The Dress (24 page)

Except Frank. All Frank could see was Honor Conlon.

She was standing next to his wife and wearing a simple, long evening dress, with a single set of pearls. Her curled hair was loosely drawn back from her face, as if she had hardly had time to fix it, and her face was bare, except for a slick of hurriedly applied red lipstick. She was smiling at Joy. The girl looked happy. ‘
Happier than a person had a right to be
' was something his mother used to say and, in seeing her happiness, he felt happy too. Joy's beauty and her extraordinary dress receded into the background and all Frank could see was the dressmaker.

Honor's gaze moved around the lobby and he knew she was looking for him. When she found him, Frank allowed his eyes to meet hers. He tried to keep his hands steady, but they were shaking so hard that he had to clench them into fists. When the girl looked at him, Frank saw something old and familiar in her eyes and he suddenly felt safe.

Honor had always known her dress was special, but it was not until the night of the party that she really saw it come to life. With its marbled walls and ornate pillars the exclusive hotel had a palatial monied elegance that usually managed to dwarf even the wealthiest, most overdressed crowd. However, this night, Joy Fitzpatrick filled it, turning the Romanesque palace and its furnishings into little more than a catwalk.

Joy wore the dress as if it was a second skin. The classic serenity of the jewelled bodice with its delicate lace panels flowed into a cloud of tulle from the waist down. Although the train was so heavy that Honor could barely lift it, Joy wore it with such grace that it seemed to glide in a glittering stream behind her. The intricately embroidered scenes around the skirt sprang to life with every step and as Honor followed her muse into the lobby of the Waldorf she felt she might explode with pride. Everything she had worked for all of her life was centred in that moment. All the beauty she had aspired to create in her was embodied in that one stunning woman and the magnificent dress they had created together.

Then she saw Frank.

He was looking, not at his wife, but at
her
and with such intensity, such
passion
, that she felt it like a kick to her stomach. Honor stood next to her great creation and smiled and smiled. She kept smiling and looking all around her at the people, cooing over Joy's dress, smiling for the flashbulb cameras, smiling at the women who gathered around to touch the train and exclaim over the jewelled bodice, but her eyes kept being drawn back to Frank's face, to where he stood at the reception desk. There he was, still looking straight at her.

Joy was incandescent with happiness and called her darling Frank over to stand by her side.

‘Well, that is some gown, Joy,' a woman exclaimed.

‘Everybody,' Joy announced to them all, ‘this is the woman who made it – Honor Conlon. Remember her name; she'll be open for business soon.'

Honor kept on smiling, but she could feel Frank inviting her to hold his eyes. Her face was burning – with embarrassment or desire, it was impossible to tell.

They moved through to the ballroom, where large round tables were set out around the dance floor. Each table was decorated with an enormous bowl of cream roses and a tall candelabra, and was scattered with favours, scented almonds in pink and lavender silk purses. Honor had never seen anything like it before, the sheer lavishness of the decoration and the scale of the room were breathtaking and yet, all she could feel were Frank's eyes, still on her, not letting go.

When the accolades abated briefly, Joy finally had the chance to introduce her husband to her friend. Frank's face darkened and he looked around the room, agitated.

‘Darling, this is the wonderful Honor. At last you meet. Now
be
nice, Frank.' Joy nudged him and said to Honor, ‘Sorry about my husband, he
hates
parties. You entertain Honor, she is
my
woman of the night. I've being summoned by
Vanity Fair
– I'll be back in a few moments, with the photographer.'

When she was gone, Frank smiled awkwardly at Honor and said, ‘The dress is really beautiful.'

‘Thank you,' Honor said.

They were standing side by side, looking at Joy as she walked across the room, gathering admirers in the wake of her regal, magical train.

‘It must have taken a lot of work,' Frank said awkwardly.

Honor smiled. ‘Yes,' she said, matching his understatement, ‘it did.'

There was a pause, then Frank leaned down ever so slightly and said, ‘I know you. You're John Conlon's girl.'

Honor got a fright at the mention of her father's name, but at the same time, could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.

‘And you're that guttersnipe, Francis Fitzpatrick, who stole money from my parents.' She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice, or at least hoped that it sounded more like anger than desire.

‘Are you going to expose me?' he said.

It was a strange use of words. Honor realized Frank was, despite his bravado, vulnerable, but she did not want to engage in more intimate banter. It was wrong, so she changed the subject.

‘Your wife looks beautiful tonight,' she said, then turned and, with all the decorum she could muster, looked him in the eye and said, ‘Joy has been very good to me.'

Frank held her defiant stare, until Honor felt herself melt into a kind of hopeless passion. As she looked away, Frank reached down and firmly took her hand in his, holding it into the fold of her wide skirt so nobody could see they were touching. Then he said, quietly but clearly, ‘I want you.'

That was when Honor knew she had to get out. Pushing his hand away, she walked quickly across the room. The huge ballroom was buzzing with people and unable to find the exit, Honor went into a ladies' rest room, where she locked herself in a cubicle and tried to gather herself.

Outside the cubicle a group of women was talking about Joy's dress.

‘Well, you wouldn't expect anything less than spectacular, darling; after all, she
is
turning thirty.'

‘I'll tell you something, I am getting the name of that designer and I'll be making an appointment this week.'

‘You and every other woman in Manhattan, dear. I would try and nab her tonight, if you can, although there'll be some price tag on her work, after a debut with Joy Fitzpatrick.'

‘It's still cheaper than flying to Paris.'

‘You can say that again.'

Then they faded out through the door. Honor wanted to run, but at the same time knew it would draw more attention to herself. She took a deep breath and gave herself a good, old-fashioned Irish talking to. She tried to imagine what her mother would say. ‘Frank Fitzpatrick is not the first man who tried to cheat on his wife and he won't be the last. He is a chancer, a fraud and a thief – don't walk away from this opportunity on his account. He'll give up trying to have his wicked way, soon enough, if you just ignore him and make it clear you're not interested.'

Except that Honor knew Frank Fitzpatrick wasn't really the problem.

Honor found Joy and stuck by her side for the rest of that evening and, as her inner mother had predicted, Frank did indeed back off. An hour into the party, when the band started up, Frank took his wife out, for the first dance. After stiffly leading her in a short waltz, he disappeared.

The rest of the evening passed in a whirlwind of introductions, barbed bitchy banter and congratulations. Once the dancing had finished and the cars started to arrive to take people home, Joy and Honor had a drink together.

‘To the future of our dress!' Joy smiled and clinked the champagne glass filled with iced tea she had been carrying around with her all evening.

‘The party was a triumph, Joy,' Honor said. ‘The canapés were superb and that champagne fountain was magnificent.'

‘Worth every penny,' Joy replied, ‘and I am so pleased we opted for the late hot buffet, it allowed everybody to get nicely drunk, before eating. Wasn't that a marvellous idea?'

She was putting on a brave face but Honor was could see that her friend, client, muse and benefactor was deeply hurt that her husband had left. The dress, the party – all this had, Honor knew, been done for Frank, and he had left early, probably because of her.

‘I am so glad you are here, Honor,' Joy said. ‘I loved introducing you to everybody.'

They both knew Honor's presence had distracted her, and her guests, from her husband's absence.

‘Thank you for staying with me. Frank had to leave early. A sudden work engagement, you know how men are.'

Honor smiled but she felt sick in her stomach.

‘Of course, Joy,' she said. ‘I'm your friend.' And even as she said it she felt guilty. ‘I'll stay as long as you want.'

Maybe she should tell Joy about her husband. About what sort of man he was. About what he had done? No. Maybe one day, but not tonight. Honor offered to go back home with Joy in a taxi so she wouldn't be going home to an empty apartment on her birthday.

‘That's sweet, Honor, but I've booked a suite here tonight,' Joy said. ‘Frank will be back later and we'll have our romantic birthday together then.'

Honor smiled, and embraced Joy a little too tightly before leaving.

Joy was left alone, in the aftermath of her own party. She had been too upset to be angry with Frank when he rushed out earlier and had made him promise to come back to the party, after his stupid emergency merger had gone through. He had not made it back before the party ended, but then, Joy justified, maybe that was for the best after all. It would be nice to have some alone time together; a private party in the bar downstairs, before he swept her upstairs and helped her out of her magnificent dress. Frank hated parties, he hated crowds. That was why he had not made any fuss over her tonight, why he had been relieved to rush back to work.

The ballroom setting was all wrong. With just the two of them together, he would see the dress properly, the jewels, the Irish lace she had commissioned. He would see all she had put into it, the sacrifices she had made, he would see her again: Joy, the sad girl he was going to save.

Joy went through to the bar and ordered a soda water, then sat down in a booth. It was late, but this was the Waldorf and the bar was open all night and there were a few residents still up drinking. Joy sat and waited. After a half hour or so, the night porter came in and gave a note to the barman. He came over and asked if she was Mrs Joy Fitzpatrick and when she said she was, he handed her a hotel memo with her name scribbled on the front. Frank had called the hotel and left a message to say he had to go to Boston on urgent business. He would not be home until the following evening – at least.

Joy felt weak with disappointment. Sitting here alone in this magnificent gown, her husband had, in effect, stood her up. She picked up her clutch and quickly walked towards the door and then, as she reached it, Joy thought again. Turning back, she walked towards the long bar and sat up on a stool. Her train spread all around her on the floor looked like a melting ice-cream sundae. She clicked her fingers at the young barman and ordered a whisky on the rocks. If she had to wait the few moments extra it took to shake a Martini, she might change her mind. In any case, when the barman put the squat crystal tumbler down in front of her, Joy found herself hesitating to pick it up.

As her hand hovered nervously over it, a man she had barely noticed sitting next to her, spoke. ‘Looks like you're making a decision, lady.'

She turned to him. He was an ordinary looking Joe in a very bad suit, clean shaven, with neat hair but the broad jaw and weathered features of a cowboy. Not bad looking. He was nursing a cup of coffee. What kind of a man drinks coffee in a bar?

‘One's too many, a thousand is never enough. That's why I stick to the coffee.'

Joy gave him a withering look, but he just shook his head and smiled. ‘Sorry for intruding,' he said. ‘Just something about your expression, I guess, the way you're nursing that drink, reminds me of my last one, the I've-been-dry-for-a-while-maybe-I-can-handle-it whisky. Three days later, I woke up on a front lawn in White Plains – no idea how I got there.' Then he laughed, drained his coffee, tipped his hat at her and said, ‘Enjoy your drink, lady.'

Joy was shaking, but she wasn't sure why. Here she was, in a priceless dress and this stupid, common man had made a comment on her expression?

One's too many, a thousand is never enough.

She knew what he meant, she knew what he was trying to say, the cheek of him. Two months off alcohol of any kind and she was a reformed woman, for God's sake. One drink was the least she deserved, to ring in her thirtieth birthday and settle her nerves, after being abandoned for the night by her husband.

She wrapped her manicured nails around the whisky tumbler and threw it back in two long gulps, then got down off the seat, to stop herself from ordering another.

Joy decided to not stay in the hotel suite, but lifted her heavy train and went into the street, where she flagged a taxi to take her home. One drink was plenty, and once she was back in her dry apartment, she could be sure it would be left at that.

That night she brushed her teeth more thoroughly than usual, slipped into her best Lucie Ann nightgown, then slept fitfully, waiting for Frank to come home. When he didn't, she moved into the drawing room and waited there. She snoozed, with the drapes closed for much of the day, holding onto the night and trying to convince herself that Frank would walk in the door any moment and resume her birthday date. She still wanted to believe he would move hell and high water to get home to her; she still wanted to believe he loved her enough to be with her. She still wanted him to see her in the dress. Last night he had been worried about this deal, distracted by work. Today he would come home, the deal would be done and things would be different.