gratitude, as she walked over to her husband and kissed him full on the mouth.

Then Frank scooped the feather light frame of his beautiful, delicate wife up in his arms, and carried her into the bedroom.

‘My husband has not the remotest idea about fashion, but he loved the day suit you made me,' Joy said to Honor at her first fitting for her dress.

‘I am so pleased,' Honor said, brimming with confident pride. ‘To be honest, I don't know what I would have done, if you hadn't liked it.'

She blushed then, wondering if she had gone too far.

‘Well, I
loved
it,' Joy said, ‘although I am still not so sure that green is my colour.'

‘Well, your husband approved.'

‘That's true,' Joy said, wondering if the girl could possibly know how important that was. She went behind the screen to strip down to her underwear.

‘And anyway,' Honor said, getting into her stride, ‘whatever colour we decide on, I want you to know that this won't just be a dress – it will be
The
Dress.'

‘I certainly hope so, because it's a big birthday.'

‘Thirty?'

Joy was behind the screen, getting undressed, so Honor could not see the shock on her client's face, that she had so easily guessed her age.

When Joy came out in her undergarments Honor was unable to help herself and smiled broadly, admiring the model-like figure in front of her. Her smile made Joy laugh a little. There was something warm about this younger woman that she really liked. Joy lit a cigarette and held her arms out, for Honor to take her measurements.

After Honor had made a note of every inch of Joy's body, she reached for the yards of muslin which she would use to help decide on the final shape of the dress. It was then that Honor started to get nervous. Although she had attended fittings before, with Sybil Connolly and Breton, it was usually nearing the end of the process, when she would be called in to pin and make alternations. Honor had never taken charge of a fitting with a real client before.

Honor's designs had all been on paper. Now she had to make a real dress, on a real woman's body and for a moment the idea of that overwhelmed her. This was not just any woman, either. Joy Fitzpatrick was one of the most demanding couture clients in New York. Honor tried to recall dressing the actors in her father's troupe, but the contrast between the portly farmer and the elegant vision in front of her just made her nerves buzz even more.

As Honor moved the fabric around Joy's body, she pretended to assess shapes in the mirror, moving her head from side to side and nodding, but in reality she was just terrified. She didn't know what she was supposed to be looking for and was afraid to touch the creamy, perfumed skin.

Joy, a seasoned hand at fitting, could tell at once that Honor was a bag of nerves, and it made her like the younger woman even more.

‘You haven't done this before, have you?' Joy said.

Honor blushed, but said nothing, just kept mindlessly, pointlessly, moving the fabric around her shape.

Joy stuck the cigarette between her lips and grabbed the muslin from Honor's shaking hands. Quickly and adeptly she tucked the thin, dressmaker's fabric under and over her arms, pulling it tight across her flat stomach and slim hips, securing it under her bra straps and panty line, until it looked, to all intents and purposes, like a dress. Albeit a very cheap one.

‘Now, if we like it, you can pin it, draw on it, or you can just take a good hard look at it and figure out how to make the toile to my measurements.'

‘It's too high around the bust,' Honor said, her pride hurt.

As she moved the fabric, Joy put her long, manicured fingers around the dressmaker's plain, workman-like hand.

Joy knew what it felt like to try and bluff yourself through a situation where you felt out of your depth. She could see Honor that was intelligent but proud.

‘You don't have to pretend with me, Honor, I know you are inexperienced, but I can also see that you are a gifted designer. Together we will get this dress right – no matter how long it takes.'

Honor felt something like an elated relief, as if somebody had looked inside her and, instead of revealing her darkest fears, had told her that they liked what they saw.

‘This dress will be magnificent, I promise you,' Honor said, and then taking a chance added, ‘I will make you the envy of New York.'

‘My darling,' Joy said, sweeping her cigarette across her torso in a grand, glamorous gesture, ‘I am
already
the envy of New York.'

For a moment, Honor wasn't sure whether Joy meant her to laugh or apologize, but she laughed and with that, the beginning of a friendship was forged.

Joy was the most exacting client any designer could ever have. That first afternoon, Honor draped Joy twelve times, before they agreed on a basic shape. Honor didn't mind. It was a masterclass in couture fitting.

However, when Joy came back two days later, she did not like the toile Honor had made.

‘The neckline is too high and it's too tight across the hip.'

Honor made the alternations, but at the next fitting was told: ‘The neckline is too squared now, too loose around the hips.'

One week later: ‘Honor, we need it deeper in the bust – the draping needs to be higher and on the hip... can you see this?'

Over the coming month, Joy came for two fittings a week; during each session, Honor showed her dozens of her drawings, which genuinely impressed Joy and she suggested modifications with which Honor mostly agreed.

Joy's demands would have sent a lesser designer half mad, but at no point did Honor lose faith, or get frustrated, as she imagined she might. In fact, every time Joy wanted a change, Honor could see its validity, and was happy enough to remake the toile. Although it meant that progress on the dress was very slow, she was enjoying the process. In just a few weeks, they had developed a strong working relationship. Honor had always put her passion for design over friendships, but now she had found someone who appreciated her talents and was helping her to develop. And Joy enjoyed Honor's company. She was clever and outspoken and the whole process of sharing this project made Joy feel not quite as alone as she had been.