by Emma Davies
‘No, not at all,’ I reply. ‘But I think it’s very easy to assume that all women want the same things. That having fought, quite rightly, to put things on a more equal footing with our male counterparts that now women must somehow all want their lives to be different. Many don’t. If they do, then great, those opportunities should be there. But if not, then that’s okay too. Change isn’t always a good thing, or for everyone.’
‘No that’s true, although I do think sometimes that it’s fear that holds us back. I think we’re actually scared of changing. Because change takes us away from the comfortable and the familiar and heaven knows what might happen then.’
I hold her look, spoon poised in mid-air. ‘Indeed…’
Nancy smiles. ‘Anyway, apart from anything else, what I also wanted to say is that I did absolutely love your sister-in-law’s dress and, contrary to what you think, I know my way around clothes enough to know that you do have a great talent for dressmaking. To which end I would very much like it if you could make me an outfit too. One to wear when I’m giving my speech. How’s that for empowerment?’
She falters at the look on my face. ‘I’ve offended you… Alys, forgive me, I hadn’t intended—’
‘No, you haven’t offended me,’ I interrupt, sighing. ‘You’ve quite accurately deduced that I’m a woman of a certain age who faces the prospect of the life ahead of her with abject loathing.’ I smile. ‘Forgive me, I’m not feeling myself at the moment, whatever that is… and I’ve had somewhat of a trying morning. One that reminded me of the bright, shiny young thing I once was, while obviously leaving in its wake the polar opposite.’
‘Maybe you should have gone for the cake after all…’ There’s a glimmer of a smile. ‘I can still get you a slice?’
I look up. ‘No, honestly, this is perfect.’ I tear off a hunk of the bread and dip it in the soup. ‘And I’d be delighted to make something for you,’ I add, looking to change the subject. Nancy is so easy to talk to; I’m in very grave danger of letting my mouth run away with me. The next thing I know I’ll be discussing her ex-husband with her, and that’s definitely not something I should be doing. ‘Do you have an idea for an outfit in mind?’ I ask.
Nancy leans forward, grinning. ‘Well, as it happens, I do.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘But… I’m not sure whether it’s a good idea or not. It might also be…’ She opens the folder and takes out a picture, and then another and another, laying all three facing me on the table.
For a moment neither of us says anything. Nancy bites her lip.
‘It’s a ridiculous idea, isn’t it?’ she says.
I pull one of the photos a little closer. It’s been torn from the pages of a magazine.
‘No, actually… I’m surprised – it’s not at all what I thought you might have in mind and…’ I study her, as a dressmaker would, taking in her shape and colouring. Her tiny frame, slender figure, good bust, strong enough shoulders to hold up the structure of the jacket. And her short white hair, standing in peaks, wide mouth, big smile. Oh, it would be perfect. And in fact, she’s already wearing chef’s whites so it’s not such a great leap of imagination. ‘There are very few women who could pull this off… but you’d look amazing!’
Nancy’s whole face lights up. ‘Do you really think so? I wasn’t sure, with my hair…?’
‘No, that’s what makes it so perfect… And you’re sure you want all these… spangles?’ I look at the expression on her face. ‘Yes, of course you do.’ I put down my spoon. ‘Wow, I’ve never made a tuxedo before, let alone one that Elvis wouldn’t look out of place wearing, but… well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.’
‘This event I’m going to, it’s being run by the chamber of commerce, a very male environment. In fact, I bet it’s killing them to even put on an event of this sort, and there’s a terribly devilish streak in me that wants to take them by the scruff of the neck. I’m supposedly speaking about the growing number of successful businesswomen and I’ve a horrible suspicion that what they’d really like me to say is that of course it’s all down to my husband… It wasn’t their idea that my speech be about empowerment, I just thought that it was too good an opportunity to miss and, that being the case, I should at least dress the part.’
Her expression is so earnest it makes me laugh. ‘So, sticking the middle finger up at the patriarchy?’
‘Something like that.’ She pauses. ‘It’s about saying who you really are, isn’t it? Being proud of it – this is me, take it or leave it, but I’m making no apologies. It’s taken me quite a lot of my adult years to realise this unfortunately, but now that I have… well, there are quite a few things in my life that have changed just recently, and…’ She grins at me triumphantly. ‘It feels good.’
‘Really?’ I shake my head. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean that it doesn’t feel good, just that I’m surprised to hear you say that. You don’t come across as someone who has ever had any trouble with their identity.’
Nancy pulls a face. ‘Don’t let the red lipstick fool you,’ she says. ‘I’ve got good at putting on a certain face for the punters… and the cameras. But inside my own four walls, very different story.’ She grins suddenly and I get the feeling that this is where the confidences end. For now, at least. ‘So, what do you reckon then? Tuxedo, or something a little less bling?’
‘Oh no, tuxedo definitely. You should one hundred per cent give a speech wearing that. You’ll have all the women there eating out of your hand before you even open your mouth.’
‘Hah, I wish,’ she replies. ‘But then at least if my speech is rubbish, they’ll have something else to ask about. Now, how do we go about this? Are you sure you’re happy to make something like this? I haven’t exactly gone for the easy option.’
I flex my fingers. ‘No, it’s absolutely fine. It’s ages since I’ve got my teeth into something more complicated, I’m rather looking forward to it. When do you need it for?’
‘Yes, that’s the tricky bit. In a couple of weeks’ time, I’m afraid. It’s really short notice and I’ve no idea how long something like this takes to make. I’ve probably made it impossible, haven’t I? You must have loads of other commitments.’
I make a show of thinking for a few seconds. ‘Well… as long as you don’t count a husband and daughter, none at all. In fact, now that I don’t even have my job to go to, I’m all yours.’
She looks confused. ‘But I thought…’ She breaks off. ‘Sorry I thought… assumed, you had your own business, as a dressmaker. I’m sure Esme mentioned something… And your sister-in-law’s dress…’
‘Done as a favour, no more. No, up until a week ago I worked in the textile and haberdashery department in Harringtons, that’s all. I probably should have said something before but after nearly twenty-six years of sterling service, I’ve just been made redundant. It’s all still a bit raw.’
‘Oh…’
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a bugger, especially seeing as it’s my own husband who made me so. He’s the manager there,’ I explain. ‘He has this idea in his head that all I’ve ever dreamed of is being a housewife, or “having some time to myself”, as he puts it.’ I grimace. ‘It’s my reward, apparently, for twenty-odd years of sterling service to him.’
Nancy smiles, looking at me quite intently for a moment. ‘And I can see that’s not going down too well… Twenty plus years is a long time to work somewhere.’
I stare at the soup in my bowl. ‘It’s an incredibly long time to work somewhere… And do you know what’s even more incredible? That it was only ever meant to be a stopgap after leaving uni. Something to tide me over until…’
Nancy raises her eyebrows.
‘Well, I was going to say until I got my dream job. But that just sounds faintly ridiculous.’ I look around the room as if I’ve only just realised where I am. ‘Where have the last two decades gone, Nancy? Where has my life gone? I’ve stayed in a job I’ve tolerated at best for all that time… never done anything else. How on earth coul
d I have been so complacent?’
‘Happy, maybe…?’ she replies. ‘I think we’ve all been there. The years go by and we’re quite content with our lot. It isn’t until something changes that we’re forced to re-evaluate. And in my experience, that’s when the cracks begin to show.’
‘Cracks? Yawning chasms more like…’
‘Well, so now this could be the opportunity you’ve been waiting for,’ says Nancy. ‘Make my tuxedo for me and not only will I pay you for it, obviously, but if my outfit attracts the kind of attention I’m hoping it will, then it’ll be great publicity for you.’
‘Publicity?’ I frown. ‘Sorry, I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘Just think about it. The women at this event will all be aspiring businesswomen. They could well be in need of a new outfit for the next opportunity to be seen; the next dinner, or charity event… launch of their own business, all kinds of things. And word of mouth is the best advertisement there is. You could find yourself with quite a bit of business coming your way. And before you know it, you have orders lined up and you’re a self-employed designer. Maybe you’ll get your dream, after all.’
I shake my head. ‘But that’s just it,’ I say. ‘I never wanted to be a designer. I started making clothes because I couldn’t afford to buy any, that’s all.’
My head is suddenly full of thoughts, thoughts I’ve not had for a very long time.
Nancy grins. ‘Ooh, come on, you’ve got to tell me now. What was it you always wanted to do?’
But I spoon up the last of my soup instead of answering. It’s something that belongs to another part of my life. ‘Do you know, I’m not even sure I can remember.’
9
Sorry, Hugh, what did you say?’ I look up from where I’m sitting at the kitchen table, my laptop in front of me, momentarily distracted by what’s on my screen. Hugh is standing nearby holding an armful of books.
‘I wondered if we really needed to keep these any more,’ he says. ‘We’ve had them for years, and all they do is sit on the shelves and gather dust. Do you even look at them now?’
I drag my eyes away from the screen, forcing myself to concentrate. I hate it when Hugh’s in one of these moods – his getting-things-done mode – because invariably it involves asking me so many questions that I end up getting his things done too, even if I’m trying to do something else at the time. I peer at the titles in his arms.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, as I realise the significance of his question. ‘Yes, I look at them, and no, we can’t get rid of them.’
Hugh looks as if I’ve just burst his balloon. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘It’s just without that bookcase, we’d have an awful lot more room.’
The email that just appeared in my inbox is still desperately trying to claim my attention. I close the laptop lid, biting back the sigh of frustration that I’d love to give vent to.
‘Okay, you’ve lost me,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘Why do we need to move the bookcase?’
He smiles. ‘Come with me.’
I follow him upstairs and into the larger of the two spare bedrooms. Even so, it’s still a space only a little over ten-foot square. With the bed taking up the lion’s share of the room, there’s very little left for anything else. Except the bookcase, and its collection of my art and history books which I have guarded zealously over the years. The shelves are missing some of their ‘teeth’ and I unload the books from Hugh’s arms, sliding the volumes back where they belong. He indicates another pile on the carpet.
‘What about those then?’ he asks. ‘Some of them are mine, and I’m happy to pass those on.’
There’s a stack of a dozen or so books. ‘But what difference will it make?’ I ask. ‘Even if we took away half of all the books here, we’d still need a bookcase. I can’t see what we’d gain from it.’
Hugh takes my shoulders and gently angles my body until I’m facing back into the room. He points to the small area of recessed wall behind the door. ‘I thought that if I put up some shelves there, we could rehome the books, do away with this bit of furniture entirely and then, by freeing up this whole wall, have a workbench along here and into the corner.’ He grins proudly at his suggestion.
‘A workbench?’
‘Yes,’ he replies. Triumphant. ‘You’ve been working on your laptop all morning, perched at the kitchen table, and I thought it might be nice for you to have a proper place to work from. I mean, I have my study, so in a way it’s only fair. We could make this room really nice – not necessarily decorate it, but make it more cosy so it doesn’t look like a guest bedroom. Maybe even take the bed out, have a sofa perhaps…’
‘I’m only looking at patterns online,’ I reply. ‘I don’t really need a room for that.’
‘Yes, but what about when you’re actually making something? Like you did for Tash’s dress the other week. Then you had to leave everything all over the kitchen table.’
I scrutinise his expression, trying to work out his motive, wondering if that’s what the problem is: that I’m messing up the kitchen.
‘That’s not a problem,’ he says. ‘Just… well, I thought you might prefer to have somewhere where you don’t have to keep constantly tidying everything away. I know how you like things to be in their place.’
I don’t actually, Hugh, I think to myself, that’s you. I hate to tell him, but if we did turn this room into a workspace for me, it would mostly look like a bomb had exploded.
‘And you could get really busy if what Nancy says is true. Then what will you do? If you’re going to set up a small business, we might as well do it properly.’
I take a moment. I need to be careful how I phrase this. ‘I think Nancy was just trying to be kind,’ I reply. ‘Trying to flatter me in case I needed any more persuading to help her out. I don’t suppose for one minute that I’ll have a queue of people at the door. Dressmakers are ten a penny for one thing but, more importantly, most people who want something special don’t like to take too much of a chance; they’ll go for what they know and trust. They’ll go somewhere like Harringtons.’
Hugh smiles at the truth of my statement. ‘Possibly,’ he agrees, willing to concede only so far. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared, would it? Too late to think about how you’re going to run a business once you’re swamped with orders. You need to put things into place beforehand.’
There’s nothing for it, I’m going to have to spell it out. ‘Hugh, I’m sorry, but I don’t really want to turn my dressmaking into a business.’
‘Oh, don’t you? I just thought… you keep saying how you need to find something to do, that you don’t want to be stuck at home all day. And I thought this could be perfect.’
‘But I’d still be stuck at home all day.’
‘Would you? I would have thought you’d be going out to see clients.’
‘Sometimes… But the reality is that wouldn’t be very often. Most of the time I’d just be here, sewing all day, by myself.’
He nods. ‘Well, yes, when the work was being done.’ He stares at the room and the changes he’s made, sloshing around in the cold water I’ve just poured all over it.
I soften my expression. ‘Hugh, it’s a lovely idea, really, but… can I just think about it for a bit, before we go ahead with all this? I’m only really making this outfit for Nancy as a favour. And I am quite excited about it, but I think that’s more to do with wanting to get it right for her than any opportunities that might come my way as a result. I haven’t tackled the making of anything more complicated for a while, and I’ll admit, I have been bored this last week or so. I’m looking forward to the challenge and having something to focus on for a while, but I’m not sure I want to wholeheartedly go down that route. Not just yet anyway.’
Hugh takes another look around the room. ‘Yes, I can see that. But you know, I think we should go ahead and do it anyway. What would it hurt? We have the space and once we’ve made the alterations the room is always there. Ready and available whenever yo
u need it.’
I look at my husband’s face, at how pleased he is with his decision. How can I possibly refuse him when he’s gone to so much trouble? But once the room is done, I’ll feel obliged to use it – silly to be cramped in the kitchen when I have a space designed just for me. I tell myself to stop being so ungrateful, but I can’t shake off the feeling that, yet again, Hugh has made up his mind how I’m to live my life and it’s all so sensible and logical that it’s what I’ll end up doing because I can’t think of a good enough reason not to.
But I’m also aware of a new sensation. One that I push back with all my might. It’s rough, scratchy, and more than a little unnerving; a rope against my neck, a noose tightening…
‘Right. Well, I think I’ve got some old bits of wood in the garage. I’ll have a look and we can take it from there.’
He goes back downstairs and I watch him, my hand trailing across my books on the shelf. He’s right, I don’t look at these any more, I haven’t for a long time. But they’re a piece of me from way back when, and I can’t get rid of them, it would be like cutting me off at the roots.
It’s another twenty minutes before I can safely get back to my laptop and the email that had claimed my attention before. I’ve made a cup of tea and Hugh is busy hunting for materials for the room makeover. Now I can puzzle over the thing that struck me as odd without having to explain myself.
Of course the email is more than likely a scam; some hideous virus-laden message which will have my bank account details isolated before you can say, sell to the highest bidder. It’s just that there are words contained in the link that sits on the page which are of real interest. I stare at the message again, but there’s really not much to decipher.
I saw this and thought of you…
And then the link.
No, ‘Dear Alys,’ no greeting at all in fact. No signature either.
And the email address is not one I recognise – [email protected]. I click on it to expand the details, but there’s nothing else. No tell-tale string of letters and numbers that makes me think it’s being bounced halfway across the world.
