Page 60 of All Our Missing Pieces

Before I could protest again, she reached out, placing a hand on each of my shoulders, her eyes fixed on my face. ‘Please? Just try it?’

There was no way I could decline – even if I’d wanted to. And, looking at the dress, I realised that I didn’t – not really. Seeing it had awoken something in me – a kind of covetousness that was almost lust. The Vivienne Westwood dress Orla had found for me in the market had made me feel the same, in a smaller way. It had, I realised, been a precursor to this, a gateway that had made me realise beautiful things – and even beauty itself – were not just for other people.

‘I’d love to,’ I said.

I was quite used to trying on clothes in front of Orla by now. Unselfconsciously, I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of my jeans, pulling off my T-shirt.

‘Let me help you.’ She located the few tiny buttons on the back of the dress, unfastened them and eased it over my head, guiding my hands into the armholes.

Immediately, I could feel the weight of the embellishments, their surfaces scratching the skin inside my arms. From shoulders to hips, the dress was heavy, almost rigid – below that, the skirt felt weightless against my bare legs.

‘It’s above the knee on you,’ Orla said, ‘shorter than it was designed to be, but that doesn’t matter. My grandmother was five foot five – she was considered a tall woman then. Turn round and let me button you up.’

I obeyed, feeling Orla’s dexterous fingers skilfully fitting the tiny buttons into their places.

‘I’ll need someone to help me get into it,’ I said nervously. ‘I don’t want to damage it.’

‘You won’t. It was made to last. But you’re right – my grandmother still had a maid to help her dress, even then.’

I couldn’t see Orla’s face, but the tone of her voice had changed, from excitement to wistfulness.

‘You must miss her,’ I said tentatively. ‘Your grandmother, I mean. She must have really loved you, to have wanted you to have the house.’

Orla moved in front of me, adjusting the straps of the dress over my shoulders.

‘Your bra strap shows at the back,’ she said, ‘but you don’t need to wear one.’

For a second I felt rebuffed, but then she went on, ‘She did love me. And I loved her. She was like a mother to me. She never had a daughter, you see. Just one son – my father.’

She raised her eyes from the dress to my face, unsmiling. I didn’t know what the right thing was to say – whether to ask her more, wait for her to volunteer, or move the conversation back to the safe territory of fashion.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said softly. ‘Sorry for your loss.’

Orla sighed. ‘I’d already lost her, in a sense. When I moved away. I left because I thought I didn’t want to see her again and by the time I did, it was too late.’

Questions whirled through my mind. Why had Orla moved away? Where was her own mother in all this? What had happened to change things so drastically between her and the grandmother she’d clearly been so close to?

‘I hated her at first,’ Orla went on, almost as if I wasn’t there. ‘It’s a strange thing, how love can turn into hatred. But it didn’t take me long to realise that it was myself I hated, far more than her – myself and what I’d done. That was the thing. I didn’t think she’d ever forgive me, and until she had I couldn’t forgive myself.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered again, wishing I could find more, better words to say.

Orla sighed. ‘She thought she was doing the right thing for me. And she was, really – at least, as far as there was any right thing, after what I’d done. She was a remarkable woman. A strong woman.’

‘So are you,’ I said. ‘You’re amazing. I don’t know what she was like, but I can imagine her being just like you. I bet she’d be really proud if she could see you now.’

Orla smiled. ‘Thank you, Livvie. You’re a sweet girl. She’d have loved to see you in that dress, I know that. Now come on – let’s get you dressed again and go upstairs. It’s too full of damp and memories down here.’

So we went up. I hung the dress away in my wardrobe and helped Orla make ratatouille for dinner. Orla didn’t mention her grandmother again that night. But I couldn’t help dwelling on what she’d told me, and wondering what could have happened to destroy their relationship. Whatever it was, Orla carried the legacy of it with her like a weight.

What kind of event could have torn a family apart like that? I could think of only one thing that could have led to such a rift, such shame and regret, such a need for secrecy and silence.

I believed I knew what it was. And, remembering Beatrice’s spying through Orla’s possessions, I became certain that she knew, too.

I just couldn’t figure out how Beatrice might have guessed, nor why she seemed so desperate to find out the truth.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Her tongue pinched painfully between her front teeth, Beatrice piped the final rosette of pink icing on to the surface of the cake, then stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect – not by a long stretch. The sketches she’d done in her notebook had shown a cute yet graceful unicorn’s head, complete with fluttery black eyelashes, a flowing lilac mane and a twirly horn.