What people are saying about
Red Dress
Having been a therapist, journalist and filmmaker for 30 years, I have had a rather demanding and hectic life and I met Bridget when she came to train with me as a hypnotherapist. Her ability to learn very quickly made it easy for her to take on the complicated issues of her clients. It was obvious from the start she had a knack for working with people’s minds.
Bridget’s ability not only to tell her stories but also to write with such a natural flow is a rare combination, which sets the stage for a fascinating book. Once I started reading her book, I could not put it down, as it’s a compelling page-turner. I am already looking forward to her next one, as I know there will be.
We became friends over the years as I watched her intriguing life unfold. In my experience, there are a few people who have the most adventuresome lives. In fact, as an author, this is the type of person we look to interview for our own books. Bridget is definitely one of those people.
Valerie Austin, International Therapist, Journalist and Filmmaker
Engaging, light-hearted and deeply touching, this book deals with universal themes: alienation, exploration and the quest for reconciliation - with who you were, where you are and what you want to be.
Jane Bailey Bain, Author, Lifeworks
A story of awakening. Deeply relatable for anyone who has felt the inexorable pull of the search for greater meaning. This book explores the uncomfortable, magical journey into an expanded version of ourselves. Poignant, vulnerable and real - I was gripped as if by the telling of my own story.
Helen Ludwig, Conscious Leadership Consultant
Bridget’s book takes you on an engaging romp through the protagonist’s spiritual and personal transformation. As a behavior specialist, I found her characters to be relatable and authentic. As a reader, I found myself hungry for more...
Marc Cooper-DiFrancia, CEO and Founder of Creative Self Mastery.com
Red Dress
A Novel
Red Dress
A Novel
Bridget Finklaire
Winchester, UK
Washington, USA
First published by Roundfire Books, 2021
Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., No. 3 East St., Alresford,
Hampshire SO24 9EE, UK
office@jhpbooks.com
www.johnhuntpublishing.com
www.roundfire-books.com
For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.
© Bridget Finklaire 2020
ISBN: 978 1 78535 560 8
978 1 78535 561 5 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020940134
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.
The rights of Bridget Finklaire as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Design: Stuart Davies
UK: Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Printed in North America by CPI GPS partners
We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.
Contents
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Note from the Author
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Guide
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Start of Content
Note from the Author
Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu
May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and to that freedom for all.
Chapter 1
September 20th, 2008
Katy sat in the garden on Saturday morning, snatching five minutes to herself. The roses were fading, she noticed, wrapping her gown against the autumn chill. She didn’t know then that three days later she would do something unexpected. The impulsive decision would seem like nothing, yet this one small act would set in motion a domino effect that was to change her life forever.
The weekend flew by in a flurry of chores, finishing abruptly on Sunday evening. The Stone family slept through the night to the rhythm of Richard’s snoring. Katy lay awake in the darkness, listening to life. It was calm in the well-groomed suburbs of West London with its parks and leafy streets, but still there was the rumble of distant traffic, a night bus idling at the lights, revelers in the street, their loud slurs deadened by the tall, terraced buildings. Far away a late train rattled over its tracks, a fox rummaged in the bins, and a 747 followed the river as it descended towards Heathrow. London: continually alive with diverse people making their way through its veins and arteries, she thought. Her favorite place in the whole wide world.
The digital clock read 03:03 when she rolled over, catching its neon figures in the gloom. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a decent night’s rest. At this rate, she’d be tired tomorrow, and she had to get to Terry’s by 11 am. Her mind raced off in another direction. If only she could sleep! It was the stress, she supposed: mother, wife, self-employed therapist and homemaker. It wasn’t easy for anyone, the pressure of living in the time-starved, work-weary, money-guzzling, glorious capital.
* * *
Damn, thought Richard, wrenching himself from the thrilling dream that cleaved at him, his body aroused, nerve-endings tingling. His hand groped for the alarm before it woke everyone. Lucky cow, he thought, looking over his shoulder at his sleeping wife. He watched Katy as she let out a groan, frowned and pushed her earplugs tightly in place before rolling over. A tangle of dark auburn hair sticking out from the top of the crumpled duvet was all he could see.
Still fancy her, he thought, picturing the face he’d woken up to almost every day for seventeen years. Piercing blue eyes and full cherry lips, she was his little prize. He couldn’t think exactly what was missing, apart from the obvious! He was lonely, he supposed. Empty. It had gone wrong somehow.
He shuffled into the en-suite in his dark striped pajamas. The ones she hated.
“Why don’t you just go without?”
“It’s cold.”
“Wear a t-shirt and boxers then.”
T-shirt and boxers. Who did she think he was?
After adjusting the mirror, and brushing shaving foam over his greying stubble, he let out a sigh and gritted his teeth. Another day in the jungle. He hoped he didn’t end up punching someone. He’d like to wipe the smile off some of those faces, he thought, scraping the edge of the razor across his square jaw.
Richard’s thoughts turned back to his dream. They’d had hardly any sex since the children were born and that was years ago. The blood was coursing through his loins, but she was always tired. Always some bloody excuse. Frigid. That was the word, she was fucking frigid. Stepping into t
he steamy shower, he contemplated the erection his wife didn’t want and girded his tall, muscular frame against the force of the water. A while later, feeling refreshed, he stepped onto the duckboard and grabbed a thick white towel from the wooden stand.
Katy scrunched up her eyes and sighed unhappily, roused from her sleep by the noise of the pelting shower. He was doing it on purpose, she thought. He’d changed. The truth of it was, she didn’t fancy him anymore. He was cold, angry and controlling. She hated the rotten smell of his morning breath, and those ridiculous ‘old man’ pajamas! What a city gent wears, she mocked silently.
Her mouth curled up at the corners as she thought about the cocky young man in a white t-shirt, an old guitar slung over his shoulder. The one in the photographs, the young Richard, Rick as he was then. What a contradiction, loving literature, poetry and the thuggish game of rugby! She imagined him sitting in the Student’s Union reading D.H. Lawrence and wanting social justice and rock and roll. He’d have campaigned for worker’s rights, and written an album of protest songs and a seminal novel. Of course, she’d missed his best years, having met him later when he joined the corporate world. But there was still a trace of the revolutionary back then.
Ambition had taken over now. He’d watched other people feather their nests with lucrative deals, and he liked what he saw. Greed, finance, and spin. The City had become his tribe. The jungle, he called it. He’d elbowed his way up the ranks to senior partner, subtly, of course, the seemingly suave advisor. Persuasion, manipulation, raw intelligence, and a dollop of charm. That’s all it had taken, but he’d lost himself in the process and was losing her along the way.
Richard surveyed himself in the bathroom mirror. At least I’m not bald, he thought, slicking back his dark hair and splashing Trumper’s cologne over his face. Dressing as quietly as he could, he buttoned a fresh Pink’s shirt. “For fuck’s sake!” he muttered, fiddling with the silver bulldog cufflinks. Adjusting the knot of his Hackett tie and smiling into the mirror, he gave himself a wink. He had to look the part if nothing else. Straightening his suit jacket and folding a crisp, white handkerchief into the top pocket, he took another look in the mirror before examining the shine on his black leather Loakes. The deliberate clomping of his shoes across the stripped floorboards woke Katy at last.
“You off?” she murmured.
“Yes. Bye, Kittykat,” he said, bending over to kiss her, the stale taste in his mouth still lingering beneath the toothpaste.
“See you this evening.”
He closed the bedroom door behind him before thudding down the stairs to the tiled hallway. Narrowly avoiding the clashing jangle of metal, he edged through the half-opened front door. “Wretched wind-chimes,” he muttered as he hurried into the cool morning air. Bloody Feng Shui bullshit.
As he strode towards the station, he noticed curtains opening one by one as sleepy Turnham Green woke up to another grey day in the Capital. He passed row upon row of Victorian and Edwardian terraces and semis, with clipped olive bushes standing in Grecian planters like threshold guardians. Inside the sumptuously furnished houses, he imagined walls knocked through to expensive glass extensions. Neat, ‘farrow cream’ painted, wooden shutters covered the wide bay windows. It all stank of money and snobbery. He secretly despised what he’d become. Occasionally there was a rundown house with a badly painted door, old fashioned wallpaper, faded curtains and weeds peeping through the cracked paving. Must be old bags living in those, thought Richard, forgetting his own humble beginnings. Pop their clogs and someone’ll snap the place up and make a fortune! The cynicism was rotting him from the inside out.