An Empty Space

An Empty Space

Youve become a bit of a non-entity, Emily. Do you understand? A complete non-entity. Just space.

He announced it plainly, without the slightest note of drama, as if reciting a shopping list. He was standing by the window, his back to her, gazing into the modest garden below. Someone out there was walking a russet dachshund, and the dog tugged joyfully toward a puddle.

Emily Davies sat on the sofa, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. The tea had gone cold a good twenty minutes ago, but she kept hold of it, not knowing what else to do with her hands.

What do you mean? she asked.

Her voice was barely there.

I mean exactly that. Richard finally turned. His face wore an expression of mild exasperation, like someone obliged to explain that water is, indeed, wet. I look at you and theres nothing there. Its just blank. Drab. You walk, you cook, you sleep. Youre like the sideboard, Emily. Solid, dependable but still furniture.

She set the mug down on the little table. The china gave a soft clink against the wood.

Ten years, she said.

Whats ten years?

Weve been together ten years.

So what? He shrugged, wandered across the room, and sat in the battered armchair opposite. Ten years. Thats plenty long enough to know this isnt going anywhere. I dont want to live like this anymore. I need to feel. And you you dont make me feel anything. You dont inspire me. Its like youre not even here, though youre clearly sitting right in front of me.

Emily felt something inside herthe smallest, most stubborn steel rodbegin to bend.

And where exactly am I supposed to go, Richard?

Thats up to you. He crossed his legs. The flats registered in my mothers name, as you know. Technically, youre not anyone here. No rush, but will a week be enough? Youll find somewhere.

A week is enough, she repeated, robotic.

Good. He picked up his phone from the coffee table and began scrolling through it. He seemed to consider the conversation over.

Emily stood up. She walked into the bedroom, closed the door behind her, and lay flat on the coverlet, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling was white, with a small stain in the corner shed been meaning to paint over for two years. She never had.

Something gentle hummed through the walla television programme, probably. Richard had found something to occupy himself.

She didnt cry. She just lay there, staring up at the white ceiling with the faint mark in the corner. In her chest, it was very quietthe kind of quiet that follows after a windowpanes been smashed.

***

A week stretched into a foggy, unreal sort of time. Richard barely came home, and when he did, he arrived late and left early. They no longer spoke. Emily packed her things; humiliatingly easy, because very little in the flat actually belonged to her. A few dresses, a winter coat, a box of photos from distant days, sewing magazines shed not bothered to open in years.

She left the magazines. Then, feeling awkward, she went to fetch them again.

She phoned her mums cousin, Auntie May, whom she hadnt seen since her mothers funeral seven years back. Auntie May listened, was silent for some time, and then said:

Come on, duck. Weve got a box room freenot much, but itll do for now.

Auntie May lived in the furthest reaches of Manchester, somewhere buses passed through once an hour and the Bargain Basket was the only shop within three streets. Emily had always disliked the estate: faded post-war terraces, battered balconies, enormous sycamores shedding fluff across the pavements.

She arrived on Friday evening with two bags and a suitcase.

Good grief, youve lost weight, Auntie May said, standing in the doorway. She was a short, sturdy woman with a warm, wrinkled face and the comforting odour of Vicks and stew. Dont stand there with a draught up your back, love. Are you hungry?

Not really, Auntie May.

You are. Come on. Auntie May bustled off to the kitchen.

The box room was small, with a narrow bed, a battered wardrobe, and a view into the blank brick wall of the house next door. The wallpapers original blue had faded to pale vagueness. On the windowsill stood three pots of glaringly red geraniums that somehow still thrived.

Emily parked her bags and perched on the bed. The bedsprings gave a creak of protest.

Want a cuppa? Auntie May hollered from the kitchen.

Ill have one, Emily called back.

And only then, in that little room with its geraniums and patchy old wallpaper, did she finally allow herself to cry.

***

What followed was a long, miserable stretch of time.

That grim period where mornings serve no point. Shed wake at six, listen to Auntie Mays kettle clatter beyond the wall, and the distant cough of the early bus. Shed rise, wash, make tea, and stare absently from the kitchen at the formidable brick barrier next door.

Auntie May was clever. She didnt offer advice, didnt ask questions, didnt trot out platitudes like this too shall pass or youll find someone better. She just fed Emily stew, handed over the TV remote, and occasionally, in the evenings, would produce a battered deck of cards and say:

Fancy a hand of rummy?

And so they played, usually in silence.

Emily had some savingswell, a modest £1,250 left once shed cleared the account. Enough to see her through for a month or so if she was careful. She was careful.

She still had her job as bookkeeper for a small construction company, heading to the office on the other side of town three times a week to process invoices and collect her £850 a month. That money went towards living expenses and the rent for Auntie Mays little room, though May refused to take it until Emily finally stuffed an envelope under the kettle and scurried back to her room before she could argue.

Evenings were always the hardest. Shed sit in her tiny space, her mind circling the same old loop. Ten years. Not nothingthat means ten years of breakfast, dinner, coughs, holidays, Christmas trees, weekends at Devon cliffs, spats and making up. And now, apparently, all that ever existed was a void. She really had become empty. Or perhaps Richard had, or both.

Sometimes shed pull out her phone, scroll through old conversations, climb up the chat history. There were photosBrighton pier three years ago, Richard laughing with his arm round her. She couldnt remember now what was so funny.

On those evenings, shed go to bed early and hide under the duvet.

Once, Auntie May appeared in the doorway.

You in bed already?

No.

I can tell. You hungry?

No.

Alright, then. Mind you, lovewhen I was a lass, I chucked your Uncle Keith out, and thought Id die of broken heart. Didnt. Turns out you just get on with it.

Door clicked shut. May was gone.

Emily lay there, thinking: nearly fifty, Emily. Back to square one. As if its that easy.

***

She found the old sewing machine early in the second month.

Auntie May wanted her to clear out the cupboard above the hallwaya territory uncharted these past fifteen years, where each opening of the door threatened an avalanche of bygone knickknacks. Emily agreed, eager to put her hands to something.

She unearthed copies of Womans Weekly, a mangled umbrella, tins of buttons, empty perfume bottles, a pile of faded birthday greeting cards. Then, at the very back, she felt something heavy, wrapped in a moth-eaten sheet.

She unwound it.

It was a sewing machine. An old Singer, black metal, gold scrolls adorning the sidesfaded in places, but still beautiful. On the front, the word Singer dripped with Victorian flourish.

Auntie May! Emily called.

She popped kitchenward with a tea towel over her shoulder.

Ooh, that old Singer! Used to belong to your grandmothers sister, Auntie Nellie. No idea if it still works. Ive not touched it in years.

May I try?

Auntie May sized her up with fresh curiosity. You know how?

I did, once.

Well, have a go then.

Emily lugged the Singer to her little room and set it on the table by the window. She wiped its casing, unravelled a petrified tangle of thread from decades ago, and, from Auntie Nellies old tin, unearthed: spools, needles, measuring tape, stubbornly blunt scissors.

The oil can turned up, toothick with nearly solidified grease, but Emily nipped out to the hardware shop for some proper oil, smeared every hinge and gear, cleaned the feed dog, coaxed the wheel into movement. Stiff at first, then slicker, easier.

She sat with the machine for, whatthree hours? Sorted out the bobbin, threaded the needle.

She slid a scrap of fabric beneath the presser footsome old cotton she found in Mays stashpressed the pedal.

The Singer rattled into life, its needle purring, and Emily felt the strangest sensation, as if circulation had returned to a sleeping handtwinge of pain, jolt of life.

She stopped, examined the line of stitches. Straight as a dart. Nearly perfect.

Something deep in memory unraveled itself, stretching cautiously awake.

***

She was eighteen and sewingalways sewing. Outfits whipped up out of her mums hand-me-downs, or remnants scavenged from clearance salesblouses, skirts, anything. She haunted the dressmakers over the road from college; Mrs. Evers, not young, covered in pinpricks, would let Emily watch while she pinned patterns, clipped seams, finished hems. Mrs. Evers used to explain patiently, knowing Emily really looked, really saw.

Then came college, then Richard, then the wedding, and grown-up life suddenly crashed down. The sewing machine shed bought on her first payslip was sold when she moved in with Richardhis flat was so cramped, he said it got in the way. She let it go, not fussed, thinking life would now be all about other things.

The years passed, and she barely looked back. Every once in a while, shed see a dress in a shop window and think, I could make that, and then, simply wouldnt.

Now she sat in Auntie Mays box room with the old Singer softly ticking beneath her hands.

Next day, she went to the fabric marketnot John Lewis, but the real Saturday market, bolts stacked everywhere, offcuts bundled for next to nothing.

She wandered the aisles, feeling cloth with her fingertips. Linen, lawn, soft wool, silk-blend. She stopped at a bolt of misty blue viscosegentler, humble, quietly beautiful.

How much on that one? she asked the stallholder.

Four and a half metres.

Ill take the lot.

The seller measured it, folded it up.

Whats it for?

A dress, Emily replied.

The certainty in her voice surprised her.

***

She cut the dress out on the floor: fabric pinned, a home-drawn pattern, loosely based on an old magazine shed scrounged from Auntie May. Simple design. Straight cut, belted waist, a neat band collar and three-quarter sleeves. No tricks, just an honest shape.

Auntie May popped her head in, watched for a moment, then simply left a mug of tea nearby.

Thanks, Emily said, keeping her focus.

Misty blue suits you, Auntie May answered gruffly.

She hesitated with the first slice. Then, with her brand-new scissors, sharp from May’s drawer, made the first cut, and all her nerves fell away.

She stitched through three evenings.

Not because it was slow, but because she didnt rush. Each night after work, shed sit at her Singer, piecing everything together meticulously: side seams first, then the zip, collar attached separately, fussing over sleeves that absolutely refused to lie flat on first attempt.

When things went awry, she paused, thought, ripped a seam, tried again. The Singer worked evenly, almost silentlyjust a quiet metallic hum. In those hours, thoughts of Richard slipped away; she focused instead on fabric, seams, the curve of a collar.

On the third night, she sewed the final line, trimmed the threads, pressed the seams. Hung the dress on a hanger, stood back to look.

It was a good dress.

Simplemist-blue, gentle lines, not trying to be anything but itself. The belt nipped in the waist, the collar sat just-so for a hint of elegance.

She tried it on.

Stood in front of the only full-length mirror in Mays flatthe frame wonky, the glass foxed at the edges, but honest.

Emily stood for a long moment, maybe a minute.

Staring back was a woman. Not nobody, not furniture. Just a woman of fifty, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun, a straight back, and a light in her eye rekindlingawkward at first, but unmistakable.

The dress suited her. Really suited her.

Emily! Auntie May called from the kitchen. Come on then, show us what youve got.

Emily stepped in. May turned from the stove, eyed her up for a moment, then said: Well, thats more like it.

And then she returned to the soup, but Emily saw her smile.

Back in her room, she smoothed the fabric across her knee. The viscose was soft, gentle. The dress didnt pull, pinch or betray her body.

Insidethe tiniest bit of that inner metal rod straightened out.

***

She wore the blue dress on Saturday.

Just out for a walk. May needed something from the chemist, so Emily took the prescription, donned her dress, added a pale jacket fished out of the suitcase, and headed out.

It was a decent dayearly October, the air brisk and clear. Sycamore leaves tipping yellow.

She found herself walking differently. Not hurrying, not ignoring the world. She noticed: a tabby cat perched on a windowsill, queen of her kingdom. A gran knitting on a bench. A toddler dragging his mum towards a puddle while she tried to steer him away.

The chemist was a street away. Next to it, a café called The Nook shed never noticed before, offering fresh pastries and coffee.

Why not, today?

She sat with a cappuccino and a croissant in the tiny café. Only five tables. In one corner sat a dignified, silver-haired lady of about sixty, elegantly dressed, checking her phone with an air of competence.

Emily sat by the window.

Ten minutes passed. She was sipping her coffee, watching nothing in particular, when the lady approached.

Excuse me, she began, kind but direct, I do hope Im not intruding, but your dress is simply lovely. May I ask where its from?

Emily blinked in surprise.

I made it, actually.

The woman leaned forward. You sew professionally?

No, just I used to sew, and it came back to me.

The construction is excellent. Simple in the best waya sign of a real eye for fit and line. I managed alterations at the John Bright boutique for years, so I do notice these things.

Thank you, Emily said, at a true loss.

Im Margaret Thomas. Just Margaret.

Emily.

Emily, now, you can say no, but I do have a questiona little out of the blue, perhaps. My sixty-fifths coming up in three weeks, and I cannot for the life of me find a dress that doesnt look dowdy or teenager-ish. Something like yours is exactly what I want. Would you mind?

Emily met her gaze. Beneath all the poshness was just a reasonable, hopeful request.

Something shifted inside.

Id love to, said Emily.

***

Margaret arrived two days later, bearing cloth shed chosen herself from the city centrea deep burgundy crepe, subtle sheen, good quality.

They measured up in Emilys little room on the tiny table, notes jotted in a hardback notebook. Later, they drank tea in Mays kitchen while Emily sketched doodles and Margaret decided: gently flared hem, modest V neckline, three-quarter sleeve.

Thats it, Margaret pronounced. Precisely.

Itll be ready in two weeks.

And how much?

Emily hesitated. I honestly didnt think

I know what a custom dress costs in a good shop, Margaret said, naming a price. And thats what Ill pay. Its only fair.

It was the same as Emilys bookkeeper wages for two weeks.

She paused for a moment.

Deal.

When Margaret left, Auntie May poked her head round the door.

Heard that. Nice bit of money!

Yes.

Keep sewing, Em. Youre good at it.

Emily looked at her.

Auntie Maycan I ask why you took me in? We hardly knew each other.

May contemplated.

Youre Maisies girl. Maisieyour mumshe helped me when I needed it, decades ago. Im just settling old scores, thats all.

She trotted back to her cooking.

Emily went to the window. The same blank brick wallbut now, someone had sprayed a bright blue graffiti flower up the side, winding up into the sky.

***

Margarets dress was a new experiencefor someone else, not herself. Proper responsibility. She felt it every time she started up the Singer.

She cut the fabric with painstaking carethe crepe was expensive, after all, and mistakes costly. She took her time, every seam measured and consideredzip sewn by hand so it sat just-so, hem invisible, the fit crisp.

When Margaret came to try it, her face said everything.

Oh my goodness, she said, twisting in front of the old hallway mirror. Oh my goodness.

She danced a little, running a hand over the back seam, checking all the angles.

This is another me.

Its you, Emily replied. Just in a good dress.

Margaret shook her head. No, its more than that. When a thing is made for you, you feel it in your bones. See? Standing in this, I cant slouch.

The skirt needed a tweak; Emily marked out the alteration, and Margaret kept fussing over the fit.

By the way, Margaret said as Emily pinned, a friend of mineSarah Collinsis looking for an outfit too, and my sons daughter-in-laws wedding is next spring. Will you take more commissions?

Id be delighted.

Margaret nodded, unsurprised.

***

The following two months were a whirlwind. Not badjust mad, in the best possible way.

Ms. Collins required a suit. Next came one of Sarahs friends for a skirt and blouse, then a woman in her thirties, Margarets neighbours daughter, who needed a dress for her companys Christmas do. Emily stitched it all: someone snapped a photo for her actual dressmaker at last social media post, and the orders multiplied.

Mays box room overflowed with cloth: stacked on the bed, in the corners, everywhere. The Singer was always purringmornings now, too, on weekends.

May never once complained. Only, on the morning she found the room carpeted wall-to-wall in fabric lengths, she said: Emily, you need more space.

I know.

Cant be helped here, Im afraid.

I know, Auntie May.

Shed been thinking it already. Orders kept rolling inher last two months earnings were higher than her whole previous year at the office.

She went to the city centre, trawled adverts, toured a few empty spaces. The first two smelled musty, low-ceilinged, dreary. The thirda recently refurbished Victorian office, high ceilings, south-facing window, solid wood floor. Expensive.

She did her sums. Choosing that placeplus new sewing machine, overlocker, professional tablewould mean using every penny and still taking out a loan.

She called Margaret. Instinct, really.

Margaret, I need advice.

Im listening.

She laid out the numbers. Margaret paused, then:

Take the place. Ill lend you the money, no interest, pay me back as you can.

I couldnt

You gave me the dress of a lifetime. Allow me to give something back. This isnt charity, Emilyits people helping people.

Emily was quiet.

And anyway, Margaret chuckled, Ive got at least four friends in your queue by nowa decent workshop is in everybodys interest, frankly.

***

Emily opened her dressmaking studio at the start of December.

She brought in the Singer, more as a keepsake nowher professional machine worked faster and smootherbut the old Singer got pride of place by the window.

The studio glowedhuge table, two workstations, racks of fabric and trim, a full-length mirror. She framed and hung some pattern sketches on the wall. Auntie May came to see, patting the bolts of cloth, examining the mirror.

Not bad at all, was her verdict.

Auntie May, Emily said, taking her hand, I want to give you this.

She handed May an envelope. May started to protest.

No, Emily, dont

I must. For my room. For the months Ive lived under your feet. I have it all totted up.

I never counted

I did. Please. Take it.

May hesitated, then tucked the envelope away.

I need a new fridge, anyway. This one rumbles like a lorry.

Well get you a fridge, Emily said.

They went to Currys, where May spent ages poking at freezers and grilling the sales lad about energy ratings. In the end, she chose a big, silver fridge with two drawers.

Thats the one, she announced, with a quiet satisfaction that made Emily sure shed done something right.

***

December brought flurries of business. Christmas parties, New Years dos, everyone wanted a new frock: dresses, suits, blousesthe studio busy till nine most nights, three mugs of tea down, the machine humming on.

In January, things quieted. She even hired an assistant, a competent young woman named Alice with neat handsgood at zips and hems, if not yet patterns. Teaching her proved a whole new, delightfully unexpected pleasure.

She gave her notice at the accounting firm, agreed to stay till April at their request.

In March, an unfamiliar number called.

A woman introduced herself, said she wanted sewing lessonsshed heard from Margaret.

Im not a proper tutor, Emily protested.

But you can sew, and you can show meMargaret says youre brilliant.

Emily thought for a moment.

Come round. Lets see.

And so began the first sewing class. Then another, then a small groupa new venture, surprisingly right, fitting into her schedule.

That spring, Emily moved from Mays tiny box room to a little one-bed flat, not far from the studio. Clean, sunny kitchen. Crisp white wallsno stains. She brought her few possessions, hung up curtains shed sewn herself.

First evening, she sat with a mug of tea, looking out at the view: a pocket park with silver birches.

Her flat, still unfamiliar, but hers.

***

She ran into Richard at the end of May.

She was taking the long way home from the studiolavender-edged pavements, birdsong, a tote bag heavy with fabric swatches for tomorrows light. The evening was warm, full of young green.

Richard appeared from the other benchslimmer, suit hanging strangely, walking with an unfamiliar caution.

He stopped when he spotted her.

Emily didnt pause until they were almost level. He said:

Emily.

Hello, Richard.

He looked away, awkward.

You look well.

Thank you.

A beat. He jammed his hands in his jacket.

On your way home?

Yes.

Youre living nearby?

I am.

Silence. A mum pushing a pram rattled past.

Emily, I He hesitated. Could we talk? Just a few minutes?

She regarded him.

Lets sit then.

They sat. Richard stared at his hands.

I dont know where to start.

Try the truth, Emily said kindly.

She left. The womanwell, the one I Never mind. She left six months ago. Said I was tedious and unambitious. His laugh was ugly. Poetic justice, I guess?

I suppose so.

Im at my mums. Jobs are thincompany closed. Everythings sort of gone wrong. Sometimes I think I made a huge mistake, Emilya proper howler.

She waited.

I had you all alongalways there, real, doing the work. And I I called you nothing. He winced. I know thats not forgivable. I just wanted you to know I think about that. A lot.

Emily watched the birches swaying. Across the way, someone was grilling sausages in their garden.

Richard, loving or falling out of love isnt a crime. That part happens.

He said nothing.

But its how you said itnon-entity, furniture, get out. That was cruel. Not because youre villainous, just it hurt. I remembered it for a long while.

I know.

But you did me a favour, oddly.

He looked surprised.

You shoved me out the door. I left with two bags and £1,250 in my account and no clue. I was losta stray in Auntie Mays cupboard, sobbing every night. It was grim. But I found that old Singer. And I rememberedI used to sew, and I liked it. I wanted to do it, but I let it go because of this and that, space and life and you saying it was in the way. So I made myself a dress. And then dresses for others. Ive got my own studio now, Richardsix months in. Clients come and go, and maybe for the first time, I love what I do.

He stared at herimpossible to read.

If you hadnt forced me out of that flat, Id still be theremaking casseroles, never finding out. Not saying good for youbut it worked out the way it worked out.

So, you dont forgive me?

She considered.

Im not holding a grudge. Thats not the same as going back. And I dont want to go backnot out of spite, but because I like where I am. My own life, finally. Maybe for the first time.

He looked off.

We could

No, Richard. Her tone was gentle but absolute. No.

The silence stretched, not heavy but long.

Hows Auntie May? he asked at last, remembering her faintly.

Shes good. Sorted her out a new fridge. I visit on Sundays, play rummy.

A genuine smile flickered on his face.

You were always decent, Emily.

And youre not a monster. Maybe we were just not right, and hadnt noticed for too long.

She stood, hefted her tote of textiles.

You have to go?

I do. Early start tomorrowfirst fitting at eight.

Right. He rose, hesitated. Im glad youre happy. I mean it.

And to you as well, she replied.

No malice, no sense of triumphjust truth. She wished him well. She had no energy, no need, no wish to be bitter.

Emily walked away, crossing the park. She could feel his gaze trail her for the first few steps, then not. Hed gone the other direction.

Silver birch shadows stretched across the pavement. Her tote pulled at her shoulder, filled with a dark green wool and a trimmings catalogue marked with sticky notes. Tomorrow at eight, Mrs. Goodwinretired teacherwas coming for a winter skirt: not full, but straight, with a bit of poise, for the theatre or the GP.

Emilys mind turned to the pattern, how best to suit Mrs. Goodwin, short and broad of hip. A straight skirt needs skill for balance.

She was still weighing that while noticinglavender stronger on the twilight; a small boy whizzed past screeching the theme from Peppa Pig, and a nearby window let out the comforting scent of someone frying eggs.

***

She didnt sew tonight (self-agreement: no machine after 7pm). She just dropped in to fetch her client notebook. There was her Singer, silent, black and gold by the window.

She ran a hand over the machine.

Thank you, Emily said aloud.

It was ridiculous, thanking a Singer. But really, who to thank for her changed fortuneAuntie May, Margaret, Alice busy learning hems? All of them, maybe. Or perhaps, fate ushered in by one sharp, cold blow that landed her here, in this calm, sunlit workshop.

She picked up her book, switched off the light, locked up.

The city bustled. Families, buses, laughter somewhere. An ordinary May evening.

On her way home, she stopped at Fresh Loaf, picked up a granary baton and a fancy jar of honeythe good stuff, from a little stall run by a retired gent in a tweed cap.

Evening, said Emily.

Evenin, he replied, handing her change. Best honey of the yearacacia. Have some on your toast in the morningcant beat it.

I will, thank you.

Her tote clinked with bread and honey, notebook, trimmings catalogue. On her back, she wore a cream linen dress shed sewn last weeksoft tie belt, wide sleeves. Lovely dress. It felt good on.

She walked hometen minutes stroll. Thoughts darting: the Goodwin skirt, ordering more thread, Alice nearly ready for her first solo pattern piece.

Then she stopped thinking and just walked.

The sky was pale pink, swifts wheeling. Real life carrying on somewheremessy and unpredictable.

Post-divorce bliss, lifestyle columns might trumpet. As if thats a real thing. Emily didnt think about it that way. Just: walking home. Early start tomorrow. Work she can do, and likes. Auntie May, Sunday games. A steady coming and going of clients. The old Singer on her table. And evening sky, birds darting.

And for now, that was enough.

Not a fairytale. Not tragic. Simply enough. Maybe thats the elusive thing people meansecond wind, new beginning, self-confidence at any age. Not all at once, but in small ordinary steps: one dress, then another. Workshop, flat, May evening with bread and honey.

She rang Auntie May.

You home?

Course Im home, love. Watching telly. Whats up?

Nothing. Just checking.

Short pause.

See you Sunday?

Ill be round. Shall I bring a pie?

With apples, if its not trouble, May said. You know thats my favourite.

Apples it is.

Emily hung up, let herself into her flat.

Her kitchen still smelled faintly of the linen shed cut there yesterday, while the rain tapped at the windows. Shed swept up the offcuts, but the scent lingered. Not a bad scent.

She put the kettle on, cut her bread, opened the honey. The honey gleamed gold and ran clear as tea.

Out the window, the sunlight was fading. The dusk was deepening.

She spread some honey on her bread, bit in, and thought: the honey man was right. It really was very good.

***

Morning came bright.

Mrs. Goodwin arrived at precisely eight. She was a brisk, white-haired lady with an upright posture and direct gaze peeking over her readers.

Ms. Davies! she chirped from the threshold. Ive brought an examplefound this photo, much as Id like, only rather less frumpy.

She fished a print-out from her bag.

Emily inspected it. Decent skirt, classic. Good fit challenge.

Sit down. Lets talk about what well do.

Mrs. Goodwin perched, hands in her lap.

Ill tell you, Ms. Davies, Ive fancied a skirt like this for years, never could find one. In shops, its all wrong. Then the neighbour suggested yousays she never felt so herself since you made her dress. Mrs. Goodwin chuckled. I call that a pretty good recommendation.

The best kind, Emily agreed.

She took out her notebook, picked up the tape measure.

If youll just pop over here, please?

Mrs. Goodwin stood, rolled back her shoulders, met her reflection in the tall studio mirror.

You know, she said thoughtfully, Im four years retired, and thought perhaps, no need to care about smartness anymore. But thenwhy not? Ive years to go yet, touch wood. No sense in visiting the world dressed like a scarecrow.

Quite right, said Emily.

She measured, jotted notes, her mind on tailoring. Spring sunlight angled through the studio, squares of brightness on the floor. The Singer waited in the corner, ever faithful. Alice was due at ten, then another client at eleven, and after that well, after that, anything could happen.