About ten days after their jolly evening at the wine bar, Elsa got out of bed and put the kettle on. This done, she went into her workroom while she was still bleary-eyed and sleepy, wearing the big sloppy T-shirt she'd slept in.
One of the things she really liked about living on the premises was being able to go straight to work if she wanted to, even on a Sunday, without having to shower, or dress, or travel. She liked having her first-thing-in-the morning mind, as yet uncluttered by the daily grind, to apply to her creative process.
Later, she might visit her parents, have lunch or tea or go for a walk. They never minded her being casual about these things – if they weren't in they weren't in. Now she had got a prom dress and a beaded corset off her hands, she had a slot to really think about Carrie Condy's wedding dress.
She knew that Carrie Condy wanted everything about her wedding to be the same as Ashlyn's, but she also knew that even brides who weren't celebrities wanted to be uniquely beautiful on their wedding day. Another inconvenient fact was that she couldn't really make any proper plans, apart from drawings, without speaking to Carrie. She could produce fabric samples galore, but until Carrie made her choice, she couldn't do a thing. Sarah was going to ring her the moment she heard anything.
She wasted a few moments thinking about Ashlyn's wedding and her role in it. Had she secretly enjoyed being part of the action in a beautiful dress? Or was she really and truly happier in her usual black? On balance she felt she was a backroom girl at heart. She was the one who made things happen for other people, rather like Bron was. Let the limelight be for others.
Maybe she was just too scared to come out from behind her black clothes, her tape measure and her pins? Although she had enjoyed actually wearing the dress, there was no denying that. And it had been good research, knowing what they felt like to wear for a whole evening.
Now she got out her original Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine that dated from Victorian times and had beautifully produced prints. Her mother had tracked down this volume when Elsa first declared she wanted to be a dressmaker and it had been one of her favourite sources of information ever since. So many copies of these books had been broken up for the fashion plates, but hers was complete and she loved it.
She had sheets of grey sugar paper already torn into large rectangles and her old box of pastels near by. She had already studied a pile of magazines so she knew what Carrie looked like and her general style. Picking up a crayon at random, she began to draw.
She discarded the first few drafts without even looking at them, but eventually an idea began to form in her mind. She didn't know if Carrie had artificially enhanced breasts or not, but if she had, it was important, Elsa felt, to avoid any styles that might make this too apparent.
Usually with clients, there'd be a meeting when Elsa would talk about fabrics, details, their favourite flowers, favourite paintings, films, costume dramas – anything that would indicate what dream the bride-to-be had in mind for herself. Every girl wanted to be a princess on her weddingday – or if she didn't, she didn't come to Elsa for her wedding dress.
But with Carrie it was different – a great deal more difficult. There'd be no time for a cosy, girly session in Elsa's workshop, when Elsa turned up the heat, produced tea and chocolate biscuits and the bride could take off her clothes and start dressing up.
Because of Carrie's busy schedule, Elsa would have to have lots of drawings and fabric samples to send her, so her client could at least reject the ones she didn't like. Sarah had hinted that Elsa might have to visit Carrie wherever she happened to be in the world if she wanted to guarantee a decision from her. Sarah was only too aware that time was short, and under two months to make a gown as elaborate as Ashlyn's was putting a lot of pressure on Elsa – she had other projects on, after all. Still, Elsa liked a challenge as much as Sarah did and she felt reasonably confident that she could get it done in the time, provided nothing untoward happened.
She finished her third design – her favourite so far, one that managed to be sexy and yet demure enough for a bride. Elsa felt that no bride should expose too much flesh if she was getting married in a church and was adept at creating dresses with sleeves and backs that detached, so the bride could display all the St Tropez or fake-bake she wanted to at the reception. She was drawing arrows and details of how this happened on the sketch when her mobile rang.
She was startled. She was so involved in her drawing that she could hardly remember what that funny little noise indicated. The phone had stopped tinkling by the time she retrieved it from her bag. She checked to see who had called her and it was a strange number. She frowned. Not Sarah then. She went back to her drawing, noting as she did so that her T-shirt was covered in smudges from her pastels. And it was nearly ten o'clock – far too late to be wandering about without knickers, even for a Sunday. She stretched and filled the kettle again before going into the tiny bathroom.
The phone rang again when she had just poured boiling water on a tea bag, still wearing her towel. She nearly ignored it but in case her parents had fallen down a crevasse and needed her to call the emergency services, she answered it.
‘Is that Elsa?' said a voice she recognised but couldn't put a name to. 'It's Laurence. Remember? From Ashlyn's wedding?’
She jumped. When Mrs Lennox-Featherstone had said he wanted her number she hadn't thought he'd actually ring her.
‘Oh, yes,' she said carefully. If his sister or his niece wanted a wedding dress it would have to be for next year now.
‘I wondered if we could meet for a drink or something sometime.'
‘Oh.' Elsa wasn't used to being asked out – not by men anyway – and she presumed this was a date. The last time she'd gone out with a man he'd been the son of friends of her parents. Both sets of parents were worrying about their single children and tried to match them up. It hadn't been a success. But Laurence had been nice – kind and funny. Perhaps he was just being friendly.
He pressed on. 'So, would that be possible? Do you think?'
‘Er – yes.' A bit late, Elsa remembered her social skills. 'I don't see why not. When did you have in mind?'
‘What about this evening? It is very short notice, I know, but it's Sunday and there's nothing on television.' She could hear the chuckle in his voice. 'The programme about cars is having a break.’
This made her laugh and remember their banter at the wedding. 'You mean if you could watch grown men behaving like teenagers you would?' she asked, feigning indignation. 'As you can't you're asking me for a drink?' He wasn't the only one who liked that programme, although she wasn't going to say so.
He laughed too. 'Exactly. How about it? I have a favour I want to ask and I'd rather do it in person.'
‘When you've dulled my senses with strong drink?’
‘You're reading my mind.’
Elsa giggled. Yes, she had enjoyed the wedding, but mostly because Laurence had been so nice to her and fun to be with. 'Well, if you need a dress for someone, unless it's for next year, there's no chance.'
‘This is nothing to do with dresses,' said Laurence, trying to sound offended and not quite making it, 'or at least, only indirectly.'
‘OK then,' said Elsa, after a moment's teetering indecision. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as her mother would say. 'I'll meet you for a drink. What time?' He was silent for a bit and then said, 'Could it be earlyish?'
‘Yes. Why do you ask?'
‘Because if we meet early, we can make it dinner if we like each other.'
‘I see where you're going with this. But supposing one of us likes the other and the other doesn't.' Elsa didn't often get an opportunity to tease like this and she found she enjoyed it.
‘That doesn't make any sense,' said Laurence firmly.
‘It makes perfect sense,' insisted Elsa. 'Supposing one of us was really bored. How would they get up and say, "So sorry, got to go," if the other person was having a brilliant time and had already decided it might be dinner?'
‘Tell you what,' said Laurence after a moment's unravelling, 'let's be bold and make it dinner. If we're miserable, we can skip pudding and coffee.’
Elsa smiled and shook her head. 'OK. I'll be bold. Where would you like us to meet?'
‘I'll pick you up from your flat then you don't have to worry about your car.' He paused. 'If you don't want to be driven home by me you can always take a taxi.'
‘Now you're reading my mind,' said Elsa, although she was fairly sure that she wouldn't mind Laurence driving her home. After all, he didn't drink and she knew he was a good driver.
‘So what's your address?’
Elsa considered a moment. 'Actually, could you pick me up from my parents' house? I usually go over there on Sundays.' She didn't want him coming to her workroom just yet. She liked to know people quite well before she let them go there.
‘Oh. Is that so they can check me over before I take their daughter away in my antique sports car?’
Why hadn't she anticipated he'd think this? 'No! I'm nearly thirty, you don't have to convince my father of your good intentions.' Elsa laughed, amused by this idea.
‘I wouldn't be worried about that,' said Laurence, 'but I am glad of an opportunity to check out what your mother looks like.'
‘Why?' Elsa was baffled.
‘Because all women end up looking like their mothers.'
‘It's only dinner, Laurence,' she explained patiently, smiling to herself. 'Even if we have pudding and coffee, it's not going to take that long.’
Elsa could hear the laugh in Laurence's voice. 'Give me the address. I'll pick you up at eight.’
Her mother was lying on the sofa with her feet on the arm when Elsa called round. Elsa'd worked all day and, having nothing much to eat at her house, wanted a snack to keep her going before Laurence picked her up. She didn't want to drink on a completely empty stomach and her mother's fridge would have something she could raid. She went into the sitting room first. 'Hi, Mum. Cup of tea?'
‘Glass of wine. Your father walked the legs off me.'
‘It's good for you. You don't get enough exercise,' said Elsa's father from behind the newspaper. 'I'd like a glass of wine too. There's a bottle open.’
Elsa brought her parents their wine and some pistachio nuts in a wooden dish and then said, 'Can I make myself a snack? I've got a date tonight.’
Her mother's legs shot off the arm of the sofa and she sat upright. 'Nice.’
Elsa was not deceived. Every fibre of her mother's being was concentrated on not getting over-excited, or being too curious, or making it plain that this was an unusual occurrence. Her daughter wasn't remotely fooled. 'Mm,' said Elsa. 'Actually, maybe I'll have a glass of wine too.’
Before she left the room to fetch it, she saw her mother's lips clamp down on her anxieties about drinking and driving. Elsa smiled to herself in the kitchen; her mother was going to love Laurence. She made a quick sandwich and took it with a glass of wine through to her parents. Her mother was desperate for her to find a boyfriend and equally desperate for Elsa not to know this, but, sadly, Elsa was too good at reading her mother's body language to be in any doubt on the matter.
Elsa perched on the now vacant sofa arm. 'Yes. Actually it's the man I met at Ashlyn's wedding.'
‘The man you danced with, who had the Morgan?' Elsa nodded. 'You did file every detail, didn't you?’
Her mother made a dismissive gesture. 'Well, you don't go to so many posh weddings, do you? I'm bound to remember.'
‘Anyway, he's picking me up at eight.'
‘Eight! That's less than an hour! I'd better tidy up and put something decent on. And what are you going to wear?'
‘It's all right, don't panic, not this. I've brought something to change into.'
‘Let me see.’
Elsa produced the rucksack with her change of clothes folded neatly in it. 'Hm,' said her mother, no longer so neutral.
‘I don't suppose there's any danger of getting any supper, is there?' said Elsa's father, unaware of the sartorial discussion, still struggling with the crossword.
‘There are some nice sausages if you peel the potatoes,' said Elsa's mother, taking out the T-shirt that her daughter thought quite smart enough for a casual date, even a first one.
‘I suppose you want me to cook them, too?'
‘That's right,' said both of his womenfolk in unison. 'Seriously, darling, have you really not got anything that isn't black?' said Elsa's mother.
‘This is a lovely T-shirt. Quite new. There's nothing wrong with it.' She remembered that Ashlyn's mother had told her she shouldn't wear black and wondered if she was right. She had also told her she was going to make her get her colours done – but with luck she'd forgotten all about it. She was a very busy woman.
‘Really, darling.. Elsa's mother began, and then stopped herself. 'OK, well, have a look at my jewellery and see if you can find something to jolly it up with but…' She paused, determined to be as encouraging as possible. 'I'm loving that fringe!’
Elsa made a face at her mother's slang, as she was supposed to, and then her mother said, 'Right, I'm going to hoover.'
‘It's Sunday evening, Mum!'
‘But there are people coming!'
‘Only one and he won't cross the threshold,' said Elsa to her mother's departing back. 'If I'd known it would cause all this fuss, he could have picked me up from mine.’
In spite of a natural desire to ignore her mother's advice, Elsa ran her fingers over the array of necklaces and beads that hung from a rack by her dressing table. Her mother loved big, ethnic, statement accessories, dating back, she insisted, to days when she made her own decorations with melon seeds dyed with cochineal and earrings with beads from her own mother's hoard.
Elsa took a moment to fluff up the fringe and realised she loved it too. Then she held up one necklace after another until she found a simple pendant on a cord. It was turquoise and silver and went with a pair of earrings that Elsa had. It wasn't exactly making a big statement about her artistic tastes, but it looked pleasant enough. She didn't show herself to her mother until five to eight, so her mother couldn't sigh, and almost audibly wish that her daughter let herself go a bit more.
Laurence arrived promptly at eight. Elsa opened the door and almost didn't recognise him. The last time she'd seen him he'd been wearing a morning suit. Now he had on a casual shirt tucked loosely into jeans. He kissed her cheek.
‘I'm so glad you didn't dress up,' he said, 'I thought I'd take you to a place I know with a garden. Great food, too.' As Elsa had dressed up, her smile wasn't all that warm. She noticed her mother hovering in the hallway. 'This is my mother. Mum, this is Laurence.'
‘Hello, Mrs Ashcombe, lovely to meet you,' said Laurence, 'and I'm Gentle.'
‘Glad to hear it,' said Mrs Ashcombe, her eyebrows raised.
‘No, it's my name. I'm Laurence Gentle.'
‘Hello, how nice to meet you,' went on Elsa's mother with a grace her daughter envied. 'Would you like to come in and have a drink or do you want to get off?'
‘I think we'd better get off, thank you.'
‘Bye, Mum, thanks for tea. I'll see you soon.' Elsa kissed her mother's cheek, then called, 'Bye, Dad!’
Mrs Ashcombe stood in the doorway as they went down the path. 'Oh, is that your car? Better not let Elsa's father see it or you'll never get away.'
‘Another time I'd be delighted for him to have a look if he's interested.'
‘How kind. That would be fun but don't hang around now if you've got a table booked. Have a lovely time.' Elsa waved.
Laurence was good company. He guided her to a table in the garden and organised drinks and menus with the calm efficiency that made him such a good best man.
‘Now, what would you like?' he said as a large glass of white wine was set down on the table by her. 'The fish is very good here. What do you fancy?’
The menu was more sophisticated than the relaxed garden atmosphere implied. 'I'll have to read it properly. There are so many lovely things.'
‘How hungry are you? The pâté is particularly delicious.'
‘Mm, but maybe I'll just have something light…' she said, having eaten a cheese sandwich less than an hour earlier.
‘And follow it up with the steak and chips. Good idea, I think I'll join you.'
‘I hadn't decided on that but maybe-'
‘Hand-cut chips, who can resist?’
She put her head on one side enquiringly. 'Are you softening me up for something?' she asked him suspiciously.
He nodded. 'Of course! I told you. I have a favour to ask you.'
‘So you have. What is it?’
He shook his head. 'Later. You're still quite starchy. I'll wait until you've had your second glass of wine.’
Elsa picked up her wine and sipped it, thinking it was already her second glass really. 'Why don't you drink, Laurence, or is that an embarrassing question?'
‘I just decided not to, years ago. I've never regretted my decision.’
He obviously didn't feel the need to elaborate further. Elsa frowned a little. 'But don't you get bored at parties when everyone's drunk and getting tedious?’
He shrugged. 'If I am, I just drive myself home. Now, what do you want to eat?'
‘Pâté and steak and chips,' said Elsa decisively. She usually took hours to make up her mind.
‘You must leave room for pudding. The chef trained in Vienna and his tortes are amazing.'
‘My mother went to Vienna once with some friends. She learnt to make apple strudel. So come on, tell me, what's this favour?’
Laurence gave her a considering look as if weighing up waiting until the food had been eaten before asking it, or going straight for it. 'OK. I want you to be my partner at a very swish ball.'
‘Do you?' Elsa was stunned. She'd expected him to ask her to make a dress, or alter something, or even take up his jeans. 'Why?'
‘Because you're very good company and I'd like to take you. And' – his smile was definitely rueful – 'it's being run by someone who is always producing women for me. I'd really like to bring my own this time.'
‘That dress wasn't mine, you know,' said Elsa quickly, in case he thought she looked like that on a regular basis, with her hair and make-up done and a fabulous dress on. 'I've given it back. I haven't got a ball dress of my own.’
He dismissed this concern with a shake of the head. 'That doesn't matter. It's a costume ball.'
‘A costume ball?' Elsa was intrigued.
‘Yes, only it's not just dressing up. We all have to be in Regency dress.'
‘Oh my goodness.' Would that involve quite a tricky corset? She managed not to share this thought with him.
Laurence laughed, seeing the way her mind was going. 'But really, you don't have to make your dress. You can hire one. In fact, I can hire both our costumes.’
He was obviously completely unaware of the enormity of his suggestion. She struggled to find the words that would convey her dismay at this idea. 'Asking a dressmaker to hire a dress from goodness knows where is like asking…' She paused, struggling for a metaphor. 'I don't know, asking a top chef to stop by for a hamburger and fries.’
Laurence appeared to consider this. 'I think most chefs would be prepared to do that, if pushed.’
Elsa tutted. 'Well, I'm not prepared to hire a musty old curtain that smells of sweat and is historically incorrect!’
He seemed a little dashed by this. 'Does that mean you won't come with me?’
It suddenly occurred to Elsa how churlish she had sounded. She'd been invited to a lovely occasion and all she'd done was moan. She had no idea what sort of hire place he had in mind and the costumes might be of the very finest, in authentic fabrics and every last detail attended to. Her mother would be appalled. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. What must you think of me?’
Again Laurence was thoughtful. 'I think you're a very busy woman and the thought of taking time and trouble to make a dress for yourself isn't on the cards just now.’
Elsa bit her lip and nodded. That was it exactly.
‘It isn't for another month, if that helps. I knew it was a big ask,' he said quietly. 'Maybe I should take you out to dinner several times to make up for it?’
Elsa was still silent. Part of her wanted to go to the ball, very much; to be Cinderella, not just the fairy godmother with the wand who made the beautiful dress, only with a lot more effort than waving a foil-wrapped stick with a tinsel star sellotaped to the top. She'd had a taste of it at Ashlyn's wedding and rather enjoyed it. But the other part was very comfortable slicing through swathes of tulle with life-threateningly sharp scissors, taking in seams, adding bugle beads, keeping in the background. Who was she -really?
‘I do wish you'd say something,' said Laurence. 'I'm beginning to think I asked you to come to an orgy without realising I was speaking in code.'
‘I'm sorry.' Elsa sighed and smiled at the same time. 'I've been dreadfully rude. You ask me to a lovely party and I just fret about it taking up too much of my time.' Among other things, she added silently.
‘I hadn't taken into consideration your perfectly justifiable feelings about hiring a dress.' He put his head on one side. 'Is there anything I can do to make things better?'
‘You could ask someone else, someone who could actually dance, which you know perfectly well I can't do. After all, you must know plenty of other women. And they wouldn't make a big fuss about hiring a dress, either.'
‘But I asked you.' The corner of his mouth moved. 'Even knowing your limitations.’
She put her hand on his, trying to make up for her rudeness. 'But that's what I'm saying! You could have someone without limitations.'
‘I have a plan for your limitations. I'm going to arrange for you to have waltzing lessons, or at least one. Then you will be able to dance.'
‘But why not choose someone who can already?’
He laughed with exasperation. 'You're a very hard woman to ask out!’
Elsa looked aghast. 'No I'm not – I came here, didn't I? I'm just a hard woman – actually, I'm not a hard woman at all. I'm soft as soap…' Then, realising that she'd got mixed up and that soap was usually hard, she went on, 'Or something very soft – but I don't want you to have to go to all that trouble and expense when someone else would do.’
He looked at her in exasperation. 'No, they wouldn't do.' He spoke slowly as if to a small child intent on misunderstanding. 'I do know lots of women I could ask, but you are the one whom I have asked. It'll be fun; we'll have fun.'
‘Oh.' He did seem genuinely to want her to go.
He smiled to ease her moment of anxiety. 'It would be worth all the trouble and expense just to see my friend's face when I walk in with a beautiful woman – or as her boyfriend might put it, a bit of top totty. Please say you'll come.’
Elsa wasn't sure what to do. She did want to go, she realised. It was a very flattering invitation, and she liked Laurence, but did she have time to make something? As long as Carrie didn't suddenly make a decision she could. 'OK. I could probably make something for it if I can do it now, but the moment someone I'm doing a wedding dress for makes a decision, I'll have to drop everything. I've got a couple that need final fittings and finishing off as it is.' She paused. 'I work evenings too.' She regarded him under her new fringe, trying to look firm. 'And I will have a waltzing lesson. Only one though. I won't have time for more.’
Now he put his hand on hers. 'Thank you, Elsa. I'm really pleased.’
Elsa felt a slight tingle. He had nice hands and she rather liked the feel of it. Fortunately for her peace of mind, at that moment the waiter came to take their order. Elsa used the time she wasn't placing her order to get her head round the fact that a very nice man had asked her to a costume ball and that she was going to have waltzing lessons, just like an ingenue in a Georgette Heyer novel. The nice man also seemed quite keen on the idea. There was a lot to take in.
When the waiter had taken their orders and their menus Laurence said, 'So you'll definitely come?'
‘Yes, I will. And thank you very much for asking me.' After a pause she said, 'But you'll owe me, big time.’
He laughed and then became serious. 'Anything you ever ask me, I'll be happy to do for you.’
She smiled. He was reasonable looking, apparently comfortably off, and single. So what was wrong with him?
There must be something, or he wouldn't be asking her out.
‘What do you do for a living?' she asked. If he said
‘undertaker' she'd know.
‘Something in the City,' he said, smiling. 'If you're not careful, I'll tell you all about it.’
`No thanks, you're all right.' She smiled. He was all right.