The Dress

17.

A silver sandal with a red sole. Christian Louboutin. 2010.



Fabbia loved the shop at this time of day. The courtyard filled itself with evening sunlight and each leaded pane in the shop windows cast an oblong of light onto the wooden floor. Everything glowed or sparkled and at such moments, Fabbia could almost believe that she really had made something magical.

The floorboards were freshly washed with a special solution of cinnamon and brown sugar, dissolved in white wine vinegar. Now the floor seemed to shine with more than just reflected sunlight.

The effect was intensified by a small table that she’d draped with a white cloth and stacked with a pyramid of champagne glasses. David had assured her that he knew that trick, how to pour the champagne into the first glass and let it fizz down, not too slowly, not too quickly, in a cascade of bubbles, until each glass brimmed.

Where did he learn such a thing? She remembered her own most popular act, the one most frequently requested for the parties of wealthy businessmen, how she’d leap out of a giant perspex cocktail glass wearing only her emerald green feathers, smiling and singing: Happy birthday, happy birthday to you…

Twenty years ago now. More.

A lifetime.

Outside, a marmalade-coloured cat stretched herself on the cobbles and played the light between her paws.

Fabbia checked the final details, adding a vase of peonies, her favourites, the tight pink fists just beginning to burst into bloom. She shifted one of the dressmaker’s dummies, a little to the left then back to the right. This is how she’d chosen to display the various outfits to be auctioned, the Donna Karan kaftan now accessorised with gold wedge sandals and enormous sunglasses, the two dresses she’d made specially as her own contribution and, of course, the centrepiece in the window, Jean Cushworth’s oyster silk dress.

She opened the cash register. Yes, her newly-charged green malachite was safely in the change drawer, hidden beneath a pile of copper coins. She wondered if she had time for just a little extra touch. She knew that she shouldn’t. But, really, there was no one around and what harm could it possibly do?

She took a small silver hand mirror from under the counter and held it up to the sunlight. It sent a wobbly disc of light dancing over the white ceiling.

‘Hellooo! Sorry I’m a bit late!’ Mandy was making her way expertly across the cobbles in yellow patent wedges, her handbag swinging from the crook of her elbow as she balanced two precarious trays.

‘Sorry, Fabbia. Only just got them finished!’ She whipped off the teacloth covers to reveal rows of miniature cupcakes iced in pink and white, each topped with the tiniest flake of gold leaf. ‘What do you think?’

‘Perfect!’ Fabbia breathed, tucking the mirror back under the counter, clasping Mandy’s hands in hers. ‘Exquisite. Thank you so much, Mandy. And, by the way, you look absolutely… well, delicious! Just like a cupcake yourself!’

Mandy’s face dimpled. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

She smoothed her vigorously back-combed hair and ran her hands over the fitted pink bodice of her dress, shaking out the full skirt.

‘Not at all. I told you that dress was just meant for you. As soon as I saw it, I just knew…’ Mamma rubbed a fold of the soft pink cotton skirt between her finger and thumb and sighed. ’It has you in it, this fabric. All through it. Like… like a special ingredient in one of your concoctions…’ She smiled. ‘But I love what you’ve done with the shoes too. Yellow and pink together – like butter icing…’

Then she narrowed her eyes teasingly, in mock disapproval. ‘But wait a minute. This handbag, I recognise. Lovely. Just lovely. But those shoes are not mine, I don’t think?’ She raised an eyebrow.

Mandy blushed. ‘I found them at a carboot sale. Couldn’t resist them…’

‘Brava,’ Fabbia laughed. ‘A woman after my own heart.’ She gave Mandy’s arm a squeeze and then, to distract herself from the nervous feeling that had begun to flutter inside her, she busied herself plucking the cakes from the trays, arranging them on the coloured pressed-glass stands.

‘Erm, Fabbia…’ Mandy blushed, twisting her hands together nervously. ‘I’ve got something to show you. I’ve been meaning to do it for ages but…’

She fumbled in her handbag and drew out a thick wad of paper bound with a thin black ribbon.

Fabbia wiped her hands. The handwriting was firm and confident, a perfectly-formed script that swept boldly over the thick creamy envelopes. She thumbed through them. There must be a dozen letters or more.

‘I found them in the pocket of the dress,’ Mandy said. A red stain spread over her neck. ‘I feel bad. I should have told you earlier. But I wanted to read them. I couldn’t help myself… You know, you told me that the woman who owned the dress before me was an incredible person and I was so curious to know more… but now I feel terrible…’

Fabbia took the letters and stroked the paper.

‘You mustn’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’d have done exactly the same.’ She noticed that the top envelope was postmarked 1949. Wasn’t that the same date as the careful entry in Eustacia’s journal: Day dress. Bought in Selfridges, London, for lunch with R?

She slipped a single folded sheet out of the envelope.

‘My darling,’ it began.

It was so good to see you, if only for that snatched hour together. You looked radiant, as always, dearest Eu. Quite the loveliest I’ve ever seen you. I cannot get that image of you out of my mind. You sitting there, among all the china and paraphernalia and those vile souffles and the dreadful women chatting about nothing at all. You were like something from another world, another time, and I felt like the luckiest chap alive to be sitting there with you.

And that’s why I simply can’t accept your decision, my darling. Now that you’re a part of my life – a part of me – I don’t know how to be without you. We have to be together, Eu. We simply have to.

I don’t care about your father. You may think me callous, but I really don’t care what Mitzi thinks either. She doesn’t love me. She never did. To be frank, I think she’d be happier if I was off the scene.

And you and I, we’d be free to start again. I don’t care if we have to elope somewhere, live as exiles in some godforaskaen place – and anyway, wouldn’t you like that, darling? An adventure, a chance to see something of the world, like you’re always saying.

Forgive me, please forgive me for this outburst. I’ve thought long and hard about writing to you. But I can’t have any peace until I’m sure that you don’t feel the same. And you do, don’t you, Eu? I know in my heart that you do.

Please, my darling…just say the word and I’ll…’



‘Buongirono, signorinas!’

Fabbia looked up from the page to see David striding across the courtyard in his rented tuxedo and perfectly shined shoes, swinging an auctioneer’s hammer that he’d borrowed specially for the occasion. In the golden light, he looked like a picture from a catalogue.

She waved and then her eyes darted back to the bottom of the letter, signed with a final bold flourish, ‘Your Robert.’

She smiled again at Mandy.

‘Thank you,‘ she said. ‘And please don’t worry.… But I’ll need to return them to Eustacia’s nieces. I’m sure they’ll want to have them.’

She put the letters in the shoe box under the counter where she kept old receipts and bits of ribbon.

‘Let’s get this party started,’ David said, kissing her on the cheek, crossing to the shop stereo and selecting a CD, then whirling her around the floor, ballroom-style.

He paused, mid-waltz, to put a cupcake into his mouth, winking.

‘Delicious. Now where’s Ella?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fabbia. ‘Upstairs, I think… She’s taking her time.’

And then Fabbia forgot to think about Ella and about Eustacia and Robert and the mysterious love letter as the guests began to arrive and David expertly popped the cork on the first bottle of pink champagne.


Whenever she looked back on this moment, Ella realised that she always knew that something terrible was about to happen.

She hadn’t slept properly for weeks, Mamma scrutinising the dark circles under her eyes, Billy irritating her by asking her constantly if she was alright, are you really alright, El? because she always seemed to be somewhere else.

She and Billy had been circling one another slowly, or that’s what it felt like to her. As if each of them were too afraid to make the first move or talk about what was happening between them.

And she really couldn’t let herself think about that night. Inside her mind, she saw a high ivy-covered wall. Behind it, a part of herself, the secret hidden part, lay sleeping on a silken bed, sleeping the enchanted sleep of fairy tales, whilst first the ivy and then the twisted branches of trees and then an entire forest grew up all around her.

Sometimes she found herself longing for Billy to scale the wall, to find the first footholds, to hack back the thorns and branches, haul himself up, arm over arm, wake her from herself. But how could he do that now?

Not with a kiss. She’d blown that completely. He wasn’t exactly going to risk trying that again.

But did she want him to? This was the question that she turned over in her mind. Each time, the dark gap inside her seemed to get bigger. Sometimes, as she walked down the stairs to the shop, she’d catch Billy’s easy laughter as he cracked a joke and Mamma replied and then he’d fall silent, glance at her warily, a cloud passing over his face. Something had shifted between them, something she couldn’t even name. His Signals when she was with him were wobbly lines of grey and palest yellow, like cobwebs that she had to brush away from her eyes. It was as if they were each trying their best to go through the motions of being friends. Billy was scrupulously polite, carefully considerate. She hated it.

Night after night, on her side of the embroidered curtain, the hidden Ella, the secret part of her, went on sleeping and the wild birds wove a coverlet of leaves for her white body and she dreamed the dreams of the dead.

Meanwhile, the rest of her was very much awake, tossing and turning, alive to her own Signals, which seemed stronger now than ever. Her pillows crackled with static. There were lines of red and orange that licked at her like flames.

The woman above the doorway with her seaweedy hair had long ago stopped smiling at her. Instead, she held out her thin pale arms. Her mouth moved, forming stale words - sink or swim, sink or swim – whilst the river mist rose around her. A foul-smelling flotsam swirled over her bare feet - scraps of old fabric, broken bottles, beer cans, animal bones, a tattered white handkerchief with a monogrammed corner.

Now Ella was waiting in the bedroom window. She knew that he was arriving. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, the touch of his clammy white fingers.

As he stepped into the courtyard, the hem of his black overcoat caught by a sudden flurry of wind, she was ready. She stood back a little, half-shielded by the curtains, watching.

And so she had the perfect view of Mrs Cushworth’s face as she balanced on his arm, tripping lightly across the cobbles in her strappy silver sandals.

She watched Jean Cushworth’s mouth contort, heard her shriek, saw her stumble and hurl herself blindly through the shop door.

The hum of voices subsided. There was only the faint chords of the French accordion music playing on the shop stereo.

And then a voice, a hard, bright voice shrilling, ‘My dress! How dare you? Could you be so kind as to explain to me, please, what my dress is doing in the middle of your window?’

As Ella reached the bottom of the stairs, the first thing she saw was a silver sandal, lying in the middle of the shop floor. A silver sandal with a red sole. The red sole looked obscene. It made her think of a cut-off tongue.

She stooped and slipped her finger through the loop of the anklestrap and handed it to Mrs Cushworth, who stamped her bare foot like a child having a tantrum and threw it to the floor again.

The shop was full of people. Mamma was white-faced, one hand gripping the counter. The accordion player continued his inevitable easy crescendo until David crossed to the stereo and switched him off.

‘Well?’ Jean Cushworth’s voice was like rusty razorblades. Her eyes were narrowed. ‘I demand an explanation. How did you get hold of my dress? You must have stolen it. And how did you…? How in God’s name did you…? Oh, now I see... Now I get it. Yes, you must have taken it from my wardrobe on the day of the party!’

Ella watched Mamma, saw how she kept her face very still. Mamma looked around the room at all the people looking at her and then she sighed and raised her glass in Jean’s direction.

‘Brava,’ she said. ‘I salute you. Brilliantly done.’

Ella saw how people looked at the floor, shifted from one foot to another, exchanged glances. The girl from Braithwaites stared at Fabbia, her face flushed pink. The woman from the shoe shop in Petergate was already making for the open door.

‘What do you mean?’ Jean Cushworth was shouting now, her face reddening, her hair escaping from its careful chignon as she gave up any pretence of control.

She turned to Pike. ‘John, what does she mean? Is she making fun of me? Is that what she’s doing, this… this floozy, this cheap tart… ‘

‘Now, excuse me, that’s quite enough.’ David held up a hand, stepping into the centre of the shop floor.

‘Ladies… and gentleman,’ he bowed in Pike’s direction. ‘If you would be so good as to bear with us, I’m sure we’ll have this little misunderstanding sorted out in no time at all. But, really, Mrs Cushworth, I don’t think we need to resort to…’

‘Resort to what, exactly, Doctor?’ said Pike, his eyes glinting. ‘A few home truths? Finally telling it like it is?’

‘Like it is?’ repeated David, incredulous, and Ella could see now that his nostrils were flaring, his starched white tie bobbing up and down with the effort he was making to calm his breathing.

‘David, please. Really. There’s no point,’ Mamma was saying now. ‘Mrs Cushworth has already made up her mind… ’

But now it was Billy’s voice that cut across Mamma. Ella hadn’t even noticed him standing next to Mandy, over by the foot of the stairs.

‘Mrs Moreno, ‘ he said. ‘May I just ask you how you came by the dress in question?’

That’s how he said it, calmly, confidently, like a TV detective. Ella almost laughed out loud. And Mamma smiled at him, indulgently.

‘Billy,’ she said. ‘These people really don’t have the slightest interest…’

‘Just answer the question, Mrs Moreno, ‘ said Billy. ‘That is, if you please…’

‘Well,’ said Mamma. ‘You know how I got it, Billy. Katrina herself brought it to me… It was in a parcel, with a lot of other things… Of course, I had no idea that the dress was… ‘ She stopped herself.

There was a gasp and a little flurry of activity that travelled around the room as people took this information in.

‘Katrina, you say,’ said Billy, getting into his stride, raising an eyebrow, looking theatrically around the room. ‘And is she here?’

‘My daughter is at home with a cold,’ said Jean Cushworth. ‘This is outrageous. I hope you’re not implying… And, wait a minute…’ She looked wildly around the room again. ‘Yes, I’m right aren’t I? This is my Donna Karan, isn’t it?… And the headpiece from my wedding, for goodness’ sake and… My God. Half of this whole damn auction is something from my wardrobe. This is ridiculous! You want to make a laughing stock of me, obviously.’

Mamma looked at Billy and lifted her hands, palms upwards, in a little gesture of I–told-you-so. But Billy pushed on.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cushworth, but why would Mrs Moreno lie about this? I’m afraid that I really don’t see her motive. Perhaps you can explain…’

And here it comes, thought Ella. Her mind was already running ahead. She knew exactly what Pike would do next.

She watched almost as if she were watching a slowed-down film, as Pike wheeled around on his heel and pointed at her, his jowls wobbling, his long finger shaking in a perfect imitation of righteous anger.

‘Oh, I can explain it all perfectly,’ he said, with obvious relish. ‘It’s her. This girl here, looking like butter wouldn’t melt. This is the girl who stole your dress. I caught her going through everyone’s pockets in the cloakroom at the party. I tried to be understanding. I told her I’d let her off, just this one time, but clearly she sneaked upstairs and went through the wardrobes too.’

Billy fixed Pike with a cold stare. He looked down at the floor, gathering his thoughts. When he looked up his face was like a mask.

‘That’s a very serious accusation you’re making, Councillor,’ he said, quietly. ‘And so I assume you have evidence that Ella actually stole things? I mean, I beg your pardon, but why should we believe you? And I can’t help thinking that this is all a bit illogical. Why would Ella steal dresses and then give them to Katrina? You’re not making any sense.’

‘Oh, use your brain, lad.’ Pike was hissing through his teeth now. Ella watched a delicate spray of spittle fly from his lips. ‘Katrina doesn’t have anything to do with this. They’ve got the wool pulled over your eyes, good and proper. I didn’t think you were such a moron.’

And now it was Ella’s turn. She had felt it rising and rising in her, the hot red shape of her anger, but now, with that one word ‘moron,’ it was finally released. It broke the surface and spilled over. She felt it surge through her entire body.

She heard herself saying, very calmly, very clearly, ‘He’s lying. I didn’t steal anything. I was fetching my mum’s handkerchief from her coat. This man assaulted me. He put his hand up my skirt and… and tried to… well, things I don’t want to say here… And all because I caught them…’

She let her eyes meet Jean Cushworth’s then, saw the look of undisguised horror beginning to creep across her face.

‘I caught them together,’ she went on. ‘These two. Councillor Pike and Mrs Cushworth. I saw them together doing things that were… things that they shouldn’t have done… And he knew that I’d seen them and so he came after me…’

There was a shocked silence.

The silver sandal with its stilled red tongue leered at her from the middle of the floor.

Ella didn’t wait to hear what Pike would say next. She ran out of the shop and kept running.


Fabbia followed Billy, weaving through the streets, through the stream of people making their way to the station or back home to their families for the glass of wine, the evening meal.

My daughter, Fabbia thought, my poor daughter. How I’ve failed you. She felt a terrible straining and tugging at her insides.

‘We must find her, Billy,’ she said. ‘She mustn’t be on her own.’

Billy’s mouth was set, his shoulders thrust forward in grim determination. Fabbia let him take her hand and pull her along after him. She could feel his fury in the tight grip of his fingers.

They arrived at the river and Billy turned sharp left, kicking out impatiently at the geese that wandered in their way, heading upriver, faster, faster, towards the taller trees and the new bridge.

People here walked lazily along, making their way into town. Cyclists in fluorescent jackets swerved as they strayed onto the cycle path. Billy shoved past them all and headed on.

And there she was, sitting out there, half-hidden in the long grass, her legs tucked up, her arms wrapped tightly around her shins, her chin resting on her knees, staring out at the river.

Fabbia began to run towards her, her feet in their high heels slithering over the damp paths trodden in the grass.

Ella heard her coming. She turned her face and Fabbia could see that it was pinched and red and streaky with tears. She crouched in the muddy grass and held her tightly, stroking her head.

‘Tesora. My Ella-issima. I am so sorry, so sorry.’

She felt Ella break against her then, her breath wrenched out of her in gasps and sobs. She knelt and held on as tightly as she could.

‘Ella. Mrs Moreno. Could I…?’

Billy had been hanging back, waiting under the trees. Now Ella saw him come forward, running his finger around the inside of his collar, his face uncertain.

She nodded to him, tried to twist her face into a smile.

‘Billy… I’m sorry I…’

‘I’ll see you two later,’ Fabbia said. ‘Billy, make sure you bring her home safely. Don’t be too long now, carina.’

Ella watched as Billy threw himself down on the river bank. He tore at the grass, pulling it out in handfuls. She could see that his hands were shaking.

‘Billy,’ she tried again. ‘I’m so sorry. I…’

‘That bastard,’ said Billy, turning to her. ‘I’ll… I’ll kill him, I will. I swear. I’ll… That utter piece of work.’

And that’s when his eyes met hers and she felt a trace of the old laughter begin to creep around the edges of her mouth.

‘Piece of work…’ she said. ‘Remember? Piece of work?’

And the laughter began to escape from her. It took hold of her insides and burst from her lips and went echoing and juddering over the riverbanks.

Billy was looking at her as if she’d gone mad. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t hold it back.

‘It’s OK, Billy,’ she said, between gasps. ‘Really. It’s OK…’

And she put up her hand and stroked his cheek.

He flinched. His eyes closed.

‘Don’t, El,’ he said. ‘Please. Don’t.’

‘But I want to,’ she heard herself saying. ‘You see. I always did…’

He looked at her again, then, a long, searching look and then he took her hand in his, turning it over, carefully, hesitantly. She felt the warmth spread through her as he lifted her hand and pressed her open palm to his lips and then his arms came around her, and he pulled her into him. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest.

She could feel the river all around them, the Signals shivering in her throat, her legs as he tilted her face up to his and kissed and kissed.





Fabbia leaned against the huge gnarled trunk of a chestnut tree. She watched the river, wide and faster-flowing here and brown with peaty water. She thought of the rain falling on the hills and making its way, slowly, persistently, overground and underground, seeping through the fields and the layers of rock, burbling over channels of flat stones, swirling around the bulging tree trunks and then disappearing again, far beneath the surface, to emerge here in this one current pressing onwards, always onwards, sweeping everything with it, soil and twigs and branches and the small bones of animals and birds, gathering force, moving relentlessly on through the next towns, on towards the sea.

Fabbia thought that she understood how it would feel to be part of this river. She knew why Ella loved to swim and could lose herself in the water for hours at a time.

The surge inside her, the long, dark pulling feeling that had brought her out of the shop at a half-run, following in Ella’s wake, leaving everything, even David behind her, had not subsided. It was urging her on now, like many voices all speaking at the same time. And even as she tried not to listen, the voices grew louder, more insistent, and she could hear them speaking to her in the tiny rustlings in the grass and the wind moving through the leaves above her head and the sound of the river, pressing its smooth sides against the banks.

It was clear, firm, muscular, so much bigger than her. She felt her body already surrendering to it.

She thought of David, his horrified expression as the words, those terrible words, had fallen out of Ella’s mouth and into the silence.

She thought of those words - floozy, tart, thief, he touched me - lying all around the shop where she’d left them. How in the weeks and months to come, they’d crouch in the shadows, covering the bright fabrics, the embroidered shawls, the glitter of crystals and sequins, covering them all with a fine layer of dust, making everything look suddenly cheap, tawdry, worthless.

And perhaps no one else would see it or know that the words were there. But she would. She, Farah Jobrani, which was her real name, the name given to her by her own mother. And she thought of all the other beautiful and powerful words that she’d stitched into seams and fastenings and that, right now, were being carried by women all over this city in the silk linings of pockets, in the turn of a sleeve and the flicker of a hem.

She had failed. She was useless. She’d allowed her daughter to be touched by something so awful that there were no words in the universe that could speak it. She’d betrayed Enzo and her promise to him.

There’s another way, another way, the wind whispered.

But she shook her head stubbornly. No, she wouldn’t give in.

She watched Billy and Ella now, their heads tilted towards one another, seeing only each other, and she put her hand to her heart. Somewhere under there, beneath the layers of satin, the shaping and sparkle, was the real heart of Farah Jobrani. She thought of it like a peony, a flower that over the last few months had slowly begun to burst open and now – yes, she could feel it – was already furling each layer of petals around itself again, closing like a fist.

Billy was a good boy and he’d soon, very soon now, be a nice man, a kind man. Just like Enzo. Just like David. And that was just one more reason why they couldn’t stay here.

She turned and began to walk downriver again, retracing her steps, seeing the city come into view, the walls and spires shaped so long ago and that would still be here tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and long after Fabbia and Ella and David and Billy and Jean Cushworth and Pike were gone. Because one day they’d all be gone. Sinking back into the brown earth, tangling once more with the tree roots and the river.

She knew what she had to do. She’d go back to the shop and climb the stairs to the little flat where David would be patiently waiting for her, back to what she now knew she had to tell him, and she’d take the suitcases from under the beds and begin, once again, to pack their belongings.