‘How wonderful,’ her husband said when he saw her in it. ‘How extraordinary.’ He kissed her on the lips, and lingered. ‘You look like a goddess.’
In those heady days there were parties and dinners most nights of the week. The dress was so distinctive, however, that she had to be careful where she wore it next, lest some of their friends remark on its reappearance.
In 1929 she became pregnant at last. It was a difficult pregnancy and their son was born prematurely. But he survived, and spent his early years blissfully unaware that the economy had collapsed and men – including his father – were out of work.
The woman, her husband and child moved in with her parents, who had a large house on a large block in the hills of Sydney’s northwest. She put her dresses into storage, wrapping them carefully so they wouldn’t be damaged. But she never wore them again. By thetime the Depression was over and social life had resumed, fashion had moved on. Besides, she had two more children by then and her social life was confined to afternoon gatherings rather than dinners and parties.
Many years later, after her husband had died and she was planning to sell their house and move into far smaller accommodation, she went through her collection of clothes with her granddaughter, who exclaimed over the dresses.
‘You should sell these, Granny,’ she said, but the woman wouldn’t hear of it. How could she put a price on the joy and memories these garments held?
‘Donate them, please,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you know somewhere appropriate.’
The granddaughter frequented a charity shop in her local area, where there was a woman not quite her grandmother’s age who knew a lot about clothes. The granddaughter had bought a formal dress there. So she took the dresses in, and the more subtle outfits were snapped up by those who knew to visit the shop regularly to find treasures.
The lime-green dress, however, was of a shade that the regulars found too audacious.
‘It takes courage to wear colour in this country,’ the woman once told her granddaughter. She had never minded standing out, but so many others did, for reasons she didn’t understand.
The woman didn’t know about the fate of the lime-green dress, of course. She would never know, because she died before she moved into her new, smaller accommodation. Although her joy and her memories live on.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Christina isn’t that keen on visiting the charity shop her mother likes to go to at Mosman Junction. Joni used to shop there fairly often when it was a boutique and she still visits now, just to see the lady who works there. Joni thinks that second-hand clothes are for poor people, and she has spent many years trying to appear everything but poor. Which Christina understands – after her father left, theywerepoor. They had the house to live in, yes, but not much cash coming in, and her father wasn’t inclined to help with that. He kept saying that his salary couldn’t cover two households, seemingly without any awareness that he was the reason there were now two households.
At that time Joni did buy clothes for her children from charity shops, because the girls grew so quickly and she couldn’t afford new clothes for them. Christina didn’t care. Didn’t even know. Her mother always chose carefully and the clothes were nice. As soon as Joni could afford new clothes, though, she stopped going to the charity shops. Except for the one at the junction. She’ll sometimes buy jewellery there – because you can find good pieces, she says – but never clothes.
‘Not that I don’t trust Daphne’s taste,’ she tells Christina.
Christina can’t remember ever meeting Daphne, although she must have when Joni took her to the boutique, as it then was. There’s nothing familiar, however, about the spry older lady with the sharp eyes who walks from behind the counter to greet her mother with open arms.
‘Joni,’ she says, kissing her on the cheek, then she puts her hands on her hips. ‘Well, Christina, didn’t you turn out to be a beauty. Look at you!’
There’s something in the way she says it – with no hint of agenda or knowing – that makes Christina think that Daphne isn’t aware of her acting career. Hasn’t seen her in any movies or magazines. She feels the relief of it – of not having to explain why she’s home; why she’s not in Los Angeles or New York or London being famous.
‘Thanks,’ Christina says shyly, as if she’s never heard this before.
It’s different when it’s said by someone who wants something from her: a man, an agent, a co-star, a fan. When a person like that says she’s beautiful, all she hears is manipulation. When Daphne says it, however, it feels like it’s the first time it’s been said without an ulterior motive. It’s wonderful. Special. It means something.
She stands a little straighter, and it’s only as she does so that she realises she’s been subconsciously hiding – tucking herself in, dropping her head a little. Trying to make herself unnoticeable.
‘So you’re back in Sydney for a while?’ Daphne says to her. ‘Your mum’s been missing you since you moved overseas.’
Moved overseas. Is that all it was? In some ways, yes, of course – or simply in the ways that count. To her mother – to Daphne – she wasn’t going off to have an amazing career. She was ‘moving overseas’, away from home. It stuns her in this moment that she could mean so much to anyone that her simply being in another hemisphere could affect them deeply. She’s never felt that important. Not really. Yet here, in this little shop in alittle suburb, she realises she is. There’s a strength in that – and she needs it.
‘I am,’ she says.
Her mother and Daphne exchange smiles, and Joni looks so happy – radiant, even. Did Christina do that – create that happiness in her mother?
Maybe she needs to have children herself to understand it. Or maybe it’s just that her mother is full of love, and Christina …
Christina doesn’t know what she has inside her any more. Her work used to make her feel joy. But her relationships with other people, especially since she started to become famous – although she catches on that word – have always felt so difficult to navigate. She’s slow to trust, even when a potential friend is also well known, because maybe they’re out to get something from her.
She’s never out to get anything from another person apart from hoping they will be themselves. No doubt that means she’s naive. It could go some way toward explaining how she ended up alone with the director in a room where he could do what he wanted to her, then tell lies about it afterward.
The memory produces tears and she has to turn away so her mother won’t see them.
‘This dress is divine,’ she says as a diversion, pulling out the skirt of a lime-green drop-waisted dress that looks like it was inspired by flapper fashion. It’s sleeveless, long in the bodice, with intricate beading across the hips.