I look at him, my mouth dropping to the floor, then I turn to Samira, who shrugs. I rush across to the staircase, ducking under theADULTS ONLYsign, and tumble down the stairs two at a time. There I find rows of old sofas and armchairs, in a black-painted room, with a projector set up to a huge white screen on the wall at the front. There is a vintage popcorn machine, and even an old, seated gamer withDonkey Kong. Itisa secret cinema.Broadgatehas a cinema.
“You don’t tell anyone,” says Sanka as he joins me at the foot of the stairs. “It’s a rights issue.”
I turn to him and grin.
“Honey, I’m home,” I say, clasping my hands together. “Sanka, I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition? I’m listening.”
“Does that screen move easily? And do you think I could borrow it for one night, next Friday?”
“So, it’s afavor, then,” he says wearily, and I beam back at him, hopeful. “Still, we can talk.”
By lunchtime, we’ve managed to get seven signatures. Samira has taken us to every dark corner of Broadgate, including the wholesale tourist souvenir shop by the motorway turn-off, and we even go to see Lee at his atelier, where he hands me the canvas painting of the turd I did a few weeks back.
“Gerry wasn’t impressed,” he says, “but I was. He is a real shit.”
Samira helps me load the turd canvas into my car, and we head back down the main street, a couple of nuns crossing themselves as they see my hearse roll past.
“It happens a lot,” I explain to Samira. “I need a new car, but I don’t think anyone is desperate enough to buy this one.”
As we cruise past Happy Hair, I point to Jackie, who is rolling an older lady underneath a large egg-shaped hair dryer. “What about Jackie? She’s a friend, isn’t she?”
“We can only go places where I can be sure people won’t talk,” she says. “It means we’re severely limited, of course, this being Broadgate.”
“It’s a beachfront dark web,” I marvel, feeling the heat in the sun now as I peel off my cardigan to reveal a black T-shirt underneath. Samira makes an audible gasp and shakes her head as though she’s reached the end of her tether. “Let’s get you to Joan’s and get this all sorted,” she says, pointing directly at me. “Besides, Joan is on the potential signature list, and I just can’t look at those spindly arms sticking out of another oversize black mess.”
Joan’s is a vintage clothing store, tucked so far away from the main street that I’m surprised she does any business. It’s got the same overstocked vibe as the video store, and Joan herself is the tiniest octogenarian I’ve ever seen. She must be under five foot, and she moves like a dancer, slightly on her toes, and with grace.
Samira ties up the signature quickly and then moves around the racks, pulling out dresses in varying arrays of cuts, colors, and patterns, but absolutely no black.
“It’s like a toddler threw up a rainbow,” I mutter as she shovels me into the dressing room. “And dresses. I don’t really do dresses.”
“Just... in.” She waves at the changing room.
The first dress is pale pink, like cotton candy, with a skater skirt and a bodice so tight I can barely breathe when I emerge from behind the curtain.
“No,” I say, looking at her with disdain.
“No,” agrees Samira.
I huff and retreat behind the curtain to pull on a bright blue maxidress in a scratchy poly-cotton, its halter neck giving excellent side boob.
“No,” she says again. “Try the red.”
“The red” is a skintight red dress with padded shoulders and a skirt that I have to tug down with each step forward.
“That cut is better on you,” she says. “But no.”
I frown as she looks down at her phone and scrolls away on it idly.
“What?” she says, when she realizes I haven’t moved. “This is a vintage store. You just have to keep trying, I’m afraid. Unless you can afford Selfridges, this is the best I can do.”
“What’s wrong with H&M?” I say. “We could have driven to Faversham.”
Samira clutches her chest and sucks in half the air in the shop. “Fast fashion is not the answer. It’sneverthe answer.”
Shame-faced, I head back behind the curtain and tug on a fourth dress, this time a balloon-sleeved monstrosity in green silk that sits quite nicely across my neck but hangs far too long. I’m literally swimming in it.
