Noel remembered the trouble with the wedding cake.
He remembered the bride's shoes, the rain, the guest who had fallen asleep during the speeches. By the time the waiter brought the first course he had remembered Mara sitting under the bridal table with a needle in her mouth, although she hadn't been under the table. She had left before dinner.
“You were our saviour,” he said, spreading his napkin. “Clara always said so.”
Mara put her water glass down. “I didn't stay for the reception.”
“Before, then. It all ran together. You made that day possible.”
He smiled, generous enough to leave her nowhere to put the correction. At forty-six he had the same loose dark hair she'd remembered, going grey attractively above the ears. His tie was knitted. He looked like the interesting uncle in a family photograph, the one who had brought better wine.
They were lunching in a private room overlooking the empty terrace. Inez had a radio clipped to her waistband. Elias sat across from Mara, wearing the reading glasses to examine the exhibition plan. He took them off when Noel began speaking about the dress.
“We've always described it as the first expression of Clara's design language. The shaping, the understatement. Mara did wonderful work translating that.”
“The shaping was mine,” Mara said.
The waiter was putting a shallow bowl before her. A pale disc floated in something green. She waited for him to leave.
Noel glanced at Elias. “Yes, the practical construction. Without that, of course, no idea becomes a garment.”
“I designed it. I drew it. Clara chose between fabrics and asked for a pocket.”
“A very collaborative process, as these things always are.” He lifted his spoon. “I'm delighted we're finally discussing proper recognition.”
She could feel the old trap working. If she objected to his delight, she'd look impossible to please. Beside her, Inez pressed the button on her radio and asked for somebody to cover reception. Her normal voice in the middle of this conversation steadied Mara.
“Not recognition of construction,” Mara said. “Design.”
“We can discuss wording.”
“That's what I'm doing.”
Noel's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. Elias looked down at the plan. Mara wanted him to look at her. She resented wanting it.
“We found something in the dress,” Elias said.
Mara had agreed they would tell Noel. Still, when Elias turned his phone to show the photograph, she put a hand on her handbag, where the originals remained.
Noel enlarged the image of the note. His face changed less than she had expected: a small settling of his mouth, almost a relief.
“She was trying to see you. I remember.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That she wanted an alteration. We argued, actually. I thought we should leave the dress as it was.”
“And the things she should have given me?”
He took a drink of water. “Clara regretted the falling-out. We both did. She wanted to find a way forward without opening every old wound.”
“It wasn't a falling-out.”
“No. An unhappy business.”
Elias reached for the bread and found the basket empty. He looked toward the door, then back at Noel. “There is a letter. Acknowledging Mara's work.”
“Then I'm glad you found it. We ought to arrange a sensible conversation about the whole archive, not just this dress.” Noel turned his smile toward Mara again. “There may be paid consultancy work. Nobody knows the early pieces as you do.”
She pictured the missing pattern sleeves. “I'd need to see what you've packed.”
“Of course. We're a bit scattered at present.”
Inez took the radio off her waistband and put it on the table. “Meanwhile, the dress needs doing. The mounts are ordered and the room is booked. Can you still finish it?”
There was no flattery in the question. Mara preferred it.
“If the work remains restoration. I'm not agreeing to the catalogue account.”
“Fine,” Inez said. “Can you give me hours for the ballroom? People can't keep walking through while you're working.”
They settled a schedule over the next course. Noel contributed a memory of Clara's first runway show, in which Mara figured as a very gifted girl who had worked all night. She had worked all night. She could not remember ever being the girl he described, shy and grateful and apparently without her own ideas.
She ate the food, which tasted excellent and provided very little of itself. When Noel left to take a call, Inez followed the radio out. Mara and Elias were left with two spoons and a tiny shared bowl of something called sea air.
“Is it food?” she asked.
Elias examined it. “That's what I approved.”
She took a little on the end of her spoon. Lemon. Salt. Coldness. “I'm going to need lunch after this.”
He looked at the empty bread basket again. “So am I.”
She laughed. It came with so much force that she had to put the spoon down.
“What?”
“You look absolutely betrayed.”
“I signed off a six-course tasting menu. I didn't know four of them would be atmosphere.”
It was the first time she had heard him make something resembling a complaint without trying to fix it. She liked him for it more than was sensible.
“You didn't correct him,” she said, when the laugh had worn off.
He knew which part she meant. “I told him about the letter.”
“You let him call it construction.”
He looked at the door. “Yes.”
She waited for the reason. He rubbed his thumb over a breadcrumb, then stopped.
“I was trying to get through lunch without an argument.”
“I wasn't having an argument. I was telling you who made a dress.”
His attention returned to her, fully enough that her annoyance became awkward. He was an attractive man in an expensive shirt, asking to be allowed to understand something. She wished that hadn't softened her.
“I heard you,” he said.
“Good.”
Noel returned, talking about the press copy. They went back to the plan. When he said “Clara's original design,” Elias put a finger on the line.
“That attribution hasn't been settled. Leave it out of this version.”
Noel's gaze flickered across the table to Mara. She took another spoonful of sea air and let him look.
After lunch Elias walked her to the side entrance. Two members of staff stood beside a tray eating sandwiches. He asked if there were any left.
“Cheese and pickle,” one said.
He offered one to Mara before taking his own. She bit into soft bread, actual food, and stood with her back against the wall while he held his paper plate beneath the crumbs.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much.”
They ate without talking for a while. She found herself looking forward to seeing him on Monday, even if she had no more questions to ask. The discovery disturbed her enough that she finished quickly and left him half his sandwich to eat alone.