Page 88 of The Wedding Dress Repair Shop
2017
Of course, I already knew the story and had looked at the scanned-in photographs, newspaper cuttings and Amy’s mother’s emails to Honey, the originals of which were in the box.
One of the photos showed Amy and her mother together, and since both were tall, with long, blond hair, they resembledeach other and you had to look closely to see that one was glossily well preserved rather than young.
Amy’s mum was quoted in a couple of the newspaper articles, saying things like: ‘Many people thought we were sisters rather than mother and daughter.’ I don’t know about Amy, but I’d have hoped my own mum would have looked like one by now, rather than as if she’d borrowed my makeup and clothes …
Still, she was obviously doing her best to find her daughter and I hoped all the publicity the display in the museum generated would help.
I carefully spread Amy’s dress on the table and contemplated it. It was of white matte silk satin and there was quite a lot of it, since it was long enough to drape on to the floor and also had quite a large train.
It was strapless and tightly fitted down to below the hips, where it flared out over layers of tulle, embellished with beads and lace, which had a subtle effect through the matte satin of the overskirt. There was more lace and beading on the bodice, which had a mesh back, so it looked fairly open.
I’dhave looked like an overdressed Christmas tree fairy in it, but I expect tall, slender, blond Amy had been able to carry it off … or would have been.
Had someone carriedheroff – perhaps violently? Because there was no escaping the rusty spatter of small bloody droplets down the front of the skirt.
I knew the police had hung on to the dress for some time, and then her mother had not had it cleaned, since she seemed convinced it held some secret information that the police had somehow missed.
The dark drops marring the front of the skirt looked incongruous and, of course, my costumier’s mind immediatelystarted offering solutions to cover them up – a scatter of silk and lace roses, perhaps? But of course, it was futile to think about that, for no one would ever want to wear this dress again.
As far as measurements went, Amy was a fairly standard twelve, a stock size. The dress was creased, as if it had spent a lot of time folded in a box, before it was put on a hanger, so a little gentle pressing was really all it needed to make it display-ready.
There was no veil in the box, just a hair ornament of wire, beads and pearls to match the dress, and the shoes were high-heeled satin with more beading and pearls. I found the fake swansdown cape Honey had mentioned in there too, but I thought that would be better displayed separately.
When I’d taken all the details and photographs and added them on the computer, I returned the dress to the end of the hanging rail, next to Honey’s. Two down, eleven to go. But still, I now knew the sizes of three mannequins to order, because of course I already knew my own. Since Honey had arranged to buy the two mannequins specially made for Rosa-May’s Titania costume and evening dress from the V&A, I didn’t need to worry about those.
George had kindly emailed me all his technical notes, giving details of fabric and construction, so those only needed adding to the catalogue at some point, although, of course, I already knew every tiny detail of the Titania-based evening dress.
I felt I was getting on really well and stopped for a coffee break, then braced myself to actually look at my forever-tainted Titania wedding dress.
I put it on the dummy I used when making my own clothes and it whispered into place like a dream … but a tainted dream, for I was sure it still held an alien trace of Mirrie’s disturbing, musky perfume.
I’d taken copious notes on the fabric and construction while making it, plus lots of photos, so those were easy to add, under its catalogue number:
Dress 12
A Titania-Inspired Dress
Without the Fairy-Tale Ending
2018
Now it was just one more dress in the collection, and I made it feel even more impersonal by writing a brief outline of the story of why it was never worn in the third person, naming no names and missing out the shredded-costume interlude, of course.
At some point I’d write the wording for the small information cards that would be displayed next to today’s dresses, and email them over to Pearl, who would print out and laminate them. Honey intended writing the big storyboards with sensationalized histories of the exhibits herself.
Looking out of the window, I saw that the courtyard was full of long shadows. It was definitely time to finish for the day and think about dinner.
And someone else agreed with me, for a horrible, ululating scream issued from the direction of the sitting room: Golightly was singing for his supper.
29
Box of Delights
It was only when the cat was tucking into his posh nosh that I realized quite how tired I was. The thought of cooking anything more adventurous than beans on toast seemed way too much of an effort.
However, before I’d even rummaged in the drawer for a tin opener, there was a ring at the door and I found Thom and Simon on my doorstep, bearing wrapped and mouth-wateringly fragrant parcels of fish and chips.
