Praag - The Dress Shop of Dreams

W hen ordinary shoppers stumble into the little dress shop, they usually leave without buying anything. Nothing seems to fit or suit them very well. The music clouds their chatter and the shimmering silk walls hurt their eyes. After a few minutes they stumble out onto the street again, muttering to their friends about fashion and wondering why they ever bothered to step inside in the first place. But when a different kind of shopper discovers the shop, they find that opening its little blue door is the very best decision theyve ever made. These are the women who arent really looking for the perfect cocktail dress, the jeans thatll lengthen their legs or the skirt that will slim their silhouette. No, these women are looking for much more than that; they are looking for a lost piece of themselves. Which is exactly what Etta Sparks can give them.

When such a woman absently ruffles through the racks of expectant dresses, casting furtive glances towards the counter, Etta sits pretending not to notice, until the time is right. Although she isnt actually psychic (being able to see only what the dresses show her) Etta has many gifts, and one of them is knowing when someone is ripe. She can see when a shy woman is on the edge of feeling brave. And then she steps forward.

That would look beautiful on you, shell suggest gently. Why dont you try it on?

They always shake their heads at first, of course. But Etta can see the desire in their fingertips, the tiny flicker of hope in their eyes. So she chats about anything: the weather, the music, the sweetness of strawberries, the latest film, a particular book, the sensuality of silk Then, when the woman is ready, Etta picks out a dress in their favourite colour, one that will make their eyes sparkle, their hair shine and their skin glow. And, now that she knows their greatest wish, Etta makes them a promise. A promise she knows to be true.

Wear this dress and youll find what youre missing: confidence, courage, power, love, beauty, magnificence Etta says, while they regard her rather sceptically. You will. I promise. Wear this dress and it will transform your life.

Etta doesnt mention that it might be a bit of a bumpy ride, at least at first. When a woman needs courage, for example, life might throw a few things at her to draw it out. When a woman needs to love herself, she might be lonely while life leaves her without external hearts to hide in. Other things are simpler, like beauty and magnificence, since as soon as a woman slips the dress over her head and stares into the mirror, she instantly feels more beautiful and magnificent than shes ever felt in her life.

Fortunately there is nothing that, with a little nip, tuck and the stitching of a special little star, Ettas dresses cant provide. For these are dresses that unlock the wisdom and wishes of womens hearts, dresses that help them to heal themselves and, eventually, attain their deepest desires.

Etta loves to watch when these women step out of the changing room, their faces lit with delight and disbelief.

My goodness, they say. But its so I look so, so

Beautiful. Etta nods. Yes, you do. And she watches them, swallowing a happy sigh and everything else she wants to say but really shouldnt.

You just need a nip here, she says, taking a threaded needle from her pocket and making six quick stitches in the shape of a star, a tiny tuck here. And voila! Etta steps back, a knowing smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eye. You are perfect.

It happens the same way every time. The woman usually stands in front of the mirror for a while, turning this way and that, checking to be certain it isnt an illusion. And, when she is at last sure its real, a blissful smile spreads into her cheeks and flushes through her whole body. In the mirror she sees herself as she truly is: beautiful, powerful, able to do anything. And she sees that the thing she wants most of all, the thing that seemed so impossible when she first stepped into the little dress shop, is really so possible, so close, that she could reach out and touch it.

Yes, Etta says then, as easy as pie. Speaking of which, the bookshop on the corner does the most delicious cherry pie. You really should try some.

The woman nods then, still slightly stunned, and agrees, saying that pie sounds like a perfect idea. So she stumbles out of the shop in a daze, new dress tucked tightly in her arms, and wanders down All Saints Passage to the bookshop. There, she has the best piece of cherry pie shes ever eaten and leaves with a stack of books that will make the transformation complete.

Cora blinks. She yawns and stretches, then rubs her eyes and gazes up at the ceiling. 564 fleurs-de-lis gaze back down at her. As her body wakes, she could swear faint echoes of jazz drift away and fireworks still sound in the distance. Its that dream again. The one so vivid it feels more real to her than reality. The one shes been having nearly every night of her life. The only one she remembers every morning when she wakes up.

In her dream Cora is standing at her bedroom window, tiny hands splayed on either side of her freckled nose against the glass, watching fireworks explode, scattering light like fistfuls of stars. Down in the garden a hundred lanterns hang above a hundred heads, luminous rainbows of silk bobbing along to the jazz. Champagne corks pop and trumpets blow into the air amid claps and cheers. A beautiful black woman sings on stage, her voice as bright as the feathers in her hair.

Cora sees her parents standing close to the singer, sharing a glass of bubbling, sparkling water. They sway together, her fathers arm around her mothers waist, her beautiful head tucked against his chest. Cora wants to join them. She wants to sing, dance, clap and cheer. She wants to freeze-frame the fireworks and count each burst of light. She wants to open her mouth and swallow the sparks and stars as they fall from the sky. But Cora is too young for the party. She was sent to bed hours ago and really should be asleep. Instead she watches the celebrations, listening to the laughter and the jazz tapping on her window, until the last firework explodes and the moon fades away in the milky dawn.

Cora would swear it was a memory, but she understands it cant be. Her parents died twenty years ago today, on her fifth birthday, and she only knows their matching black hair and green eyes, their tall gangly figures and faraway stares, from photographs. There was never a party, and certainly not such an extravagant affair, of this Cora is certain. Her parents were prominent academics at New College, Oxford, who never frequented frivolous events. Maggie and Robert Carraway spent most of their days, and many of their nights, in the biochemistry department. When they werent cross-pollinating plants, discovering new species or generally trying to save the planet, Coras parents were teaching her the basics of complex tissues, encouraging her to experiment on sunflowers or taking her on tours of English woodlands, European mountains and African deserts. They usually forgot birthdays, anniversaries and the like. They would have forgotten Christmas, too, if the luminous trees and light displays throughout the city hadnt reminded them. Not that they were neglectful, far from it. They simply lived in their own world a world of cells and organisms, of ecosystems and genetics, of research and theories, but a world in which their daughter was at the very centre. The Carraways took Cora everywhere. They kept a cot in the biochemistry lab for when they worked late. She took trips to European conferences. She ate all her meals in the university canteen. She played with papers, pencils and chemical equations. A year before they died they published a letter in