The Dress (16 page)

However, Colette was becoming frustrated that her best seamstress's time was being taken up on the idiotic whim of Joy Fitzpatrick. She had words with Breton and the two of them agreed, enough was enough. Joy's voice among the couture clientele was waning, they told themselves. She had not been to Paris in four seasons and Breton, who was an avid collector of gossip, told Colette, ‘She drinks. I have not said anything before, because I don't like to spread gossip, but...'

Colette had heard it too, from Betsy Huntington, but hadn't liked to say.

At her next appointment, Colette (after imbibing a small brandy for courage) called Joy into Breton's office and told her that this had to be the last fitting with Honor.

‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, our house has a policy of two design fittings per outfit: after that, fittings are for the finished garment to become complete.'

She politely explained that this should be unnecessary in a house of their repute and that, because she understood Honor was a junior designer, wondered if perhaps Joy would like a final fitting with herself and then they could start making the dress that week. Joy graciously declined her offer and assured her politely that this would certainly be her last fitting with Honor, in Breton's salon.

When Honor was told that Mrs Fitzpatrick would not be coming back and that she would not be finishing the dress, she was devastated. She bit her tongue because she could not afford to upset her employers, but she was fuming. That night she locked herself in her bedroom and cried tears of anger and frustration. She tore up two of her notebooks, in a fit of rage then sat, despondent, with her shredded drawings littering the carpet, like leaves fallen from the tree of dreams which she had planted all those years ago. It all seemed so pointless, somehow.

By morning, Honor had pulled herself together and told herself there was no point in creative dramatics. She would make it to designer status, eventually. Breton liked her and she herself knew that her work was good. However, there had been something about Joy, about the way they worked together, that had felt right. Joy was more than a client now, she was a muse. Honor wondered if there was some way she could contact her outside of her job. Some way of circumventing Breton.

It turned out that Joy had been thinking the same thing.

As Honor was about to enter Breton's studio, she saw Joy standing outside the building, next door. She was wearing her Balenciaga hounds tooth cape and an Hermes headscarf and dark glasses, smoking a cigarette in a dramatically furtive manner, as if she was hoping nobody could see her, but at the same time knowing that everybody would be looking. Honor smiled at her comical attempt to look conspicuously inconspicuous. She really liked this woman.

As soon as she saw Honor, Joy rushed over, looking around as if afraid.

‘I have a proposal for you.'

Joy would pay her the same salary she was getting at Breton's and set her up in a room in one of Frank's office buildings, where Honor could work exclusively on the dress.

Honor was dumbfounded. Was Joy really proposing she leave her job just to design that one dress?

Straight away, Honor shook her head. ‘I am a designer with Breton now – I won't go back to being a dressmaker...'

‘Oh my goodness, that is not what I am suggesting at all!' Joy said, genuinely hurt by the implication. ‘Breton's designs are no more than tolerable – you know you are so much better than him, Honor, and he knows it too. Do you really think he will let you shine? A couture house is only as good as its clients, and I am one of the richest clients in New York. You are talented and I like you, so, when you have finished my dress, I am offering to set you up with your own house and introduce you to the best-dressed women in New York.'

As Honor stood there with her mouth open, Joy continued, ‘Just think of it. I will have first pick of your collections, we will all save on trips to Paris and you, my dear, will be a star in your own night. It's a given – you
must
say yes.'

Joy's talk was confident but Honor saw her face tell another story. She was nervous, afraid of rejection. Honor wanted to kiss her. She laughed and said, ‘Yes, yes, yes!'

Joy shivered with delight and laughed, too. They arranged for Honor to call at Joy's apartment the following morning, bringing the latest toile with her.

‘We can buy whatever fabrics and equipment you need and get your room set up then. We only have six weeks to the party – it's not long.'

After Joy left, Honor felt immediately nervous of what she had agreed to, working for some woman she barely knew. Monsieur Breton would go crazy – yet underneath her reservations was the certain knowledge that she had to complete the design and making of Joy's dress. This dress would be a big turning point in her career. It was meant to be.

Honor broke protocol, by not telling Colette first, but going straight to Breton. She explained quietly, saying she was sorry and offering to work her notice, even though she had promised Joy she would leave that day.

‘You can leave today,' he said, although his tone was not angry. ‘Joy will want you
now
– that is the whim of these women.'

He waved her away and as she was going to collect her bag, he added, ‘You are a fool, girl. Joy Fitzpatrick is not all she once was. I have a feeling you'll be back.'

Barbara was even less understanding.

‘You hardly know this woman; all you know about her is that she's a crazy bitch, making you do all those fittings. She'll have you working day and night, like a slave, and who knows if she's as rich as she says she is, because if she doesn't pay you, Honor, you're still going to have to make our rent.'

She need not have worried. Honor moved into the one bedroom apartment that Joy had given to her as a studio. It was a furnished apartment, in a brownstone, on 48 East and 7th Street, that Frank had bought only a few months previously. All the tenants were very old and paying a peppercorn rent, so the building was more of an investment for Frank's portfolio than a profitable concern. Just after he bought it, one of the tenants died, leaving an apartment empty. Frank didn't want the other tenants to think he was waiting for them to die off before he renovated, so, as a non-paying tenant, Joy's dressmaker perfectly suited his needs. The place was still furnished, because although the old lady's family had picked up her clothes and personal belongings, they had no need of her furniture. Frank would have happily dumped the tatty Formica-topped tables and shabby wardrobes, but said that he would do an inventory and send the family money for the old furniture. It seemed the old lady had left little else behind and Frank knew what it was like to have nothing. While he could be ruthless in business, his investments as a landlord kept him in touch with ‘real' people and he took his role as custodian of people's homes very personally, always erring on the side of generosity with his tenants. From Joy's viewpoint, the brownstone was an ideal, temporary place for Honor and her sewing machine. It was less than ten minutes' walk from the Fitzpatricks' home and it meant Honor could be available day and night.

Joy had thought the apartment a bit shabby and said she would happily redecorate, but Honor was content to move in right away. The most important thing was that it was hers alone, so she could cover the walls with her sketches and give over as much space and time as she liked to her work, without having to waste time commuting or talking to Barbara.

Within a few days, Honor had settled in. She had barely left the apartment: she was so happy drawing, and stitching yet another toile, while poring over the vast collection of art books that Joy had given her, seeking inspiration for embroidery panels and lacing. On the third day, she was going downstairs to put out the trash, when she saw a man flicking through some post, in the hallway.

She had not seen him before. All the other tenants seemed to be ancient, especially Mrs Mooney, the old lady who lived in the apartment on the ground floor. This man was certainly older than Honor but a good deal younger than her father. Tall and broad shouldered, with thick black hair, he was wearing suit trousers and an open collared shirt. No tie. Despite herself, Honor felt a flicker of attraction. Perhaps the change in her circumstances had brought about this sense of adventure, but instinctively Honor put her hand up to smooth her hair and she adjusted her skirt. As she descended the stairs, she heard Mrs Mooney open the door downstairs and say, ‘There you are; I hope you've come to fix that broken shelf.'

‘Not today, I'm afraid.' His voice was deep and there was something else...

The man had his back to her and didn't see her walk past. Mrs Mooney, who was half-blind anyway, didn't give her any excuse to introduce herself. Honor loitered at the trash area for a few moments but when she passed them again on her way back up the stairs they were still talking. Honor willed him to turn around, but he didn't. But then, she thought, he probably wouldn't have paid her any attention anyway. She was nothing special to look at. She stood at the top of the stairs for a few moments, fake-fumbling her key in the lock, and trying to eavesdrop, just so she could enjoy the timbre of his deep voice floating up the stairs.

His voice rose with laughter, then he said loudly, ‘Mrs Mooney, you are a ticket!'

They were the words of an Irishman and now she identified the ‘something else'. Beneath the New York twang was another, more familiar accent. It was the unmistakable slant of her hometown: Bangor, County Mayo.

Frank had not intended to lie. He had called around to the apartment to do an inventory of the deceased Mrs Kelly's furniture, for her family. Perhaps it was because Honor had not, unlike most of his tenants, expected that the business tycoon Frank Fitzpatrick, husband of Joy and darling of the social pages, would call around to his properties to attend to menial matters himself. However, the truth was that dealing with the ordinary people who lived in his properties made Frank feel normal and ordinary himself. So, every now and again Frank would give his buildings manager a day off, leave his suit jacket and tie in the office and wander around the residential apartments he owned in Manhattan, attending to his tenants' needs himself. These few hours when he pottered about the brownstones, talking to old ladies, changing lightbulbs, checking dead tenants' mailboxes, were the times when Frank felt most at home in himself.

Joy thought he was having after-office drinks with some colleagues and he knew she would have been horrified, to think of him mixing with the hoi polloi. Joy would never understand his desire to be ordinary and there was no point in his trying to explain it to her. She was playing the ‘housewife' game at the moment – not drinking, pretending to prepare meals for him – she had even bought herself an Irish tweed jacket, like the rich women back home in Ireland used to wear to mass. In her own way, Joy was trying to be a good wife, but if Frank was totally honest with himself, it wasn't enough. It hadn't been enough for a while now.

When Honor opened the door, he had a vague feeling of familiarity. She was an ordinary looking girl, not much shorter than him with a sturdy, homely figure. Her kind open face was more practical than pretty and framed with mousy, light-brown hair.

‘Are you the dressmaker?' he said.

‘Designer,' she corrected him, although she was smiling.

Was she flirting with him? Joy's friends flirted with Frank all the time, but their manner of doing so was always arch and obvious, designed to embarrass rather than lure him. He could not tell with this girl: maybe she just had an exceptionally warm smile.

He should have introduced himself then, explained that he was Frank Fitzpatrick, Joy's husband, but some instinct held him back.

‘I'm sorry, I don't really understand the difference,' he said.

She laughed. ‘Neither do I, most of the time.'

She paused, smiling again and saying nothing, before holding out her hand. ‘I'm Honor,' she said.

He knew her name of course, Joy talked of little else, these days, but her hand was warm and soft and she laughed when he took it. She was definitely flirting with him and it felt good. If she knew he was Joy's husband, the flirting would stop. Or maybe it wouldn't, but Frank didn't want to think about that, either.

‘Can I help you with something?' she asked.

‘I've come to do an inventory of the furniture.'

He let go of her hand, carefully, apologetically, as if he had picked up something in a shop he couldn't afford. He felt tongue-tied and silly, like a boy again.

‘Well, you'd better come in, then,' she said. She was almost laughing at him again. Frank usually hated women laughing at him, Joy's crowd had done it a lot in the early days, before he had got into the swing of things, but he didn't mind the way this Honor did it. It was as if she was just happy, genuinely happy. It was as if she was glowing, from the inside out, and just to be standing near her made him feel warmer, more alive.

He took his pen out of his pocket and fumbled in his briefcase for a pad. He didn't have one with him. Why would he? His secretary took all his notes.

She was leaning against the flimsy glass partition to the kitchen, with her arms folded, wearing a cream shirt and short trousers. She stood with one leg crossed over the other to give her a casual balance. She had no make-up on that he could see, and her hair was tied back in a messy bun. Compared with the high artifice of current fashion she was practically naked.

‘Do you need some paper?' she asked.

‘Please, I seem to have forgotten...'

‘Don't worry,' she said and handed him a notepad. ‘I have dozens of them.'

Frank gathered himself and started to write a list of the contents in the apartment:
1 table: Formica top; 2 chairs: kitchen; 1 chair: upholstered...

‘So, you work for Mr Fitzpatrick?'