Read Online The Midnight Dress by Karen Foxlee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Foxlee
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voice, ‘how was A Virgin in Paris ?’
‘I was up all night reading it,’ says Pearl, a little too quickly, Rose thinks.
‘Of course,’ he says.
Pearl is standing in the safety of an aisle but she’s dipping her school shoe into the tiny spit of linoleum that separates her from him. Rose moves away, looking for something else.
There are some old books at the very top of one shelf, brown spines crumbling, their fibrous innards escaping. She slips one from the shelf and is surprised to find it’s called The Art of Dressmaking . She holds it up to her nose and inhales its tart vinegary scent. She thinks of her little green notebook then. What it will look like in a hundred years’ time. All her words there, her single words and groups of words that were meant to be sentences but that led nowhere.
Pain. Chandelier. Black. Dark. Dying. Cooling. Crying. Ugliness .
What will I do? she has written.
Pearl , she has written.
She’s been going to describe Pearl, but even writing her name seems wrong. Like tacking down a live butterfly. She has crossed out the name, first with a pencil and then with an ink pen. Blacker and blacker and blacker until none of it remained.
Rose turns the pages of The Art of Dressmaking .
Large girls should never wear orange or stripes.
Tall, thin girls should not wear patterns.
‘And what was the story,’ Paul asks, ‘that kept you up all night?’
Pearl doesn’t answer at first; she’s gathering her thoughts.
‘Well, there’s this girl called Gardenia who goes to live with her aunt in Paris because her mother has died. Her aunt has really wild parties. And there’s this baron, who’s the aunt’s lover, and he’s really bad and there’s Lord Harcourt, who’s really haughty and arrogant, and she really doesn’t like either of them but she especially doesn’t like Lord Harcourt because he’s so, you know, arrogant. But in the end she falls in love with him.’
‘Ah, the arrogant man,’ says Paul.
‘Gardenia was a good-enough heroine, although I don’t really know what she saw in Lord Harcourt. I think I liked the baron better. He was kind of funny and sexy. And French.’
Redheads should never wear warm colours.
There is nothing to fear when making a pocket.
Anyone can make a dress given time and patience.
A long pause. Paul laughs softly into the silence.
‘Pearlie,’ he says. It’s not a question. He’s just saying her name. Rose is surprised at the tenderness in his voice.
Pearl steps into the little space before him. Rose senses it more than hears it. She moves along the aisle, The Art of Dressmaking in her hands. She would like to buy it, could show it to Edie. That’s a strange thought, she thinks. As though Edie is a friend. She shakes her head.
Paul is leaning back in his office chair, arms slung behind his head. There are two large sweat stains beneath his armpits that look like matching maps of Africa. His hair is not really blond but dyed, brassy, going dark at the roots. His hairy feet are planted on the floor. The middle of him is hidden by the table, which is just as well, Rose thinks, because without a doubt he’d have a hard-on. He’s like a spider. Exactly like a spider, sitting there in his strange web of books.
Pearl seems lost for words now. She’s holding The Alchemist’s Daughter in her hands, trying to think of something to say.
‘How much is this one?’ Rose interrupts. Pearl jumps a little. Rose’s voice seems loud in the cramped little shop. ‘There’s no price on it.’
Paul Rendell leans forward in his chair, retracts his spider arms, puts away his glistening teeth and his shining eyes.
‘ The Art of Dressmaking ,’ he says, holding the book. ‘This is a first edition and quite expensive, you can have it for seven dollars.’
Rose doesn’t have seven dollars. He looks her up and down, the way someone might glance at a statue in a museum and then move on.
‘Now, what have we got here?’ he says, holding out
‘I was up all night reading it,’ says Pearl, a little too quickly, Rose thinks.
‘Of course,’ he says.
Pearl is standing in the safety of an aisle but she’s dipping her school shoe into the tiny spit of linoleum that separates her from him. Rose moves away, looking for something else.
There are some old books at the very top of one shelf, brown spines crumbling, their fibrous innards escaping. She slips one from the shelf and is surprised to find it’s called The Art of Dressmaking . She holds it up to her nose and inhales its tart vinegary scent. She thinks of her little green notebook then. What it will look like in a hundred years’ time. All her words there, her single words and groups of words that were meant to be sentences but that led nowhere.
Pain. Chandelier. Black. Dark. Dying. Cooling. Crying. Ugliness .
What will I do? she has written.
Pearl , she has written.
She’s been going to describe Pearl, but even writing her name seems wrong. Like tacking down a live butterfly. She has crossed out the name, first with a pencil and then with an ink pen. Blacker and blacker and blacker until none of it remained.
Rose turns the pages of The Art of Dressmaking .
Large girls should never wear orange or stripes.
Tall, thin girls should not wear patterns.
‘And what was the story,’ Paul asks, ‘that kept you up all night?’
Pearl doesn’t answer at first; she’s gathering her thoughts.
‘Well, there’s this girl called Gardenia who goes to live with her aunt in Paris because her mother has died. Her aunt has really wild parties. And there’s this baron, who’s the aunt’s lover, and he’s really bad and there’s Lord Harcourt, who’s really haughty and arrogant, and she really doesn’t like either of them but she especially doesn’t like Lord Harcourt because he’s so, you know, arrogant. But in the end she falls in love with him.’
‘Ah, the arrogant man,’ says Paul.
‘Gardenia was a good-enough heroine, although I don’t really know what she saw in Lord Harcourt. I think I liked the baron better. He was kind of funny and sexy. And French.’
Redheads should never wear warm colours.
There is nothing to fear when making a pocket.
Anyone can make a dress given time and patience.
A long pause. Paul laughs softly into the silence.
‘Pearlie,’ he says. It’s not a question. He’s just saying her name. Rose is surprised at the tenderness in his voice.
Pearl steps into the little space before him. Rose senses it more than hears it. She moves along the aisle, The Art of Dressmaking in her hands. She would like to buy it, could show it to Edie. That’s a strange thought, she thinks. As though Edie is a friend. She shakes her head.
Paul is leaning back in his office chair, arms slung behind his head. There are two large sweat stains beneath his armpits that look like matching maps of Africa. His hair is not really blond but dyed, brassy, going dark at the roots. His hairy feet are planted on the floor. The middle of him is hidden by the table, which is just as well, Rose thinks, because without a doubt he’d have a hard-on. He’s like a spider. Exactly like a spider, sitting there in his strange web of books.
Pearl seems lost for words now. She’s holding The Alchemist’s Daughter in her hands, trying to think of something to say.
‘How much is this one?’ Rose interrupts. Pearl jumps a little. Rose’s voice seems loud in the cramped little shop. ‘There’s no price on it.’
Paul Rendell leans forward in his chair, retracts his spider arms, puts away his glistening teeth and his shining eyes.
‘ The Art of Dressmaking ,’ he says, holding the book. ‘This is a first edition and quite expensive, you can have it for seven dollars.’
Rose doesn’t have seven dollars. He looks her up and down, the way someone might glance at a statue in a museum and then move on.
‘Now, what have we got here?’ he says, holding out
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