A Random Act of Kindness. Sophie Jenkins

isn’t straight – pull it up. There. Okay. Look at me.’

      I turn to face her.

      Her face softens and she clasps her knuckles to her mouth, her chin crumpling, tears shimmering in her eyes. ‘So beautiful,’ she says softly. She shuts a wardrobe door with the toe of her shoe. ‘Look at yourself in it.’

      I stand tall, shoulders back. My reflection shows me as my very best self – the person I dream of being. The gown is a masterpiece of design, the definition of elegance. The fabric knots in the front and falls from my hips, Grecian and feminine. I step forward in it, and the chandelier’s reflection sparkles beneath my feet, the folds caressing my legs and ankles. It’s the sexiest dress I’ve ever worn. It elevates me to a new state of being. No one could possibly feel ugly or inferior in this gown. If it were mine, I’d keep it and it would give me permanent confidence and I’d never take it off.

      I turn to look over my shoulder, seeing myself from the back. ‘Oh, Dinah.’ It’s the most surreal experience of my life. ‘And you’ve worn all of these,’ I say to my reflection, trying to comprehend what it must be like to own these clothes.

      ‘Yes, of course. They exist to be worn,’ Dinah says airily. ‘Well, you know, in those days, my husband and I, we socialised.’

      I shake my head in disbelief. ‘It’s amazing to imagine. It’s like another world to me.’ But the thing is, I can imagine it. ‘Do you ever wear them now?’

      She shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Now and then, if there’s an occasion. Weddings; dinners; we attend wearing our best and doing nothing more energetic than picking up a fork.’

      She gestures for me to turn and, reluctantly, I stand still and raise my right arm for her to unfasten the gown. She helps me out of it then I put my navy blue day dress back on and become myself again, trying to ignore the anticlimax.

      Dinah tucks the clothes away, taking time to put them back in the right order. Then she straightens them and briskly closes all the wardrobe doors, and the two of us stand side by side with our sunray of multiplied reflections in the mirrors.

      She looks at herself critically in her knee-length cream Chanel, one hand on her hip, and tilts her head. ‘How do I look?’

      ‘Fabulous,’ I reply.

      She grips my hand. ‘You think I’m beautiful?’

      I almost say yes just out of politeness but she asks the question so intently that I consider it seriously. She’s not beautiful, actually, although on first impression I thought she was. Her eyes are large and close together, like a lion’s eyes. Her dyed hair is neat and wavy, her nose is narrow and her mouth well shaped in that bright red lipstick so similar to my own. She’s not beautiful, that’s not the word at all, but she is striking.

      ‘Come! It’s not difficult! It’s a yes or no question,’ she says brusquely.

      What kind of question is that to ask someone who’s practically a stranger, anyway? ‘You give the general impression that you are.’

      This makes her smile.

      ‘Good! The impression is what counts! And now, let’s have tea.’

      Once again, I find myself wondering about the nature of the business deal. I’m eager to find out what it is and return to the fantasyland of haute couture.

      She leads the way back downstairs and we go into the far end of the dining room. Facing the lush green garden is a seating area with two worn sage green velvet armchairs and an occasional table piled with Sunday supplements. On the mahogany sideboard stands a seven-branched candelabra, a Jewish menorah.

      She’s laid a butler’s tray with china cups and saucers, milk and sugar cubes, and she goes into the kitchen then comes back with a teapot with a felt tea-cosy.

      She pauses before pouring and looks at me steadily. ‘In Chalk Farm, you stopped the bus for me so that I could be reunited with my money. I’m grateful for that. So now it’s time for me to do something for you.’ She has a sharp and lively gleam in her eyes. ‘Let’s talk business,’ she says, pouring the tea. ‘It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?’

      ‘Obviously, I’m curious,’ I reply, my heart thumping with excitement.

      ‘Do you know of a place called Morland Street?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Oh, good. There is a post office there, do you know it?’

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      ‘Next to the post office is my husband’s tailor shop. It’s a big shop; you can’t miss it. You know the one I mean?’

      I shake my head.

      ‘Well, it’s there, anyhow. He also offers dry-cleaning but,’ she pulls a face, ‘that’s something that he farms out to another company and there’s no money in it. Dressmaking is what he does best.’

      She’s lost me. I have absolutely no idea where this conversation is going, but I nod.

      The tea is dark and very strong; I can taste the tannin on my tongue. I take the sugar tongs and put in a couple of sugar lumps just for the novelty value. Now it’s very sweet, too.

      ‘Tell me, who do you use for your alterations?’

      ‘What?’ Yikes. She’s got the entirely wrong idea about me. I don’t need a tailor. My thoughts keep returning longingly to those rows of garment bags lined up in the wardrobes. Dior, Chanel, Grès … ‘I don’t offer that kind of service. My clients get it done themselves if they need to.’

      She sucks her breath in sharply and tuts. ‘But you’re a curator of fashion. You need a good tailor for couture. My husband was in the atelier for a French fashion house. You know the word atelier?’

      I nod. ‘It’s the workshop where the dressmakers stitch the garments.’

      ‘Exactly, yes. You know how important that job is, the dressmaking?’

      ‘Sure, of course.’

      ‘Well then. Before the war he was with Chanel and after coming here as a refugee, he worked for Norman Hartnell, so you see, he has credentials. He’s been in the rag trade all his life and between you and me,’ she says, lowering her voice, ‘his life has been a long one. Listen to me. He’s the best. I can recommend him to you.’ She grips my wrist, pulling me towards her. ‘You helped me out and now I’m helping you out, as a friend.’

      This is what happens when I big myself up; it’s very misleading. ‘Dinah, I’m so sorry, I’ve given you the wrong impression,’ I confess. ‘I don’t sell couture. I sell vintage, retro, ready-to-wear.’