‘Not necessarily,’ Margot says. Even though it may be appropriate for her, she feels she’s too old a bride for it.
‘Let’s head over here,’ Daphne says, as Christina goes down the corridor, calling, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Margot and Daphne pore over the dresses in the shop, pulling out options, and Margot tries them on. There’s one dress that is almost right, but not exactly how she’d want it, so Daphne says she’ll come up with a design for her.
Margot can’t believe the freedom of not having to worry about the cost – Stephen has said he’ll take care of everything. He’s been doing that ever since they met, really. She never knew how much she wanted to have someone take care of her until he did.
‘So you’re happy?’ Daphne says after they’ve made an appointment for Margot to be measured.
Margot beams. ‘I am.’
Daphne peers at her. ‘I believe you. I’ve never seen you look so radiant.’
Margot raises her eyebrows. ‘Or radiant at all?’
‘I wasn’t going to say that.’
‘No – you’re too kind. But I know it’s true.’
These days Margot sometimes feels like her cells are oscillating with promise, so changed is her life and what she now believes she can expect from it.
Daphne glances away. ‘The past is a funny thing,’ she says. ‘We can drag it along with us for a very long time, letting it pull us backward as much as we try to go forward. Or …’ Now their eyes lock. ‘We can set it free.’
Margot is quite aware that Daphne knows the story of her family. They have both lived in this suburb their whole lives, and Margot and her mother before her have been coming to the frock shop for a long time. No doubt Daphne has guessed that Margot has felt burdened by the losses that haunted her younger years. Perhaps she has understood, all this time, just how much they have cost Margot.
‘Give Lavinia my love,’ Daphne says. ‘And bring her up for a chinwag sometime.’
‘Maybe once I have a dress to show her?’ Margot is thrilled at the prospect.
‘Perfect.’
Margot says her goodbyes and heads on foot down Avenue Road, feeling the cool air on her face, enjoying the softer sunlight of late autumn, looking forward to winter and spring and summer and forever beyond.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Adelaide has never been to any of the cafes at Circular Quay – not even before she moved overseas. As she steps off the ferry from Mosman, she can see that the one Desmond has picked is right next to the wharf. Did he know that when he picked it? Possibly. She’s learning that he is a thoughtful man.
She’s aware that she moves slowly these days – and that he will never know her as moving any faster. He won’t know her as she was when she was accomplished and busy, pursuing a creative life and working hard. To him she is, most likely, an old woman with whom he has a strange, if strong, connection.
She sees that he’s waiting for her outside the cafe, his smile wide. He’s wearing a plaid jacket with leather patches at the elbows, and a light blue shirt tucked into smart pants with a smarter belt, finished off with highly polished brown boots.
‘I look like an ad for R. M. Williams,’ he says with a laugh after he’s kissed her hello.
They’re easier with each other now. After several phone calls and meeting in person occasionally, it’s starting to feel like a friendship. Which is all Adelaide could hope it would be. And even that would be a miracle.
‘You look very smart,’ she says as he steps back for her to enter the cafe first.
‘Thanks,’ he says, and asks the waitress for a table for two.
‘Three,’ Adelaide says, and he looks at her quizzically.
‘Someone is going to join us.’
He frowns quickly then smiles again. ‘Sounds mysterious.’
They sit at a table for three, and Adelaide looks up and sees the Sydney Opera House.
Desmond notices. ‘I thought you may like the view,’ he says.