The Disastrous Love Lives of the Delaney Family

2.9 Elizabeth Tilberis

Finally, I spent thirty minutes in my en-suite bathroom, cleaning out all the empty perfume bottles that I've been hoarding for the past two years. 

Now, I'm sitting at the top of the staircase, wondering what more there is to do. The only thing I can think of is sorting through my wardrobe, but that's a mammoth task, not due to the volume (although there is a lot in there), but more because I'm a huge sentimentalist and cannot bring myself to throw anything out. One thing I've learnt from my mother, and my great-grandmother, Connie Courtenay, is that clothes must be archived because you never know when they'll come back into fashion. 

My mother inherited Connie's extensive back catalogue of clothes and has worn many of the pieces over the years, rocking some exquisite vintage pieces from the 1940s and onwards. I meanwhile have worn many of my mother's clothes over the years. I'm particularly fond of the original Alexander McQueen items that sit in my wardrobe, not to mention my love for some of the more opulent Dolce and Gabbana pieces. 

The crowning glory of my wardrobe, however, is a beaded and sequined embroidered lace dress by Pierre Balmain from 1952. I once saw a photo of Connie wearing the dress and instantly fell in love with it, dreaming of the day that I'd finally be able to wear it. Mum made me wait until my twenty-fifth birthday before she had it tailored for me, and I proudly wore it to the Courtenay Ball at the V&A that year. I'd never felt so special before, and I haven't felt that special since. It's a dress that I will cherish forever, and will pass down to my daughter if I ever have one. 

I suppose I could go through my wardrobe and start to categorise what to keep and what to archive. Deciding that's the best course of action to keep me busy for the next few hours- after all, I am going to have to choose an outfit for my Tidda visit- I stand and brush my hands over the crease in my cotton house dress. Just as I turn to take the last step on the stairs, however, a knock comes from the front door. 

Granted, I'm not sure if knocking at nine am in the morning is normal in this flat since I'm never here at this hour, but I can't imagine that people usually visit during the day as everyone knows both Sera and I work, and while Joss stays here, he's occupied in his studio on the other side of the city while daylight.

My interest piqued, I descend the stairs and open the door to my visitor, instantly frowning when I see Ollie standing there, a box of something in his hands, and two take out coffee cups balancing on top. 

"Uh, hello?" I manage to say. Surprised by his doorstep visit, I try to pretend that I'm not that affected by his presence, although I think the expression on my face gives the game away.

Ollie laughs at me when I slump against the door frame and stare at him. "Good morning, Lady Léa," he cheerfully greets me, holding out the hand that balances the coffees on top of a box. "Coffee? It's how you like it."

"Thank you," I respond, taking one of the cups and sipping the hot liquid contents. Delicious. And very familiar. I lift the cup until I see the logo and instantly become suspicious. I turn the cup in Ollie's direction and wave it in his face. "Explain."

"Well," he begins, elongating the vowel in his American drawl. "It's pretty simple. I didn't know where you lived, so I had to do some digging around. Firstly, I went to Sebon, because your cousin, Christian, works there as a chef, except the restaurant was closed. I then went to Hemmingways, where Owen works, but that was also closed, although a member of staff was there receiving a delivery. She told me to try the Courtenay Gallery over on Bruton Street.