The Dress (11 page)

Joy looked at the bottle then focused, haltingly, on his face.

‘I am
not
drunk,' she said. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? I have had
one
cocktail, Frank, one small cocktail at six o'clock, on New Year's Eve. Is that such a reckless act? Really?' Then she shook her head with a mixture of shock and embarrassment and added, ‘Frank, I don't know
why
you do this, but I am really getting sick of you constantly insinuating that I'm drunk.'

She wasn't ‘drunk', that was true. She was still lucid and at this stage it was easy for them both to believe that he was exaggerating her faults. But Frank could tell from the almost imperceptible sway of her body, the timbre of her voice, and the softness in her eyes, that she had about four cocktails in her. One of them a double. Even as his mind searched for a clever way to tell her this, he became incensed, with himself as much as with her. Was this the man he was now? A man who counted the number of cocktails his wife had taken?

‘Really, this ludicrous fantasy you entertain about me having a drink problem, Frank? I know you've got my interests at heart but, well, it's demeaning, and frankly, darling, a complete and utter
lie
.'

For a long time it had been easier for Frank to go along with Joy. To imagine that what she said was true, that it was all in his mind. Perhaps he was paranoid and all this was just a sly kickback to his childhood. The smell of alcohol on his father's breath as he roared out some insult, the bottle of expensive whisky in his father's pocket while his mother wept over the empty food cupboards. Maybe, Frank told himself, he
was
too sensitive to other people's drinking habits?

He took a deep slug from the neck of the bottle and, as he did so, Joy reached over, put her hand on his arm in a gesture of tender understanding and said, ‘You're working too hard, Frank. Look at you, you're so tense. You need to relax. I'll run you a bath; your evening clothes are all laid out for you. Why don't we take our time getting ready tonight? There's no rush. Jones said he's left us some food, so we can eat here then arrive at the Plaza late and just stay for an hour.'

She paused and her eyes pleaded with him. She seemed sober. Maybe he had been wrong about the number of cocktails.

‘Please? Darling? Let's not fight, not tonight?'

In his mind Frank conceded that sounded OK. Joy was making sense. He was working too hard. A bath, a cold plate and one hour at a party didn't sound too bad. Frank didn't want to fight either. He had fought growing up, he fought at work; Frank just wanted to relax and be with his wife.

‘OK,' he said.

Joy grinned and clapped her hands. When she did that she looked beautiful again. The Joy he had fallen in love with. The mind of a sophisticated woman in the body of an unblemished girl – a glorious contradiction.

She ran and kissed him.

‘OK, OK,' he said, reluctantly laughing. He unbuttoned his shirt as he walked towards the bedroom. Joy wouldn't want to get her hair messed up but hey, it was New Year's Eve and she was always a knockout, even when her hair was half-down.

He turned to take her hand and saw she was behind the bar again, fixing up a shaker.

‘Be right with you, baby, just mixing us up something special.' There was a little triumphant dance in her step.

Frank was overtaken with thundering rage and he knew he had to get out of the apartment or, so help him God, he would kill her.

He picked up his coat from the chair where he had just put it down.

‘Frank?' she called out. ‘Where are you—'

‘I'm leaving.' The words came out cold and muted, almost under his breath, but they were meant for her to hear.

‘Frank! Please... don't leave... don't do this...' she screamed as he walked towards the door. ‘Frank, I need you...!'

He stopped, took a step towards her and said, ‘You don't need me, Joy, you've got your mother's
fortune
.
Remember?
'

Joy flinched, partly at the cruelty of his tone and partly because it was true. ‘Please, Frank, don't go, I love you...'

‘The only thing you love is
this
,' Frank shouted and he drew his arm across the bar, sending the cocktail shaker and glasses crashing to the floor. Then he stormed out.

The whisky bottle survived and as soon as he was gone Joy picked it up, drank deeply from the neck then slid down the side of the bar and sobbed herself out.

Frank had ‘left' her many times before but he had always come back. The words were the same but this time it
felt
different. It felt as if he really meant it.

Joy finished the bottle of whisky then passed out on the Eames. When she woke, and Frank was not back, she resolved to stop drinking. She loved Frank more than she loved drink, of course she did.

She went to the glass shelf behind the bar and picked up a bottle of gin, unscrewed the lid and began, reluctantly at first, to pour it down the small bar sink. As the clear liquid glugged out, Joy gained an excited momentum and grabbed another bottle, then another, working two hands at a time, pouring everything away. When the last one was gone, she stood and surveyed the empty bottles with a sense of achievement. This was the answer: no more drinking. The fear that it might be too late was there, but she did not allow herself to entertain it. She could not afford to think like that because life without Frank was unthinkable. Joy knew she could not be alone. She could not.

As she went up and down the stairs, carrying the bottles to the kitchen, leaving them by the scullery door for Jones to deal with, Joy thought about what an excellent idea this was. Aside from the fact that her drinking upset Frank, she was turning thirty this spring, and she had heard that too much alcohol could ruin your looks. Although her face had fewer lines than most women her age, the spidery tendrils at the sides of her eyes were a sign that time was catching up with her. If she did all she could to keep herself beautiful and stopped drinking, then there was every reason her husband would want to stay with her.

As each hour passed, Joy's nerves began to unravel. She tamed the anxiety by keeping busy. First she cleared the bar area of all glasses and cocktail shakers then, as the heart of her living room looked so bare, Joy had the brilliant idea of filling it with the flower arranging paraphernalia she had acquired in an (insufferably boring) home floristry class. She arranged crystal vases on the glass shelves and stacked oasis foam and floristry wire under the counter where the shakers and cocktail sticks had once been. There. She didn't drink anymore. She was a respectable, flower-arranging wife!

Finding she felt hungry Joy went down to the kitchen and made herself an omelette. She even cleaned up her own pans afterwards, and arranged Jones's cold plate of meats and salads for Frank, for when he came back in. Her stomach was still churning with fear so, as she closed the kitchen door, she resolved, in a kind of silent prayer to herself, that the plate would be empty in the morning; Frank
would
come home.

Knowing she was too agitated to sleep, Joy took out the ‘medicinal' brandy she kept hidden in her bathroom cabinet and drank back three long slugs. She swallowed two barbital, then, before she could take off her evening gown, fell into bed and into a deep sleep.

The following morning, when she woke, Frank was sitting on the edge of her bed. His back was to her, upright and stiff like a statue. She crawled across the bed and crying with relief, pushed her arms under his and wrapped them around his chest, resting her sobbing head on the back of his shoulder. Joy knew she was being pathetic, but she couldn't help herself.

After a few minutes, when he didn't pull away, Joy felt reassured and said, ‘No more drinking, Frank, I promise. Everything is gone, I got rid of it all. Did you see what I've done with the bar?' She moved around on the bed so she was facing him, wiped her face and nose on the sheet like a child, drew herself up and said, ‘I am going to arrange flowers, Frank. I shall be the Mistress of my Own Vases!'

Then she noticed his face, stern and disbelieving. Frank pulled away from her, walked over to the bathroom and stood in the doorway accusingly holding up the small bottle of brandy.

Joy laughed; he was being ridiculous. ‘You can't be
serious
– that's just brandy, to help me sleep – it's medicinal.'

He smashed the bottle on the bathroom floor then steadied himself by leaning into the sink and said, with a mixture of rage and pity, ‘Don't laugh at me, Joy, don't ever laugh at me.'

‘I'm sorry, Frank.' She had never seen him like this before. Or rather, she had never seen him like this while she was sober.

Gathering himself he came back out into the bedroom and said, ‘Where's the rest of it?'

He reached over and dragged her out of bed. Then he hauled Joy, still in her nightgown, around the apartment rescuing bottles. Two vodka, a small Jack Daniels and three gin jiggers from various places around the house. The small drawer of the Alvar Aalto dressing table in a rarely-used guest room and under the bed in that same room – Frank knew them all. The apartment was large and well-furnished enough for Joy to squirrel away a dozen bottles while still persuading herself they were all in the open drinks cabinet. Frank had been methodically seeking them out for years.

When the final bottle was removed, from behind a bucket under the sink in Jones's scullery, Frank sat down on a chair and put his head in his hands. Joy just stood looking at him and waited. She felt as if her life depended on what he said now.

After a few seconds he lifted his head and, rubbing his cheeks in a gesture of pure exhaustion, said, ‘I can't do this anymore, Joy. Really, I just can't.'

She replied quickly and certainly. ‘I'll stop, Frank. No more hiding, no more lies. I'm off it for good, I promise.'

He smiled at her wearily. He wanted to believe her. ‘How do I know that's true Joy? You've said that so many times before.'

‘Because I love you and I don't want to lose you.'

‘I've said I'd leave before, but it hasn't made a difference.'

‘I've never believed you before. I know you mean it this time. I'll change, I want to change; I want to be a good wife.'

Her face was urgent, pleading with him.

Frank shook his head. ‘I don't know.'

‘Just think,' she said, ‘of all the magnificent flower displays I could make if I put my mind to doing something useful with my life. I'll learn to cook, I'll wear an apron, I'll spend less money on clothes, I'll even gain weight if you want me to.'

‘It's not that...' Frank said.

‘Good,' she said, ‘because you know I could
never
gain weight.'

Frank was smiling now.

‘And you know I will always spend
all
of your money on clothes.'

‘I know,' he said, unable to stop himself laughing. ‘All right. I'll stay.'

Joy ran over and kissed him and danced about the room making plans for dinner and all the wonderful things she was going to do for him.

For better or worse, Frank knew he had to give his wife a chance. He hoped he still loved her enough to see it through.

New York, 1959

Honor sat back in her seat and gazed out of the train window. The view along this stretch of line, just outside Hastings-on-Hudson and heading back into the city, was the most beautiful part of the journey. Along here the broad stretch of the Hudson was bordered by forest: the water was a flat grey sheet, the lacy branches of tall trees were mirrored in black shadows along its rim. The sky was a watery blue filter and the winter sun shot through it with shards of pink. Late afternoon was the best time to view this landscape, which was why Honor always made sure that she returned from her day trips out of the city at this time.

‘Going out to the sticks again – but you went last week. What the hell do you
do
out there?' Barbara said, in their shared kitchenette, although she knew what Honor did: sketch.

It was all her Irish roommate ever did. Their whole apartment was covered in sketches: small landscapes, bits of flowers, but mostly dresses. Dresses, dresses, dresses, everywhere. She needed Honor to go to an afternoon tea dance in a city hotel with her this Sunday; Barbara simply had to find herself a husband.

‘I just like to look around,' Honor said. ‘Why don't you come out with me? It's so beautiful there. There's a forest I go to, and the trees...'

‘There are trees in Central Park, and there are also
men
. Please, Honor, stay in the city this weekend.'

Honor gave her an apologetic grimace and Barbara waved her off resentfully. She and Honor were the only two girls in the studio left on the shelf; sometimes it seemed like they were the only two left in the whole of Manhattan. If they didn't pull together, they'd end up as spinsters. Barbara couldn't walk into a hotel dance alone, but equally she knew there was no point in trying to reason with her stubborn roommate.

‘Such a plain Jane, it's a shame,' the girls in the workshop said about her behind her back. ‘If she spent a bit more time putting lipstick on her face, instead of daubing paint on paper, she might have some chance of meeting a man.'

Honor knew her roommate Barbara was getting fed up with her, but she wasn't too worried about it. She had not come to New York to get dressed up and go dancing and she certainly had not come all the way to America to find a husband: there were any number of dancehalls and dozens of good Mayo men more than willing to marry her, back home in Ireland.

Honor had had a sweetheart back in Dublin. Sean Duffy was a nice young man, only a few years older than herself and a schoolteacher. She had enjoyed Sean's company and she had certainly enjoyed the danger of illicit passion. However, a year into their relationship, after they had crossed all boundaries of Catholic propriety, Honor felt the relationship shift in gear. She would have been happy enough with them enjoying each other and carrying on as things were, but Joe had wanted them to get married and she knew that if her parents got wind of a teacher for a son-in-law, that would have been her future, set. There would have been no hope of ever becoming a designer, so she got herself a ticket and fled. Honor Conlon was in New York to get away from a man and marriage, not to find one.