Page 37 of A Snowfall of Silver

She laughs. “I know you don’t need yet another person warning you off, but…”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. I know who Russ is. I want to take a little risk. I don’t have any stories of my own yet, and you all have so many! Whatever his faults, Russ is a story. I like him, when he’s not taking himself too seriously.”

“Fair enough,” Nora says. “But for what it’s worth, I like the stories you already have. The ones about your family and your friends. Don’t confuse drama with living, Freya. That’s all I’m going to say.” She grins. “Well, that, and if you are going to go out for dinner with Russ for the story, then you should wear something sensational. Something to make him sit up and take notice.”

“I don’t own anything sensational.” It has actually been a bit of a sore point for me, because when one is determined to live out a fantasy, one imagines doing it in something other than an old frock that doesn’t quite fit because two older sisters have worn it first.

“Don’t I know it.” Nora gives me a pained look. “You must start making your own clothes, Freya, you’ve got such a good eye, and these old hand-me-downs you wear do nothing for you.” While she’s talking she’s riffling through the clothes rail and then she pulls something from the rack. It is an evening dress the colour of saffron strands, sleeveless with a trailing bow holding one shoulder together, and falling into a long tulle skirt, embroidered with a design of golden petals.

“Oh, my,” I say.

Nora looks pleased. “I know. It’s one of mine.”

“Nora, you’re so good.” I stroke the material with reverent fingers.

“I know that too. Now, get out of that horrible thing.”

I slip out of my cheap (but quite pretty, I’ll not concede everything to Nora) dress, and stand in my underwear as Nora lowers the frothy golden concoction over my head.

There is the merest sigh of silk as it slips down over my hips, and then Nora begins fussing with the straps and the fall of the dress. It fits beautifully, falling just above my ankles. I peer past Nora into the mirror, admiring my reflection.

“That’s enough of that,” Nora chides. “You and Russ can’t both spend the whole night admiring your own reflections in every shiny surface.” She returns to the clothes rail, and despite her advice, my eyes drift back to the mirror.

“These,” she says firmly, producing a pair of strappy gold sandals. “And these,” a small beaded bag and a winter green wrap follow. “Now, sit.” She pushes me down into the seat by the small dressing table.

“You’re so bossy,” I grumble.

“Save all of us clever, resourceful, confident women from that horrible word,” she replies. She begins brushing out my hair. “I think you should wear it down, actually.”

“It’s not fashionable,” I say doubtfully. “If you’re going full Fairy Godmother you should throw in a haircut too.”

“Don’t cut it,” Nora says. “It suits you this way. Fashion is not something you should follow blindly, Freya. You can make it yourself.” She pulls one side away from my face and pins it, and then she starts on my make-up. More brisk orders. “Look down. Look up. Turn this way. For god’s sake, Freya, stop talking for five seconds so I can do your lipstick.” And so on, and so on.

“Right, then, Cinderella – if that’s who you are – I think you’re ready.”

I jump to my feet, smoothing down my skirt and giving myself another once over in the mirror. I barely recognize myself. Nora has used kohl to make my eyes look enormous, and the gold in the dress makes my hair even lighter than usual, a stream of almost silver. There are butterflies in my stomach, all of a sudden, as though I’m about to go onstage. But then, I suppose this is the perfect costume. If you’re going to have an evening of romance it should really be in a cloud of golden tulle. I feel like the ballerina in the middle of a jewellery box.

“Thank you, Nora,” I say, and she squeezes my arm.

“Just behave,” she says. “Don’t let the dress go to your head.”

I emerge into the corridor and begin making my way through the throngs of performers and crew. Lindsey whistles as I walk past and flashes me a wink, and a girl I don’t know stops me to compliment my dress in awed tones. There are some less polite catcalls from the male crew, but I sweep past them, channelling Eileen Turner at her most regal.

I head towards the stage door where I’ve arranged to meet Russ, and find that my heart is pounding. Surely pounding hearts and sweating palms are all signs of romance. And I suddenly wonder whether he will kiss me. The thought makes me feel tingly. Another good sign.

I step out into the shock of the cold air. Although it’s been a while since the performance finished, there are still a few hopeful audience members waiting with their autograph books in hand. Heads swing to look at me for a moment, clearly thrown by my glamorous appearance, before coming to the conclusion that I am simply a well-dressed nobody.

“Freya?” The word comes from my left, and I turn to see Kit. He’s holding a cigarette in one hand and leaning against the wall. For some reason, nerves probably, my pulse stutters alarmingly.

“Hello,” I say. He is looking at me very oddly. “What are you doing out here?”

He lifts the cigarette. “Just needed some air,” he says.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, unthinkingly taking a step towards him.

“It’s just been a long day,” he says. Then, after a pause, and in a low voice: “Viola and I had a disagreement. I think I upset her. I hate that. I don’t…” He trails off, and there’s something in those winter grey eyes of his that looks like pain.

“I’m sorry.”