The Hat Shop on the Corner (16 page)

‘If you had the dress we could stitch one, maybe two, right on the cinch of your waistband and for a purse if we put a few together . . . perhaps with plain material underneath and a little strap?’

The girl almost hugged her. ‘I can’t believe it . . . I’m going to have a wonderful outfit.’

Ellie smiled to herself, feeling like the fairy godmother telling Cinderella that she was going to the ball.

‘But . . .’ the girl hesitated, ‘how much is all this going to cost?’

Ellie totted up the materials in her head, plus there would be a few hours’ work. She would make no profit but the customer would be happy, and return again hopefully.

‘Fifty euro,’ she said softly.

The girl’s smile lit up her face. She was actually quite beautiful.

‘I will have enough,’ she said.

The arrangements were made and Claire Connolly filled in the order book, paying a deposit of twenty and promising to drop the dress in during Monday lunchtime.

Ellie put the book away, delighted, for she knew she could make the hat show off Claire’s bone structure and emphasize her willowy proportions. With all the orders due around the same time she would have to work right up till the weekend, she thought as she scribbled down a long shopping list for her romantic dinner.

Dublin basked in summer sunshine for the week of the Dublin Horse Show. Gardens and flower beds and window boxes were bursting with roses and geraniums and pink fuchsia as the city enjoyed the warm temperatures. Claire, nervous with anticipation, woke early on the morning of Ladies’ Day, and after a quick cup of coffee and some toast showered and blow-dried her hair. All week she’d been preparing for the best-dressed lady competition and she’d given herself a full facial with a cleansing peel and a nourishing face mask at the weekend. Her hands and nails had been buffed and French-polished to perfection and Fiona had helped her apply a lovely light golden fake tan to her limbs and torso, which gave her a sun-kissed glow. Her hair was glossy and conditioned and as she applied her mascara and dark eyeliner she realized her eyes looked huge.

She thought about calling in sick to Murphy and Byrne’s but just supposing she did win and her photograph was plastered all over the papers in the morning, how would she explain that to her bosses? So instead she had taken a day’s holiday and confided in Sheila what she was doing.

‘Oh, you’re entering the Ladies’ Day competition at the horse show, that’s wonderful!’ beamed Sheila kindly. ‘I used to love going along and seeing the style when I was younger. A beautiful girl like yourself will be totally at home there, and knock the judge sideways!’

Claire grinned, glad of the older woman’s enthusiasm and promises to say a prayer for her and to get Derek to say one too.

She dressed slowly, almost catching her breath with surprise when she lifted the hat out of its box and put it on her head, her eyes peeping out from under the large daisy brim. What with her little black dress and her daisy bag on her wrist, she looked just the way she’d hoped.

‘Wow!’ said Fiona and Bridget when they saw her. ‘You look stunning. Like a film star.’

Claire felt a bit jittery and anxious, as if she was going to an audition. She had intended getting the bus but Fiona had insisted on driving her right to her destination.

‘Bridget and I are doing promotions out in Blackrock at two o’clock. The least we can do is give you a bit of support when you go in to register, though we won’t be able to stay for the judging.’

Claire was eternally grateful to her friends for adjusting their busy schedules to suit her.

The traffic out of town was heavy and it seemed like the world and his wife were making their way to the Royal Dublin Society’s showgrounds in Ballsbridge for the annual Dublin Horse Show. Every hotel and guesthouse and B&B in the city and suburbs would be booked out, the restaurants packed as horse lovers, show-jumping teams and visitors crowded into the city for the week.

‘God, it’s mad,’ declared Fiona, pulling out in front of a van driver in her bright red car. Undaunted, she managed to whiz up in the wrong lane and find a minute parking spot meant to be reserved for customers of one of the nearby restaurants.

‘I’ll be gone before the lunch-hour crowd,’ promised an unrepentant Fiona as they strolled across the Merrion Road.

Claire stood at the entrance and decided to purchase a family ticket. ‘We’re sisters,’ she said, smiling at the disbelieving steward as he took in the blonde, brunette and redhead in front of him.

The showgrounds were already crowded, the sign for the car park ‘Full’ as they walked across the grass. The inside halls were busy selling everything from conservatories to horse blankets, ice creams to foot baths. It never ceased to amaze Claire that such a huge range of products was to be found at the show.

‘Come on, this way,’ she signalled to her friends.

Outside it was already hot. The tannoy called out, ‘A perfect round,’ as the noise of horses’ hooves and the chatter of the crowd filled the air. She had forgotten how wonderful it was, that scent of grass and hay and horses that overwhelmed the senses as soon as one stepped on to the grassy lawns and fenced areas of the Royal Dublin Society’s grounds.

The Moët & Chandon-sponsored Ladies’ Day competition was being held under a bright blue and white awning, with everyone queuing to register their entry. Claire straightened her back and joined the rest of the women and girls in the line. Her eyes roved the crowd. She mentally said a prayer of thanks that she had worn a hat. Hats were definitely the flavour of the day . . . Some were hideous, some fun, some just simple sunhats, but there was no doubt that they added to the sense of occasion. She also breathed a sigh of relief that she had not worn pink as almost half the women present had kitted themselves out in various shades from salmon to raspberry. After the recent warm weather, the colours combined with their sunburn to give a weird strawberry-like effect. There was an older woman and her friend in expensive cream and beige suits with co-ordinating handbags, shoes and gloves, their hair immaculately done.

‘We enter every year,’ they laughed, ‘just so our husbands have to pay for a new outfit and the day out. Beats sitting at home and watching it on the television!’

Claire suddenly felt guilty and pulled out her mobile to dial the number for home, hearing it ring five times before her mother answered.

‘Where are you, Claire?’

‘I’m at the RDS, Mum,’ she shouted over the noise. ‘Just thought I’d let you know!’

It was about eight years since she’d been to the show with her parents, entering the novice riders and pony events, her hair plaited, wearing jodhpurs and riding gear. It seemed like a million years ago.

‘Are you in one of the events?’ her mother asked excitedly.

‘No, no. Well, not that sort, Mum! It’s the Ladies’ Day thing.’

She could almost hear the harrumph of indignation from her mother’s end of the call, imagining Cora Connolly standing there in her old faded jeans and Wellington boots and a T-shirt, just in from the stables or the paddocks.

‘Just thought I’d let you know in case it’s on the telly.’

‘Are you all right, love?’ asked her mother. ‘We haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘I’m fine, Mum, just been busy, that’s all. Listen, tell Dad I said hello. I’ve got to go now,’ she said, killing the signal.

She slipped the phone back inside the daisy bag with its black handles. Ellie Matthews had done a wonderful job.

She filled in the form, listing her occupation as model. She was hardly going to put boring old insurance clerk. Then she was given a number and approximate time to come back and meet the judges. Two o’clock – she had ages to wait. She stood around taking in the opposition. There were a whole load of debby types in flowery mini-dresses and wrapover skirts showing off cleavage and belly buttons and sexy sun-tanned legs, chatting on about villas in Tuscany and apartments in Puerto Banus. They certainly didn’t need to win the money, she thought enviously.

A few girls she recognized from the Irish modelling circuit, eyes shaded discreetly behind dark glasses, clad in top-to-toe designer gear that they had borrowed from exclusive boutiques with the promise of mentioning the designer if they won. Then there were the amateurs. Mothers, daughters, grandmothers, wearing their very best outfit, who’d come along simply for the fun of it. Claire considered them. Some had made their own clothes; some were young designers, college students trying to get a bit of attention; others were wearing chain-store-bought outfits, trying to keep out of the way of people wearing something similar to themselves. There was a magnificent pure white linen coat and skirt worn by a tall girl with black hair cut tight into her head. It was most definitely an original, and the plump girl with the frizzy hair and hopeful look standing beside her was obviously the designer. There was a leopardskin jumpsuit worn by a blonde with tawny eyes and massive high heels, who clung on to an older man with a navy blazer and a co-ordinating leopard-print bow tie like there was no tomorrow. There were young girls in Laura Ashley dresses, all sprigged cotton and lawn with frills and bows. Their mothers looked like Stepford wives in neat linen pastel suits and highlighted trim hair, minding toddlers and buggies as they edged up the queue.

‘Hey, did you register yet?’ enquired Bridget.

‘Yes. I got my number and time,’ admitted Claire, joining her friends back out in the sunshine.

‘Let’s get an ice cream and chill out for a while,’ suggested Fiona.

They found a small metal table and some chairs under a parasol. Bridget was dispatched to buy the refreshments. Fiona grinned as she caught the approving glances of members of the opposite sex who passed by their table en route to the ice cream stand.

‘Told you, you look stunning.’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked Claire nervously.

‘You look like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, or one of those amazing French films we had to go and see when we were in college.’

Claire squeezed her friend’s hand warmly and suddenly wished that Fiona could stay to give her moral support later when she needed it.

‘Lots of luck!’ they both screamed at her when they had to leave for work.

Claire took a deep breath as they disappeared into the crowds. Suddenly she felt very alone and wished she could just run out of the place with them. Still, she hadn’t come this far to turn back now. She walked up towards the competition area. There was still ages to wait. She’d get some water and a roll, and maybe have a stroll around the place.

With nearly an hour to kill she decided to go and watch the jumping. Pushing her way into the wooden stands, she was calmed by the cantering circles of the horses and the fluid movements of their riders as they followed the jumping course. She’d always loved horses and soon got engrossed in the battle between riders. Suddenly realizing the time, she jumped up and made a run for the ladies’ cloakroom to quickly freshen up before making her way to the Moët & Chandon stand.

There was still a queue, so obviously everything was running late. A peroxide blonde wearing a bright red silk top, a slit skirt and high heels was ahead of her. A petite Italian-looking woman in a beautiful pale pearl-coloured Chanel suit and matching bag spoke in broken English to admire her ‘magnificent hat’. Claire watched as other women emerged from the judge’s area, hoping to glean some information about what was going on. She giggled as a hefty six-footer emerged from the doorway dressed as a nun and gave a thumbs-down to a load of his mates who were falling around the place laughing.

‘Must have been a bet, you think,’ joked the dainty Italian beside her.

Claire noted a pretty blond young mother in a straw hat and a floaty pale pink dress emerge with a little girl of about five dressed in the exact match of her mother’s outfit. Even their hats were the same. The little girl, who was waving to everyone, looked so cute. Claire wouldn’t have allowed a dress near her at that age. She had spent most of her time in dirty denim shorts and a green T-shirt that her dad told her matched her eyes.

The Italian disappeared and then, trying to control herself, Claire stepped forward. The judges asked her to turn round. There were two women and two men. One had his own television show, and she knew that Tara O’Neill was the chief fashion buyer for one of the bigger chain stores in Ireland. Pretend it’s a modelling job, she told herself as she walked forward.

‘I see you’re a model.’

‘Just starting.’ She smiled and told them about the advertisement she’d been in and mentioned she was signed to ‘The Agency’.

‘Did one of the designers lend you the clothes?’ quizzed Tara.

‘No,’ she replied, affronted. ‘The dress and shoes, hat and bag are all my own.’

‘Even the hat?’

‘I bought the hat – it’s French – in an Oxfam shop. Ellie Matthews, the milliner in South Anne Street, helped me to pull the outfit together by redesigning it.’

‘With the daisies and the bag?’ The intense man with the glasses was scribbling on the pad in front of him.

‘Yes, Ellie’s wonderful and so is her shop. Do you know it?’