‘Yes, that’s right!’ I reply brightly.
‘I’m ringing to invite you to tea to thank you and I’d also very much like to show you my collection of haute couture. It’s evident to me that you’re a woman who’ll singularly appreciate it.’
The words thrill me. Haute couture is dressmaking perfection, with garments made from the most extravagant fabrics, in the most intricate designs, with meticulous detailing and the finest needlework. And she thinks I’ll appreciate it! (That’s understating it slightly.) Haute couture is stratospherically out of my price range so it’s my equivalent of treasure. ‘I’d love to come to tea.’
‘Ah! We’re agreed! And also, I have a business proposition for you that I believe will interest you. But I won’t talk now; I’m in the library. So, now I have your number. And you take my number, too,’ she says imperiously.
‘I’ll get a pen.’ I go into the shadowed, smoke-scented flat to find one and she gives me her home number. I read it back to her and write it down on my wall calendar with her name next to it, smiling to myself: Dinah Moss. Moss, Fern, Banks. We agree to meet on Monday afternoon, my day off.
‘Excellent! Goodbye. I’ll look forward to it.’ Her voice fades as she says to the woman on the desk, ‘Here you are, I’ve finished now.’
The call ends and I put the phone back in my pocket. I have to say, I’m excited about the phone call, because Dinah Moss who wears Chanel says I have a very distinctive style and a compliment always means more coming from an expert.
I try not to speculate about the business proposition.
I have a good feeling about it, all the same.
From time to time over the past few days I’ve been mulling over David Westwood’s comment that no good deed ever goes unpunished. Not that I’m superstitious or anything, but the fire did come shortly after my good deed.
More than anything, I’d like to prove him wrong.
A blue cotton day dress with five bowling-pin-shaped wooden buttons, fitted waist, patch pockets, size 12, labelled with Controlled Commodity symbol (CC41) to comply with government rationing controls, 1941
Sunday is a sunny day and the market is busy. However, sadly for me, I’m not busy at all. I was hoping to sell the last of my stock on my practically bare stall so that I’d have the funds to resupply, but the lack of choice is putting people off.
Gratifyingly, a few people recognise me from the article in the Camden New Journal and sympathise about the fire, but not enough to buy anything. I get them to write their contact details in my client book before they go.
I lean on the counter and watch the constant shifting tide of people flow past as I listen enviously to David Westwood’s sales patter above the noise, lifting my face to the warm sun, whiling away the time thinking up a patter of my own.
And then, suddenly, the mysterious lull occurs and the market is quiet again.
Mick has a theory that any lulls in conversation in a pub or restaurant occur at ten to or ten past the hour, so I check the time. Sure enough, it’s ten minutes past five and I feel a sudden fond urge to ring him and tell him. I’m just getting out my phone, when David casts his shadow over me.
‘That was crazy,’ he says, pushing up the sleeves of his black T-shirt, his mood buoyant. He’s grinning, high on success, and looks up at my rails. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Fine,’ I tell him, grinning back. I don’t want to ruin his mood.
Most people would take this statement at face value and I assume he has, too, because he strolls back around to his side. Then he returns with a single blue acrylic panel and holds it up to the light for me to look through.
‘This is what the constellation of Leo looks like,’ he says.
As I lean over the counter to look, chin in hand, I can feel his warmth radiating through his black T-shirt.
‘Yeah?’ I squint at it, trying hard to make something of the random holes. How the ancients got a lion out of that, I’ll never know. David’s tanned thumb is holding the Perspex, and I look at the pale crescent of his nail. ‘Nice!’
‘This is the tail, see?’ he says, slowly tracing the shape of a lion to the rump, down a leg, along the back and up the neck to the mane and the muzzle and the chest.
Our faces are so close that I can smell him, clean and fresh, even on this hot day in the dusty city. I swallow so hard my throat squeaks. ‘So that’s Leo,’ I say hoarsely, the holes leaking sunbeams along my finger.
‘This particular lion has golden fur. It makes it fearless and indestructible.’ He shifts his face a little to look at me and he’s still holding up the Perspex, its blue colour deepening his eyes and shading his face. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he says seriously.
Without warning, I feel as if I’m going to cry. I’m nodding agreement, pressing my lips together to stop the trembling. ‘Yeah, I know.’
He straightens before I do. ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘That’s Leo.’
When he goes back to his stall I feel as if the earth has shifted underneath me. To ground myself, I do what I was intending to do a few minutes before. I call Mick.
‘Hey, Doll,’ he says in his rich, soft voice.
I can hear music in the background and I know he’s home.
‘When did you get back?’
‘This morning. I got a lift with Roscoe.’
Roscoe’s a member of the band. ‘That’s good,’ I say wistfully, staring at the glow of the sun through the canvas roof.
‘I was going to call you. What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asks.
I smile. ‘Nothing.’
He chuckles softly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Let’s make a day of it and go—’
‘Oh!’ I interrupt him quickly, suddenly remembering about Dinah. ‘Actually, I am doing something! I’m meeting a woman about a business proposition. But that’s not until the afternoon, anyway.’
‘Ah, hell, Fern. Can’t you do it another time?’
Through the corner of my eye I can see David’s legs outstretched on the cobbles, his polished shoes gleaming, and I lower my voice. ‘Well – not really, no, Mick. It’s business. How about we make it Tuesday?’
The volume of the music increases. What time is this to be partying?
‘I’ll get back to you, Doll,’ he said and hangs up.
I laugh merrily once he’s gone, in case David’s listening and thinks my love life is as much of a failure as my business. ‘Bye!’ Damn. I’m a Leo. I’m fearless and indestructible, I tell myself firmly, putting my phone away.
Utilitarian glamour – that’s the look I’m going for as I head to Dinah’s for tea. Dinah’s house is in Netherhall Gardens, a quiet, residential part of Hampstead with large, impressive red-brick houses, architectural plants and electronic gates. I’m thinking of reminding her about the first time we met. The way I look at it, the first time was chance, the second time was a coincidence, but I feel in my optimistic heart that this third meeting is meant to be.
Dinah’s house has a brown wooden gate and a crazy-paving path leading to the front door. I ring the bell and she opens the door immediately as if she’s been standing behind it waiting for me to arrive. She greets me graciously, posing with one arm on the doorframe and looking very Coco Chanel in a little