Page 4 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

Madame was a whip-smart businesswoman, and over the last two years the shop had become increasingly popular with the aristocratic set – the kind for whom money was no object. The kind who enjoyed the plush red velvet seats, the shining walnut and brass fittings, and the tea from fine china served with lemon shortbread from Fortnum and Mason. They enjoyed the heady, Turkish-delight scent of the rich roses that spilled out of dozens of vases, the exclusivity.

You had to make an appointment with Madame, and then she lavished you with her full attention. The clients liked her creations, the ones made to their exact requirements. No request was too difficult or extravagant, no demand too outrageous.

The back room where I worked was cramped and much less smart, but it was clean and neat, and when I bought Madame’s roses I always spent a farthing or two on something small and cheerful, like a bunch of daisies to sit in a jam jar on the side. It had two large windows – artists needed good light, Madame said.

Autumn sunlight filtered through them that morning, the kind of sunlight specific to this time of year – heavy, dancing, golden – like a breeze streaming through ripe wheat.

Last night, I had dreamed of a dress, woken up with the idea for it so clear in my mind that I could almost feel the cool slip of the material through my fingers. A deceptively simple gown of opalescent cream silk and layers of airy tulle, stitched all over with a silver thread so pale that it was only when the light hit it that the pattern emerged. I pictured hundreds of small glass beads sewn across it and hanging from the shoulders to form short sleeves that moved and sparkled as the woman who wore it danced in a beautiful ballroom.

I had begun sketching my plans, when Claire came steaming into the room, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Madame says we need everything worth showing, quick,” she said. “There’s a lady here, says her daughter’s going to marry a prince!”

Annie and I leaped to attention. Annie began pulling gowns out and rummaging through hat boxes. I was already lacing Claire into a beautiful sage-green day dress.

“Can you imagine?” Claire asked, sucking in a breath as I tugged on the laces. “Marrying a prince, I mean?” She clasped her hands together. “It’s like something out of a story. She must be the luckiest girl in the world.”

“I suppose it depends on the prince,” I said, around a mouthful of pins, as I carefully fluffed the folds of ivory lace at the neckline of the dress.

“Come on, girls.” Madame Solange appeared, clapping her hands together. She was a formidable woman, tall and generously curved and dressed head to toe in black. “This is a customer worth having. If we get this right, we’ll be set for next season.” Her dark eyes were gleeful, her cockney accent at its most pronounced.

Madame Solange was about as French as a Yorkshire pudding, but all the most fashionable establishments boasted a modish French designer, and Madame Solange did not care to disappoint her customers. Her false accent was slathered on, thick as butter on bread, the kind that left tooth marks behind.

She called herself a widow too, though there was no evidence of that. That was the thing about the city. Here you could be anyone you wanted. You could let go of your history, as easily as if it were a feather on your palm – unclasp your fingers and off it flew.

“Iris.” Madame’s voice was brisk, a world away from the honeyed tones she used on clients. “Make sure you send out the pink silk. It will work well with the young lady’s colouring, and Lady Scott-Holland specifically asked for pastel shades.”

The world slammed to a stop.

I froze.

Madame kept talking, but the pin cushion fell from my hand, bouncing and rolling across the floor and under a table. There was a sound in my ears, like a swarm of angry bees.

I lurched forward, my legs almost going from underneath me.

Claire reached out and held my arm.

Her mouth was moving, but it took me a moment to understand what she was saying. “Iris … Iris? Are you all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“Just a dizzy spell,” I managed. “Did you say Lady Scott-Holland?” I was pleased that my voice was almost steady.

Madame’s clever eyes narrowed. “That’s right. What do you know about her?”

“Not very much.” I bent down to retrieve the pin cushion, taking a moment to school my expression into something more like indifference. “Only that she has two daughters.” I straightened up, my breathing now under control. It seemed Madame Solange’s reputation had finally reached my stepmother.

“Yes,” Madame agreed, clearly losing interest. “And she’s unhappy with the work her usual dressmaker has done, so let’s not waste any more time – here’s a pigeon ripe for plucking!” On that note she swept from the room.

Claire trotted out after her.

“Glide, Claire, glide!” I heard Madame scold under her breath. “We don’t want any more bloody horse comments, do we?”

Claire’s pace slowed and she did something droopy with her arms which I supposed was meant to imply elegance.

I hesitated for a moment, and then, on silent feet, I followed, keeping myself well hidden behind the sumptuous red velvet drapes that separated the back and front rooms.

“Ahhhhh, Madame Scott-’Olland!” I winced as Madame Solange’s heavily accented words pierced the quiet. “’Ow delighted I am to ’ave you ’ere een our ’umble établissement.”

“I have heard great things, Madame.”

That voice. That cool, musical voice. Suddenly, I was ten years old again.