The Dress by Kate Kerrigan Page A

materials. There’s a fabric dealer I know in Somerset...’
    â€˜You think I don’t know where to buy antique silks?’ Lily snapped.
    â€˜OK, OK,’ Gareth said, putting his hands up and laughing, somewhat nervously.
    â€˜Sorry,’ Lily said. ‘Still a bit sensitive, you know.’
    Gareth had the urge to gather her into his arms and give her a comforting hug again, but it was out of the question.
    â€˜No problem, I’m just saying I can keep my eyes open is all. Actually, I was planning to go up to the big antiques fair in Birmingham next weekend.’ Then in a moment of pure madness Gareth found himself saying, ‘You could come along with me, if you like? There’s a place I stay in, it’s quite nice, actually. Clean, you know? Not expensive...’
    Lily looked slightly taken aback.
    â€˜Ah, I would,’ she said, ‘only I’m really broke at the moment...’
    Gareth blushed across his beardless face – he had known the beard was there for a reason. What was he thinking? A ‘clean’ room. Not expensive. How creepy did that sound? Why couldn’t he just have kept his stupid mouth shut?
    â€˜Of course, of course.’
    â€˜Another time?’ she said.
    â€˜Sure, sure.’
    Rendered numb by his own awfulness Gareth then stood up, with a curious air of formality. ‘I should get some, you know, work to be done,’ he said, desperate to claw back some dignity.
    â€˜Thanks for the coat,’ Lily said and as she walked out the door he called after her, ‘See you around.’
    Lily noticed it was not, ‘see you tomorrow’ but ‘see you around’. Ouch. Maybe she had been a bit sharp with Gareth – dismissive of his offers to help.
    As she walked home Lily shook her head and said to herself, ‘What is wrong with you, Lily Fitzpatrick? Why such a bitch today?’
    The truth was, she was still hurting after Joe.
    It was late afternoon when she got in and Lily decided to run herself a hot bath, get into a pair of fleecy pyjamas (her one concession to modern slobbery) and sit reading a book until she could respectably call an end to this rotten day and start again tomorrow.
    As the bath was running she gave her social media and blog a quick glance through. She had been neglecting both for a while and there was sure to be a massive backlog.
    Sure enough, her blog email was jammed, and the comments on her post about The Dress that morning were already numbering twenty. She skimmed them, and was about to turn away when one of them, sent a couple of hours before, hit her like a hammer: Joy Fitzpatrick was my grandmother. OMG! We could be cousins!

11
    New York, 1958
    â€˜What the hell is going on?’
    Even as he said it, Frank Fitzpatrick wondered why he bothered. He knew exactly what was going on. His wife Joy was crouching beside the bar, roaring for Jones, and she was drunk.
    â€˜You know what?’ he said, loosening his tie and stepping over her as he went to the bar to pour himself a whisky. ‘I don’t even care that you’re drunk. I could use a night in anyway. Just do me a favour, will you, and leave Jones out of it? He’s a decent man and he doesn’t deserve your screeching histrionics, and now I come to think of it, neither do I.’
    Right on cue the butler came in, answering his mistress’s feral call.
    â€˜Ah, Jones,’ Frank said. ‘My wife here,’ he indicated Joy, who had curled herself up into a small, sobbing dome of designer silk on the floor, ‘was just calling you in to say take the night off.’
    â€˜Will you not need me to collect you after the party, sir?’ the butler said, assiduously avoiding looking at his mistress.
    â€˜Indeed not, Jones,’ Frank said, downing his whisky and pouring another. ‘My wife and I will be having a cosy night in. As you can see,’ and he looked down at Joy, ‘we’re not really