[Tempt Dress] Sashay Away [Ruari]

I am an intelligent man. I can perform Hagorian’s arithmantic triads in euclidean symmetry. I can cast Delphic runes up to the seventh circle of air and the third in fire. I should very well be able to know the difference between Point de Venise and Point de France. And is this Alençon or Honiton?

Jonathan pored over ribbons of silk, squinting his eyes at the intricate patterns, as if he could squeeze out some judicious revelation by doing so. A part of him thought this was a trifling exercise, that his cerebral capabilities were better served on weightier matters. But a part of him conceded if this really were so simple, and he so smart, he shouldn’t have any trouble discerning amongst the various needle and bobbin laces before him. Plus, there was something impressive at having a keen eye for subtleties, no matter the subject. Whether it was knowing the difference between ivory and alabaster, subjunctive and indicative future moods, or in this case, French, English, and Italian laces.

As he ran his fingers along the knots and patternwork, he muttered, ‘Great Aunt Claudia would definitely know.’ It was she who originally set him off this confusing journey in the world of clothes. Jonathan was far from a terrible dresser, but his personal taste prioritised look and feel more than type and structure. If he found a fun pattern of a platypus, who cared if it was made in Devon or Calais? But then again, this particular shopping trip was of a more purposeful nature, though just as whimsical as his usual jaunts. His great aunt was hosting her annual Topsy Ball, a riotous charity affair that was part costume and part madness.

The costume theme rotated every few years, but a common tradition was the cross dressing. The ladies were to be in men’s costume and lead the dances, and the gents to be frocked in the highest fashion of the day. This year’s theme was set to 18th Century Versailles. While his great aunt was far more forgiving of her guests, she expected her family to be fully invested, down to the very source and make of fabric.

And so here he was, bending over spools and racks and yards until his vision began to blur it all in a mass. Maybe the lace was the wrong place to start. Perhaps something simpler, like choosing what colour his dress should be. Periwinkle was nice, but would it go well with his skin tone? Or would Aunt Claudia force him to mask his tan and paint himself like a perverse geisha, rendering his concern moot?

His head was starting to spin, so a change of scenery might do him some good, he thought. He straightened up, and politely waving at the shopkeeper before stepping out. He walked along the streets of Dublin, having annoyed and bothered too many dressmakers back in London. As he glanced past the various display windows, Jonathan paused at a particular shop, smiling at its name.

Entering in, he glanced at the collection around the shop. He skipped the men’s section, but observed enough to note a return visit. There was a particularly well tailored robe on display, and would make a good addition to his normal wardrobe. But for now, he made his way over to the racks and mannequins that showed off dresses and gowns. Most were too contemporary for his needs, but the colours and styles were starting to give him some ideas.

There was a particular gown that caught his eye, and he walked to face the mannequin dressed in it. He nodded approvingly at its details. The gown was made for someone half a foot shorter than him, and of a frame far slimmer than his muscular build. But it held a fine silhouette, finely embellished but not so much to become garish. Jonathan placed his hands on his hips and turned, as if modelling the gown. He twisted back and forth, and stood on the tips of his toes, imagining the heels he’d have to wear with it. Lost in his own fancy, Jonathan soon became engaged in a conversation of one, raising his voice to an impressive falsetto.

‘My, my, Jon. Aren’t you just maaah-velous!

‘In this little thing? Oh, stop...but do go on.

‘Why your rump has never looked so ravishing; where ever do you find such gems?

‘Well, if you must know it’s a tempt-dress, for a temptress. Nothing else would do for such an alluring creature as myself!’

He chortled heartily in his highest register, only to end it in a shriek at the sight of someone next to him. ‘Do you work--’ he cleared his voice, finding himself back to his usual, deep baritone.

‘Oh, Ruari!’ Jonathan hadn’t crossed paths with her much since their days in Hogwarts. She was always pleasant to his recollection, especially for a Regan. Their families tended to brush elbows in high society, and despite some relations through marriage, the two lines never fully erased the centuries of tension. But Jonathan had never been too concerned about upholding generational rifts, and Ruari had always been a delight.

‘Say, what brings you about this shop?’

@Ruari Regan

It was a beautiful day but she hadn't noticed.

Why? Because she was elbow-deep in wedding season and almost about to drown. But, in typical Ruari fashion, she wasn't panicked just yet. With a needle and thread between her teeth, she used a spare one to deftly attach a pearly white sequin to the hem of a sweeping ivory gown. Being part of such a huge family, weddings were an inevitably common affair. Her cousins were wonderful and creative but not a single soul was as adept with a cross-stitch as she was.

Not that she minded. Etain loved her wedding dress and she loved making it. Her favourite cousin looked breath taking and people were asking about her dress. The result was a deluge of orders and commissions, everything from dresses and suits to scarves and gloves. Ruari enjoyed a steady stream of orders which she dutifully worked her way through but she'd never once been unable to cope. "Unflappable" was a word that was often used to describe her.

The sunlight streamed through the windows into her large and airy work space, splashed with colour and chintzy armchairs and scraps of fabric. The dress was almost complete, except a final fitting later on in the week. Brides always lost weight before the wedding, whether intentional or not to the bride, Annabelle, would need to be seen again. In typical Irish tradition, the dress would be remain unfinished until her wedding day. When Annabelle was all buttoned in, someone would add the very final stitch to the back of the dress. Just a simple one. It was said to be good luck, like not seeing the groom before the ceremony, the bride couldn't see the fully completed dress until she was ready to step on out.

Ruari's mass of unruly blonde curls were piled on top of her head in an ungainly top know that on anyone else would look positively atrocious but on her looked rather angelic. She paused with the needle almost into the organza when a conversation caught her attention.

Getting up off the floor, she walked barefoot, her dress floating in the breeze generated behind her as she peeked around the corner. With his back to her, she tilted her head as the man seemed to be having a fully formed conversation…with himself. Which was fine, she'd done that once or twice before. Trying not to giggle, she folded her arms and leaned against the back wall to watch him twist and turn in front of the dress pinned to the mannequin.

The noise he made at seeing her arrival made her wince and clap a hand over her ear before she snorted with laughter. She grinned as she saw his familiar face, crossing her arms over her chest casually as her eyes drifted to the dress he was trying to model. "Hiya Jonathan," she said with a dimpled grin, her pleasant lilting Dublin brogue filling the otherwise silent shop. She liked him, he'd always been pleasant and she never paid much attention to any rivalries that sprung up. She was actually kind of ignorant but it wasn't her fault. People just tended not to tell her the ins and outs of everything.

"It's mine," she told him with a broad smile. "My shop, I mean. I own it. These are all mine," she added, nodding her head to the explosion of colour and creativity around her. Ruari lived in what she liked to call "organised chaos" which was a fancy way of saying "absolute bombsite." For her, though, it worked. She knew exactly where the pink grosgrain ribbon was, which was nowhere near the same colour palette. Whenever her mother interfered, she was lost for about a fortnight until  things went back to normal once more.

"Do you like it?" She asked Jon. "I saw you from the corner," she added with a lopsided grin. Ruari was first and foremost and women's wear designer and only recently, perhaps the last year or so, ventured into men's wear. She found suits to be harder to make. There was a lot of tailoring and tweaking and moving around that needed to be done but men looked heaps better in a well-fitted suit. Unlike clothes for women, men's fashion tended not to change that often to a decent suit could last someone for years.

"How can I help?" She asked him kindly. "Did you need any help finessing your rump?" She asked innocently. "But it looks ravishing anyway." With that, she promptly creased into peals of laughter.