Therese, who had obviously known this for much, much longer than my grandmother, having saved me from the sad state of my wardrobe repeatedly over the last couple of weeks, merely rolled her eyes before handing me a familiar-looking dress bag and a heavy leather tote bag, then shutting the door behind her.
“Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it,” she said, calmly, as Isabelle sat herself down at my dressing table and started fussing with her hair. “So, my dear, who would you like to be tonight? Twenties’ flapper? Thirties’ pin-up? Forties’ siren? I think we’ve even got a lovely fifties’ prom dress in here, somewhere…”
Clutching Ellie’s list to my side, I said, quite firmly, “I’d like to be myself tonight.”
Isabelle raised her eyebrows at her sister-in-law in my mirror. As happy as I was to see them getting along again, I really wished it wasn’t my lack of fashion sense that had brought them together.
“I thought the plan was for you to woo Edward in something spectacular?” Isabelle said, turning away from the mirror to face us.
“We bumped into Ellie downstairs,” Therese explained. “She mentioned a few more details from your plan.”
Leaving the dress bag and holdall strewn across the bed, I dropped down to sit on the window seat and explained my dilemma. “So, you see, the last thing I want to show Edward is me playing dress up as something I’m not. If I’m going to convince him I’m for real this time, I have to show up tonight as myself. Warts and all.”
Isabelle was watching me appraisingly. “Maybe not warts…” she said and then, sweeping towards the door, added, “Wait here.”
While we waited for Isabelle to return, Therese began hanging out the beautiful vintage dresses she’d brought with her, hooking each coat hanger on the picture rail around the top of the room. The rich colours and fabrics glowed against the warm lemon walls, and I found myself imagining myself as the girl who could wear them, imagining all the different people I could be.
“You know,” Therese said, laying out the matching shoes below each outfit, “A little bit of dress up is nothing to be ashamed of. We all need to be someone else, sometimes.”
Sighing, I leant forward to rest my elbows on my knees, coveting the range of handbags – from jewelled clutches to sharp-edged crocodile-skin bags. “I know. But tonight…”
“You need to be yourself, I know.” Therese hooked a string of glass beads over the flapper dress. “But, you said yourself the other day, you’re not so sure who that is right now. Maybe that’s because you haven’t designed yourself, yet.”
Before I could answer, the door flew open again and Isabelle reappeared, her arms full of slippery fabrics, shoes and bags tucked under her elbows and hanging from her fingers. Behind her came my mother, then Caroline, with even more items of clothing, apparently raided from their own wardrobes. Quite what Isabelle thought I was going to do with a nine-year-old’s clothes was beyond me, but I sat patiently as they laid them all out on the bed, organised by item of clothing.
“What am I supposed to do with all of these?” I asked, staring at the vast array of silks and satins and cottons and chiffons strewn across my room.
“Well, you said that you wanted to be a new person, the ‘real you’,” Therese said, folding a tartan sweater across her arm. “And we all know, the first step to becoming somebody new is deciding what they wear.”
“But, that’s the whole point! I’ve been doing that. That’s what I’ve got to stop.” I sank back down onto the window seat. Maybe I’d just turn up for dinner in my pyjamas.
But Mum was shaking her head. “No. What you were doing before was deciding what other people wanted you to be, and wear. You were dressing for the audience.”
“And now?” I asked, still confused.
“Now, you have all these clothes at your disposal, while you figure out exactly who you want to be.”
I ran my eyes over the clothes again. One thing was for sure, I wasn’t a mini kilt sort of person. “And you’re all going to help?”
Therese shook her head. “You need to decide this for yourself.”
“We’re just here to make sure that it doesn’t look awful,” Isabelle put in, brightly. Which made me feel much better.
It took a while, and there were any number of disagreements about colour, texture and style combinations. But, eventually, I found the outfit that felt right to me – that didn’t feel like a costume – and refused to take it off.
“It’s a shame,” Therese sighed. “I could have sold that skirt for at least fifty quid.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I promised, absently, running my hands over the rose pink circle skirt, with white roses embroidered around the hem. I loved it; it flared out making my waist look tiny, and it looked perfect with Ellie’s white knit bardot top. I had one of Mum’s floaty scarves as a belt, and the top fitted snugly across my upper body, showing off my shoulders, which I knew Edward liked. Elbow-length sleeves, and the most beautiful cashmere. And, most importantly, the whole ensemble looked fab with my beloved pink heels, rescued from mouldering in the attic. Finally, I’d get to wear them. I’d grown into the person who was meant to own them, at last.
“No, no,” Therese said, not sounding very convincing. “Have it as a gift.”
Isabelle, however, was looking at me critically. “Jewellery!” she said, snapping her fingers.
“Ooh!” Caro bounced up and down on the bed with excitement. “I can fix this one!” In one small blur of movement she was out of the door.
Mum, however, was more concerned with something she’d found under a stack of skirts. “Oh, blast. I forgot to give your Dad his new apron.” She held up a long, traditionally blue and white striped apron – much more sedate than his usual kitchen attire.
“It’s nice,” I said, trying not to sound too surprised.
“It’s to get him into the party spirit.” Mum grinned, and held up the attached party hat, and pulled out the party blowers and poppers from the front pocket. Since it was still nicer than usual, I just smiled and nodded my head in agreement as she dashed out the door to deliver it to the chef.
As Mum departed, Caro came running back in, holding a small jewellery box out towards me. “Here you go!”
I took the box and opened it, a familiar tune ringing out as the ballerina started to dance. I hadn’t seen my old jewellery box in years, even before I left Rosewood. “Where did you find it?”
“In my room,” Caro said. “I mean, your room.”
“It’s your room, now.” I lifted a pair of silver and enamel earrings from the box; delicately wrought roses to match the ones on my skirt. Nathaniel had given them to me for my thirteenth birthday, when I was finally allowed to get my ears pierced.
Isabelle nodded with apparent satisfaction. “They should work. What about her neck, though?”
“There’s a matching pendant,” Caro said, holding out a slim silver chain with another rose on it.
“Not dramatic enough,” Isabelle decided, dropping it back onto the dressing table.
I left them debating that as I took a look in the mirror. I almost felt like myself again.
Therese had draped strands and strands of beads and chains over the edge of my mirror, and I ran them through my fingers, just enjoying the feel of them, until something silver and pink caught my eye. Untangling the necklace from all the others, I slipped it over my head.
The ball-bearing-sized beads alternated between silver, blush pink rose quartz and a clear crystal, and they were strung together with a thin silver ribbon that wove in and out between the beads. It sat high on my collarbone, drawing even more attention to my bare shoulders, somehow. “Does this work?”
The others stopped arguing briefly to check.
“You know, your grandfather gave me those beads for my nineteenth birthday. Just after he sold his first novel,” Therese said. I went to take them off again, but she stopped me. “They look absolutely perfect on you.”
“Besides,” Isabelle p
ut in. “The pink always went badly with Therese’s complexion.” I winced, but Therese was actually nodding in agreement. I wondered if they’d been at the sherry before storming my bedroom.
“Now,” Isabelle went on, standing with her hands on her hips as she looked me up and down. “What are we going to do with your hair and make-up?”
I considered. “You know what? I think I can figure that out by myself.” I checked my watch. “Besides, you all need to go and get changed if you want to be ready in time for this party.”
The room emptied with surprising rapidity.
I heard Edward’s car pull onto the gravel as I put the finishing touches to my make-up, around fifteen minutes later. Considering my hair, I settled for just running a brush through it so it sat tidily tucked behind my ears. Isabelle was bound to complain, but it was comfortable and easy, and that was what I wanted.
If I ran, I realised, I might even be able to catch him before he made it into the house. This could all be sorted out before dinner. Then, maybe the weight that was sitting on my heart would disappear.
But by the time I made it downstairs, Edward was already moving leftover bottles of champagne into the mini-fridge, and Dad, resplendent in his new apron, wanted me to test the food, and then the others arrived, in outfits of various vintages and styles, and the most I got before dinner was a glass of not quite chilled champagne and a whispered “You look gorgeous,” from Ellie. Which, actually, was worth quite a lot.
Edward, on the other hand, barely glanced my way.