Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Before my date with Luke, I had a date with Orla. Not a date date, obviously – but something that felt almost as significant. She’d suggested that we go to Spitalfields Market to find me ‘something a bit different’ to wear and I’d enthusiastically agreed.
I had to admit to myself that part of me was sceptical about taking fashion advice from a woman so much older than me. But I instinctively felt that refusing would hurt her feelings and I sensed that, even with three of us living in the house with her, she was isolated among us. Also, I was curious to know more about her – what had compelled her to move into a ruin of a house she clearly could barely afford to live in? Where had she been before? How had her family come to own the property but never lived in it?
All those questions felt unaskable in the evenings in the kitchen or on weekends when Luke and Beatrice were so often there, their presence distracting in quite different ways.
So I booked an afternoon off work and hurried home, and Orla and I left the house, strolling through the sunny streets until we reached the market, where stall upon stall held rack upon rack of garments in rainbow-coloured profusion.
‘My God,’ I said. ‘Where do we even start?’
Orla laughed. ‘I know. When I first visited a night market in Hong Kong, I felt just like that. You get a sense for where the good stuff is.’
Another hint at her past – but there was no time to ask about her travels in East Asia now.
A rail of brightly coloured summer dresses caught my eye and I stopped, flipping through them. Next to me, Orla reached out and rubbed the fabric between her fingers.
‘Polyester.’ She glanced around, but the stallholder was a few steps away, his back to us. ‘It’s terrible for the planet, of course, but takes dye well, and obviously it’s cheap. Look at the seams though.’
Obediently, I looked. They seemed like perfectly ordinary seams to me.
‘Everything’s laser-cut now, so the seam allowance is tiny,’ Orla went on. ‘Plus they use a really tiny, busy print, so they don’t need to pattern match. It all saves the manufacturer money.’
‘They’re pretty, though,’ I argued.
She smiled. ‘They are. And perfectly all right if that’s what you want. But you can do better. Come on.’
She led me on through the maze of stalls, pausing occasionally to remark on something. ‘The trouble is, that trim could be real fur. Dog, maybe… That’s a knock-off of a Pucci print… They’ve done a decent job… This might look and feel like silk, but it’s actually rayon.’
I followed her, looking and listening and touching, occasionally asking a question which she was instantly able to answer. Sometimes she’d remove a garment from a rack and hold it up against my body, telling me at a glance whether it was my size without needing to consult the label.
‘Now,’ she said at last, ‘here we might find you something.’
We’d reached the far end of the market now, where the clothing stalls ended and food outlets began. My stomach rumbled at the aroma of smoke and spices, but Orla wasn’t thinking about lunch. She led me into one of the permanent shops that stood on the edges of the space and I looked around, blinking in the dim light.
Nothing here was new. The rails lining the shop were full of random garments in tweed, leather, denim and velvet, the musty smell of used clothes hanging over everything. I fought down disappointment – I hadn’t wanted to hurt Orla’s feelings, but I could have just gone to Oxford Street after work and found half a dozen dresses in the time we’d spent here already.
Orla didn’t seem to notice my dismay. She rifled through a rail of garments, her hands swift and sure, and pulled out a dress on a wooden hanger.
‘Vivienne Westwood.’ She smiled in satisfaction. ‘Silk, too. And it’s your size.’
I looked at it doubtfully. It was a drab olive green, almost grey, sleeveless and apparently shapeless. But even in the dim light, I could see the sheen of the fabric, and when I touched it, it slipped beneath my fingers like water.
‘It’s cut on the bias,’ Orla said encouragingly. ‘Go on, try it.’
I had no idea what she meant, but I was intrigued. Out of hundreds of dresses, she’d picked this one for me. Everything she had said made me think she knew what she was talking about. And there was the feel of that silk – heavy yet soft, supple yet somehow structured.
‘Okay,’ I said, ducking nervously into the curtained corner that was the shop’s only fitting room, tugging off the cotton skirt and T-shirt I’d worn to work, then standing nervously in my bra and pants for a moment before pulling the dress over my head.
It was as if, among the thousands of people browsing the market, the dress had been waiting just for me. It gave me curves where I didn’t have any naturally. It made my legs look endless and elegant. It made my eyes look dark green instead of sludgy hazel.
I pushed the curtain aside and stepped out. Orla looked at me, her head on one side, smiling.
‘That’ll do,’ she said. ‘Maybe just a tiny dart there below the bust…’
She stepped forward and adjusted the fabric above my waist. I caught the scent of her perfume, clear and bright amid the smell of old clothes.
‘How much is it?’ I asked. ‘I don’t actually know if I can?—’
‘Fifty pounds.’ The shopkeeper appeared at my elbow, sensing a sale.
‘We’ll give you thirty,’ Orla countered instantly.
‘Oh no, madam. Not possible. I’d be making a loss.’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Forty.’
‘Done.’
Moments later, we were leaving the market, the dress clutched like a treasure in a paper bag in my hand.
‘How do you know?’ I asked. ‘I mean, where did you learn so much about clothes?’
Orla laughed. ‘You could say it’s in my blood.’
‘In your… How?’ I fell into step next to her.
‘My family were in the rag trade,’ she said. ‘Weavers, originally. Back in the eighteenth century, when silk-making was a huge industry in this part of the world. That all changed, of course, when the Industrial Revolution happened. They didn’t stay in London for long. But the business was built on silk.’
‘So your mother is a bit of a fashionista?’ I guessed.
‘My mother? I suppose she is, in her way. But it was my grandmother who taught me about clothes. She used to say it’s not about your figure, or how much money you spend – it’s about caring. Noticing quality and craftsmanship, knowing what suits you and how to alter it so it’s perfect. Looking after your clothes and your shoes so they last. But mostly about caring.’
‘And it was your grandmother who left you the house in her will?’ I asked, trying to make sense of the glimpses of Orla’s past I was getting amid the homily about laundry and needlework. ‘You must miss her.’
‘Oh, no.’ Orla’s face was still now, the delighted smile gone. ‘Not really. I hadn’t seen her for over twenty years before her death.’
Questions wheeled in my brain. How could she have been so close to a relative as to have been left a whole house, yet gone half a lifetime without seeing her? How could she talk about her grandmother with such fondness, yet not miss her? But the look on Orla’s face – not sad, not angry, just sort of closed off – prevented me from asking her anything more.
‘Well, thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much. I love the dress. And this afternoon – it’s been an education. It’s been fun. I feel like you’ve been my fairy godmother.’
The smile returned and Orla laughed delightedly. ‘You know, Livvie, that’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. And you shall go to the ball – or at least to Pizza Express.’