And then, suddenly, everything changed for Kate. I had just got the occasional hurried text message when out of the blue came the announcement of her engagement. Hope for us all, I thought, on the why-not principle. A few days later I got an invitation to the engagement party. Fancy Dress, it said firmly in the corner.
Well, I knew about fancy dress. I visited the nearest theatrical costumier’s, about ten minutes’ walk away from my flat, and put down a deposit to hire a lovely floor-sweeping vaguely mediaeval number in crimson velvet that reminded me of Sleeping Beauty. Just right. I arranged to collect it the afternoon before the party.
I chose an engagement present, a salad bowl glazed green and white. I packed it up with plenty of padding, wrapped the box in bright pink paper and tied a big silver bow around it. Perfect.
On the day of the engagement party I did an emergency voice-over in the morning and by three o’clock was back in my flat, finishing lunch and thinking about strolling down to the theatrical costumier’s to collect my costume. After that I should have time to slip into a bubble bath. But then my phone rang. It was someone at the costumier’s to say that they’d just discovered a mistake with the booking. I couldn’t have my lovely crimson Sleeping Beauty dress as it was still out on hire. They could offer another dress of comparable quality but it belonged to a different period and I’d have to go and collect it from their other branch, which was miles and miles away.
The sky faded by three shades of blue. The sparrows on my bird-feeder sounded grumpy.
I wallowed briefly in a ten-minute bath, threw on some clothes, grabbed my bag and picked up the pink parcel containing the engagement present. Time was tight, so I’d have to go straight to the party once I’d collected my costume. I trekked across several postal districts and an hour later I reached the other branch of the theatrical costumiers, when they were on the point of closing.
They let me have a discount for inconvenience, which I accepted with as much grace as I could muster. I paid up and the elderly assistant was just putting the costume into a box when she suddenly said, ‘You’ll have someone to help you get into this, dear, won’t you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to change when I get there.’
The assistant sighed heavily and opened the box again. ‘You’ll never manage it by yourself,’ she said. ‘Too complicated. Come into the fitting room.’
You’d think I’d have realised, with my training. The dress and the corset underneath it laced up at the back—in the era my costume belonged to they had maids, lots of them. And then there was the wig.
‘You don’t look bad in that,’ the assistant said grudgingly, once she’d shoehorned me into the dress. The corset underneath helped, of course, and the dress material, heavy blue silk, was really pretty. There were even large concealed pockets where I could stow essential items—keys, money, mobile phone, lipstick and a mini A to Z.
The assistant let me leave my bag and clothes there. ‘By the way, dear,’ she said. ‘Should I recognise your voice?’
I said no. It saved time. I thanked her, picked up my parcel, left the shop and headed for the nearest bus stop.
It’s difficult to walk down the street unobtrusively when you’re dressed as Marie Antoinette. And carrying a large pink parcel.
Several old ladies laughed behind their hands. Two men tried unashamedly to look down my cleavage. Small children’s mouths dropped open.
‘I bet she’s advertisin’ something,’ said a spotty teenager to his spottier friend. He managed to speak and leer at the same time. ‘What you advertisin’, darlin’?’
‘Cake,’ I said, and strode on.
The bus driver thought it was hilarious. I had to stand sideways in the aisle because of my skirt, which was very wide and held rigidly in shape from the waist downwards by panniers, ludicrous framework-like structures where the pockets were hidden.
I got off the bus, put the parcel under one arm, fished out my A to Z and turned down a side street. A little lad in a baseball cap asked me if I was a time-traveller. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But if you see the Doctor, promise that you won’t tell him you’ve seen me.’
He looked impressed. ‘What’s your Tardis like, then?’
‘Sedan chair,’ I said. One should try to keep in period.
‘What’s in the parcel?’
‘Anti-gravity,’ I said. ‘Urgently required on Gallifrey.’
‘Why have you got an A to Z, then?’ he called after me. Obviously a bright child.
I stopped briefly. ‘It only looks like an A to Z,’ I said mysteriously.
And then at least four people asked whether I was going in for a fancy dress competition as a spare toilet roll cover. I attempted to smile charmingly and tell them that actually I was going as a tea cosy.
‘Just a minute, love,’ the last one said. ‘Don’t I know your voice?’
‘Do you have a cat?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he replied, mystified.
‘In that case, you probably have heard me before.’ I took a deep breath, drew myself up to my full height and said, ‘I am the voice of Moggy Brex.’
‘Wow!’ he said. ‘Can I have your autograph?’
‘My cat hates the stuff,’ said an interested onlooker.
‘So would I, if I was a cat,’ I said recklessly and moved on, hoping that the terms of my contract didn’t include not dissing Moggy Brex.
A few moments later a taxi slowed down at the kerb beside me and a man about my age, with brown curly hair, eyes that crinkled at the corners and a nice smile, put his head out of the window. At another time, in another place, I would have found him wildly attractive. He had the looks that normally make me go weak at the knees.
‘Excuse me.’
I ignored him.
‘Excuse me,’ he said again. ‘Where are you heading?’
I walked rapidly.
‘1785,’ I said. ‘Rift in the time/space continuum over Versailles.’
The taxi moved with me. Just what I needed, a kerb-crawler who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
‘Stop!’ he called to the cabbie, then opened the door and leapt out. He was wearing an early nineteenth-century naval uniform with a swallow-tail coat, white breeches and buckled shoes and there was a cocked hat under his arm—think Lord Nelson, but about a foot taller and with the full complement of arms and eyes. ‘I suspect we’re both going to the same place.’
It took at least five minutes to get me and the parcel into the taxi and he ended up squashed against me because of the panniers. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t mind,’ he said gallantly. ‘Remind me to straighten your wig when we get out.’ I had no option but to lean against him. I could feel his heart beating, smell his aftershave and gauge the size of his shoulders. I remembered how long it was since there had been anyone like him in my life.
All too soon we arrived at the venue, an impressive private house, and tumbled out of the taxi, for which the early nineteenth-century naval officer insisted on paying. Then we were directed around the house to a stunning garden and a large marquee. A three-piece band had been put under the willow tree and were working their way through favourites from Gilbert and Sullivan.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ said the naval officer. ‘Oh, hang on, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Oliver Kitteridge.’
‘Sally Grant.’
‘I suppose