I suddenly felt as if I’d been thrown from the side of a boat without a life preserver. I bumped into the small table as I maneuvered my legs beneath it, feeling like Alice in Wonderland as I overshadowed not only the table but the chaise, too. I wondered how Colin would have managed it.
“I’m glad you’re here to write about the clothes and not about me. I don’t like to talk about my past,” Precious said without preamble. She reached for her iced tea glass, her hand shaking slightly. I somehow knew better than to offer assistance. “Although I suppose it’s about time. Everybody tells me I’m dying, so I figure I’d better pay attention and tell my story to someone before it’s too late. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the right person to tell it to.”
She leaned close, studying me intently. “I do believe I see the family resemblance.” Her voice was more breath than words, the effect almost wistful. As if she wished that her words were true. Precious sat back. “Perhaps that’s why Arabella thought we might get along like biscuits and gravy.”
I watched as she brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip. I picked up my own iced tea and did the same, trying not to shudder at the blandness and avoiding a small clump of undissolved sugar. Our eyes met with silent understanding. Precious stared into her glass at the sugar clumps floating at the top like little icebergs. “Poor Laura—she’s so kind to make sweet tea, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that she’s doing it wrong.” She grimaced as she replaced the glass on the table, looking relieved either because she’d managed a sip or because she hadn’t dropped the glass.
“One thing you should know about me is that I’m very good at noticing details about people. Why does Colin call you Madison if your friends call you Maddie?”
I considered evading the truth, but knew that her sharp gaze missed nothing. If I wanted her to be frank and open with me, I needed to do the same. “Because we aren’t really friends.”
She raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why is that?”
I felt her discerning gaze upon me again, seeing the truth behind my smile. I took a deep breath. “Because I dated some of his friends.”
She frowned. “Did Colin never ask you for a date?”
“Actually, he did. We even went out once.”
She didn’t say anything but continued to look at me as if waiting for me to say more. I sighed, deciding to be candid. “We had a great time. That’s when I realized that Colin is the kind of guy a girl could really fall for. In a permanent way. So I never went out with him again even though he asked. More than once. With his buddies, there was no danger of anything permanent.”
She was quiet for a moment—digesting my answer, I supposed. “And now?” she asked. “Do you still only date temporary men?”
I met her gaze. “Yes.”
“In my day, they had a word for girls like you.”
I swallowed. “Yes, well, if that makes you uncomfortable, I’m sure Arabella can find another journalist.” I began to slide off of the small chaise, my legs bumping the table so the liquid in the glasses sloshed over the sides.
“Wait,” she said, the force of the word surprising us both. “Don’t go. I’m the last person in the world to judge.”
I stopped and looked at her, trying to decipher the emotions crossing her face.
“Did you lose someone you loved?” Precious asked, and I knew she wasn’t speaking of misplacing someone or leaving someone behind. And I wondered if that was one of the details she was in the habit of noticing.
“Yes,” I said. “A long time ago.”
She nodded. “Whoever said time heals all wounds is a liar. Grief is like a ghost, isn’t it? Haunting our reflections.”
My eyes prickled. “I’m sorry,” I said, standing, my hands on the table to keep it from moving. “I’ll leave now. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Good-bye, Maddie. Please take the tea and tell everyone that I’m going to rest for a bit. We’ll speak again tomorrow after lunch. We can talk about the clothes then. And how they transformed my world.”
“But . . .” I stopped. She’d closed her eyes, and although she couldn’t possibly already have been sleeping, it was clear she was done speaking.
Knowing I’d been dismissed, I walked to the door, then turned to look at her again, admiring the beautiful lines of her face and wondering at the stories I knew lay hidden behind her closed eyes. Grief is like a ghost.
Yes, there were stories there. I just hoped there would be time to hear them all.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Dubose,” I said to her still form, then shut the door quietly behind me.
CHAPTER 3
LONDON
FEBRUARY 1939
Ethel Maltby dropped a teaspoon of Bovril into two cups just as the kettle began to whistle. Balancing both cups, she practiced walking gracefully without spilling, putting one foot directly in front of the other, moving in time with the rhythmic precision of the BBC news announcer on the wireless. She paid little attention to what the man was saying, listening instead to the way he enunciated his words.
Perfecting her accent was the reason why she and her fellow model and roommate, Precious Dubose, had splurged on the matinee they’d seen the Sunday before, The Lady Vanishes. Margaret Lockwood’s intonation was exactly what Ethel had been aspiring to and practicing since she’d first realized at age twelve that her own Yorkshire accent would always put her back into her mother’s world of doing someone else’s laundry and mending.
Ethel carefully brought both cups over to the small table by the stove, which was used for eating, stockpiling mail, and applying makeup. Precious sneezed loudly, and Ethel gave her friend a worried look. “That’s it. I’m putting you to bed with a hot flannel on your chest and making some chicken soup. But first, I’m going to run to the chemist for some Cephos powders. That will clear you up in a jiffy—that’s what the adverts say.”
Precious sniffled, staring into her Bovril. “If only this were sweet iced tea, I’d feel a whole lot better. But nobody in this entire country seems to know how to make it correctly. As soon as I’m better, I’m going to teach you so at least one person will know.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Ethel said. “For now please drink your Bovril, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”
After retrieving the flannel and getting Precious settled in bed, Ethel pinned her hat to her hair. She was buttoning the large buttons on her serviceable wool coat when her gaze landed on a small box handbag hanging from the coatrack. Gold embroidered leaves sprouted against dark green velvet, a matching gold rope handle draped across the top and attached on each side. Her fingers itched to touch it, and she found herself picking it up and stroking the soft fabric. She felt beautiful fabrics all the time at House of Lushtak, where she and Precious had just started modeling, but she’d never seen a purse made of velvet, or one in the shape of a box. And she’d certainly never seen anything this fine in their flat.