The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  She thought of Ben, curiously enough, and his desire to support her in her career, but perhaps his former attitude had been right. Maybe what she needed to think about now was security, being married, having a future with someone, starting again with trying for a new family . . .

  Ben wanted to marry her. He wouldn’t care that her business had failed before it had even begun. He would handle the paperwork ending her marriage with Tom. Ben offered life beyond all of her suffering. Back to Golders Green regularly, although she could still live in Chelsea apparently. Back to synagogues, Shabbat, being a dutiful wife. No more sketching, no more dreaming. She could probably take up sewing for some of the tailors of Savile Row . . .

  She saw her reflection in the window, noted the tear stains that she swore she would avoid, but mostly she noted the daringly mannish soft suede coat of grey that ended in a thick hare-fur trim to lend femininity. She admired the rich purple ribbon that embell­ished the pockets and lapels, complementing a matching silk lining and the ribbon around her charcoal cloche hat. It was a striking ensemble. Would she dress like this as Ben’s wife? She doubted it. Ben was so conservative, she was sure he barely understood her clothes. He’d not even asked to look at the sketches she was so proud of that evening in the restaurant.

  The restaurant! Eight days ago! That was the last occasion she’d let the folder out of her sight. Friday had passed in a blur of activity and she hadn’t touched the folder. Saturday likewise. Sunday she’d been at Sol’s house. In fact, the last time she even opened the folder had been Thursday morning.

  Edie turned on her heel and hurried back to the salon.

  ‘Mads!’

  Her friend looked up from the small counter. She looked grave. ‘Four cancellations, Eden. I won’t lie.’

  ‘Never mind that now. We can’t change it. But we can find the culprit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Edie explained.

  ‘Wait,’ Mads said, her tone ringing with admonishment. ‘You think a cloakroom girl has stolen your designs and sold them to House of Ainsworth?’

  ‘It was the only time I let that folder out of my sight! Can you think of another explanation?’

  Her friend shrugged sadly. ‘It’s logical, perhaps, but surely —’

  ‘Why? Doesn’t a girl working in a cloakroom have dreams too? She may have been curious because I seemed so reluctant to hand my folder over. Perhaps she stole a peek inside, realised they had some value . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe she is interested in fashion, follows the stories in the penny newspapers about where skirt lengths are headed and the arrival of the jazz age.’

  ‘But how would she know what to do with them?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mads. I’m just trying to find an answer. I can cope if I know what happened.’

  ‘All right. Do you remember her name?’

  ‘Sarah. I don’t know the name of the restaurant, though,’ she continued and ignored Madeleine’s look of soft despair. ‘But,’ she emphasised, ‘I know exactly where it is, at the bottom of Sloane Square.’

  ‘Right, let’s go, then.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Got anything better to do, Eden? We don’t have any more clients on the books at present and I am guessing that you’re not going to be making up the Fincham gown in ivory or white.’

  Edie shook her head ruefully. ‘I hope it turns out dreadfully.’ She gulped. ‘I didn’t mean that, did I?’

  Madeleine took her friend by the arm. ‘You know, sometimes it’s healthy to be . . . as we French say, méchant.’

  Edie sighed. ‘And after that?’

  ‘Well, let’s agree there’s no point in prosecution.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘What’s to be gained? Not your name, your reputation, not your designs . . .’

  ‘The damage is done?’

  Madeleine nodded sadly. ‘It simply draws more attention to a situation that requires no more kindling to the flames. Let the fire burn out, Eden. No one can steal your talent.’

  ‘Start again?’ she said, wearily. ‘I want to punish this thief.’

  ‘Stay optimistic. The editor at Vogue loved your designs. All you need to do is replace the designs you’ve lost.’

  ‘But those sketches were my best! They were so fresh and new.’

  ‘Eden, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that fashion waits for no one. Design something even more spectacular!’

  ‘For whom?’ she said glumly. ‘We have no clients.’

  ‘Oh, come on, the season is just beginning. There’s got to be a society engagement out there. Some disgustingly wealthy man has just proposed to an equally disgustingly wealthy woman, bringing together two disgustingly wealthy families who are prepared to spend a disgustingly enormous amount on their wedding.’

  Edie laughed. ‘Where is she, Mads? Where’s my disgustingly wealthy fiancée?’

  ‘Out there, looking for you right now. She won’t want to go to House of Ainsworth, which everyone is talking about. That would be de rigueur for our girl. She’ll want you, Eden. You just have to let her know you’re here and waiting for her.’

  ‘I love you, Mads.’ Edie hugged her friend. ‘But I want to look that thief in the eye so she knows I know.’

  Madeleine sighed. ‘Nothing to be gained. I’ll walk with you and you take the time of the journey to think it through and change your mind.’

  It was while walking to Sloane Square that Edie began to tell her friend of Sol’s dream and his vivid recollection of the old man in the park who may have spoken to Tom, perhaps seen which way he headed . . . might even have exchanged a few words.

  The King’s Road led into Sloane Square and Madeleine paused at the pub on its corner.

  ‘Forget Sarah. We’ve already decided there’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘She can’t get away with it.’

  ‘But she already has. Put your energies into Tom instead. Let’s go find this old man. We’ll go right now, to Green Park.’ Madeleine turned to gaze back at the clock tower above Peter Jones. ‘What time of day did Sol say he dropped Tom off?’

  ‘Just before noon.’

  ‘Well, it’s not quite ten-fifteen. Let’s make our way to Green Park. At worst it will be a pleasant morning out in the fresh air; we can visit Savile Row – which you’re always saying you want to do – and then we can return with clear heads to work out some new designs and make a pact that Valentine’s is going to be the big success story for London’s bridal scene in 1922.’

  Eden took a deep breath.

  ‘She hasn’t ruined your life. Sarah – if it was her – has just set you back a few weeks, Eden.’

  ‘I was taught to turn the other cheek.’

  ‘Abe raised you wisely, then. Come on. An afternoon in the park beckons.’

  _______________

  Alex had finished making the Aubrey-Finches ‘the happiest parents in the world’, according to Pen’s mother, who pecked Alex’s cheek. ‘Go on, you two. We’ll join you later down by the duck pond. I’m sure you’d appreciate some time alone,’ her mother said, waving them away, still dabbing at her eyes as she glanced with a watery smile at her husband, who drew her close with an indulgent smile.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t need to ask you how it went with Dad,’ Pen admitted, linking her arm around Alex. ‘I’ll bet my mother’s the one who wants to be alone because she can’t wait to share the gossip.’

  Alex grinned to cover the unsettled feeling that the news would now move through the country like a fire out of control. They wandered in comfortable silence into the small copse surrounding the Aubrey-Finch property that sat on countless acres of stunning, fertile land around Rye in Sussex.

  ‘Do you remember the duck pond? We used to swim in it,’ Pen reminded her fiancé.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  The duck pond came into view, a contented pair of ducks drifting over its softly rippling water.

  ‘Lex, this is the happiest moment of my life,’ Pen
said. ‘Right alongside the moment you came back from the dead, and the moment you asked me to marry you in Brighton. All of it, because my dream has come true.’

  ‘I’m sensing a “but” coming,’ he sighed, finding a comfy spot on the grass.

  She joined him. ‘But . . . do you know through all of this dreamy happiness, you haven’t once said you love me?’

  Alex had been expecting this.

  ‘I . . . I’m not even insisting that you say it,’ she added, her tone pensive. ‘I just worry a little that I’m not enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, shifting to meet her gaze, hating that he was the cause of the soft injury in it. And still she was being the generous one.

  ‘There are moments when you’re physically present, but your mind is absent.’

  ‘Pen —’

  ‘I know . . . I know. I promised myself I wouldn’t take you to task and yet here I am, treacherously jealous monster that I’ve become, doing just that. And I don’t even know what I’m jealous of.’

  ‘Ghosts. Nothing more,’ he uttered but heard the lie echoing through his mind to the tip-tap of heels on a stone pathway.

  ‘I hate myself for sounding pathetic and needy,’ she continued and he suddenly wished he could stop this merry-go-round that he was now clinging to as it began to spin faster. The smiling horses were blurring into one sickening motion of speed but going nowhere, except round and round in circles.

  Red handkerchief, clicking heels, sewing machine oil, a well-made suit, roses, garden shed, leather satchel . . . a heart. Always a heart.

  ‘It’s just, I love you so much, Alex. So much that sometimes I can’t breathe for the happiness that you’re safe. But I don’t want to trap you in my love. I don’t want it to be just my love that binds us. I worry that you’re going along with this whole wedding thing because you don’t have any other better offers.’

  ‘That’s not true . . . nor is it fair.’

  ‘No,’ she said, blushing slightly at his admonishment. ‘It’s probably not fair at all to expect you to love your bride.’ Her searching gaze found him again and nailed him where he sat.

  Alex cleared his throat. ‘Listen, Pen. My life of late has been strange, to say the least. It’s impossible to explain to you how awkward I feel at times.’

  ‘Awkward with me?’

  ‘No, not with you . . . but with life itself, and that does include you. But listen to me now,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘It’s the confusion that makes me appear odd and it doesn’t reflect how I want to feel. I can’t think of a more suitable wife . . .’ As alarm flared in her eyes, he squeezed her hand. ‘Or someone I would more want to spent my life with. I don’t know how to love just now. I have flashes of memory, but not images, just feelings. Anything tangible is still out of reach.’

  ‘Aren’t the doctors offering any advice?’

  ‘Nothing that helps.’

  ‘A specialist, then?’

  ‘Look, I may see Cavendish again. He’s the doctor who assisted me at Savile Row. But, Pen, do you really want me to learn any more?’

  She laid her head on his shoulder and he obliged by putting his arm around her, which he knew she needed. ‘Lex, I love you, but I want your happiness first before your ring. I don’t need you to look after me or provide for me. I just need you to adore me.’

  Alex was disgusted that he found it so easy to beguile her. ‘I think this mood will pass. We shall be married and be hideously happy.’ He needed to believe it.

  She turned to gaze at him. ‘I hope you mean that.’

  ‘You make me feel safe, you make me want family, you make me want to be the Alex Wynter my father expects me to be. Above all, you make me proud.’

  She smiled. ‘Proud?’

  ‘Proud for the women of this country . . . you’re an amazing role model. This family needs you . . . I need you, Pen. Is that enough?’

  Pen looked up at him with soft eyes and kissed him long and gently. ‘For now,’ she murmured.

  22

  Edie and Madeleine had taken a bus and found themselves huddled in the breeze on a bench in Green Park, hoping to see ‘an old man’.

  ‘Apparently he feeds the birds,’ Edie remarked.

  ‘We’ve been here for nearly two hours. I doubt he’s coming.’

  ‘We could have missed him . . .’

  ‘He could be dead.’

  Edie threw Madeleine a sharp glance. ‘It could just be too blowy today. It’s not exactly pleasant.’ She looked up. ‘Rainclouds gathering too.’

  ‘Right!’ Madeleine stood. ‘Well, no luck here and my thighs are numb, so I need to walk.’

  ‘Savile Row?’ Edie suggested.

  ‘Let’s go. Are you going to be gloomy again?’

  ‘No. But maybe I’ll come again sometime. I don’t care about Sarah any more. I don’t even care about the sketches. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘I am proud to hear it.’

  ‘Thanks. Let’s go ogle some handsome, wealthy gents.’

  ‘Many of whom have eligible spinster daughters,’ Madeleine said, tapping her nose.

  They walked briskly against the wind, past a barber’s shop.

  ‘My father liked to come to this salon for a haircut and shave when he was much younger. I think the son has taken over now,’ Edie said, staring into the window. The sign told her the shop was closed and she had no reason to go in there anyway. ‘Perhaps Tom looked into this window that day,’ she said, touching the glass.

  Madeleine pulled on her arm. ‘Come on. Don’t get soppy or you’ll see clues everywhere where they aren’t. Take me to Savile Row.’

  Edie confidently guided her friend down Piccadilly towards St James’s Church. The pair turned into Sackville Street, hanging on to their hats as the gusty weather wanted to snatch them away, while the tall grey stone buildings created a wind tunnel that made them shriek from the cold blast.

  They hurried and skipped into Vigo Street, where London turned quieter, and it led them into Burlington Gardens, where the wind didn’t burn so viciously. ‘This way.’ Edie pointed across the road and they cut right. ‘This is Savile Row,’ she said with a note of triumph and the sounds of traffic and people in a hurry instantly disappeared.

  Madeleine gave a low whistle as she stared at the imposing, handsome building with a brick frontage that was at least three windows wide. Round arched windows and doorways sported elaborate brick trimmings, and the main door was set back into an arched recess with plain stone imposts.

  ‘This is Gieves & Hawkes, gentlemen’s outfitters. Three storeys and a basement. I’ve been in and out of this tailoring salon so many times I’ve lost count. Abba was a favoured supplier of its master tailor.’

  ‘Why?’

  Edie smiled. ‘Abba had what the tailoring people called the Rock of Eye.’ At Madeleine’s frown, she explained. ‘That’s a phrase used for someone who is skilled enough to ignore the rules.’

  ‘Rules?’

  Edie took Madeleine’s arm and began walking again. ‘Most tailors or seamstresses cut to patterns based on a set of meticulously taken measurements. Patterns and tailoring is mostly about mathematics to get the cut perfect on the client. Abba could cut by instinct. He had patterns but the truth is he never needed them. It’s a gift. It’s called the Rock of Eye.’

  ‘You have that! I know you only measured me because you felt obliged. Admit it, you sized me up and could cut that first dress from nothing more than a sketch.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Edie said, strolling on.

  ‘I knew it! Eden, I’ve never known anyone in my career to have that talent. You are every inch your father’s daughter.’

  Eden nodded. ‘“The tailor’s girl” is how they knew me as a little child around here,’ she admitted. Then she smiled, pointing. ‘Here’s Anderson & Sheppard, another of Abba’s admirers. And there’s its head tailor – a lovely gentleman called Percival Fitch.’

  Fitch had stepped outside to
check the colour of some cloth in the thin grey daylight. ‘Good grief. That isn’t you, Edie Valentine, is it?’

  ‘It is! How are you, Mr Fitch?’

  ‘Come here.’ She was surprised by the genuine hug she received. ‘It’s been far too long. Oh, look at that ring; Abe always said you’d marry Benjamin Levi. Congratulations.’

  Edie blinked; she didn’t want to go into the truth with Mr Fitch and it really didn’t matter now.

  ‘I heard about Abe,’ Fitch continued. ‘I’m terribly sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There was so much more she could say but she swiftly moved on. ‘Mr Fitch, this is my closest friend, Miss Madeleine Delacroix.’

  ‘Enchanté, Mademoiselle,’ he said, smiling gently.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Fitch.’

  Fitch grinned. ‘Eden, did I hear that you’ve set up a bridal salon?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, well. Everyone on the Row will be proud of our little tailor’s girl.’

  Edie gave Madeleine a sideways grin. ‘Thank you. And how is business for you, Mr Fitch?’

  ‘Oh, much the same. Our loyal clientele keeps the workflow steady.’

  Edie turned to her friend. ‘Mr Fitch always said a gentleman comes here to have a suit made but also to get away from nagging women and all other noise. Discretion is currency on the Row.’

  Fitch demurred, looking embarrassed. ‘We like to keep it peaceful. No excitement if we can help it.’

  ‘Isn’t that dull?’ Madeleine wondered.

  He knew he was being teased because he smiled genuinely. ‘Dull is how we like it. Not so long ago one of our most valued clients got knocked down in Savile Row by a taxi. Caused such a stir, it took days for the talk to settle down.’ He shook his head and tutted.

  Both women laughed. ‘I hope your client is recovered, Mr Fitch?’ Edie offered.