Owen rose to rinse the cups. Lauren stood beside him and dried them. They moved around each other with the wary efficiency of strangers in a shared kitchen. When they finished, Owen placed the separation papers in a drawer rather than tearing them up. Lauren went upstairs without asking whether he wanted a kiss goodnight.
The house was quiet. She sat at her sewing machine, switched on the work lamp, and took a length of plain cotton from a basket. She didn’t begin a dress. She made a straight line of stitches, stopped, and looked at what her hands had done. It was an ordinary line. She had chosen its direction herself.
Chapter Nine: What the Dress Cost
Before Megan reached the restaurant the following morning, Priya called Lauren from the number on the event sheet. Lauren was eating toast alone when the phone rang. She almost ignored it; unknown numbers had acquired a new menace since the night before. But Priya left a message asking whether the dress should be returned to its maker, who had appeared at the back door asking for payment.
Lauren drove over in daylight. Without the candles and arriving guests, the warehouse was a workplace. A delivery driver backed a truck toward the loading bay. Two cooks carried crates of greens to the kitchen. Near the employee entrance, a woman in a purple sweatshirt stood with a garment bag over her arm. She introduced herself as Nessa Ward, a costume maker with a workshop above a dry cleaner.
“I was told you commissioned this,” Nessa said. “I took the measurements from photographs because Mr. Mercer said he was surprising you. I didn’t usually accept that sort of arrangement, but he called it a gift.”
Lauren looked at the dress. “You made it beautifully. But I didn’t commission anything.”
Nessa pressed her lips together. “He paid a deposit, then told me the balance would come from ticket revenue. I cannot afford to lose it. There were three fittings on a dress no one actually tried on.”
“How many hours did you work?” Lauren asked.
“More than I should have. I had to redraw the bodice twice. He kept saying the silhouette needed to be exact, as though a photograph could tell him how your body is shaped now.”
Lauren felt a sudden, unreasonable desire to apologize for having grown older. She put the thought aside. “That was his decision, not yours. Megan is handling the accounts. She’ll make sure you’re paid.”
“I don’t want pity. I want my invoice honored.”
“You should have it honored,” Lauren agreed. “And if you prefer, you can keep the dress instead of leaving it with people who never had the right to order it for me.”
