‘Coming,’ I say with all the brightness of a lapdog. Sometimes I irritate myself so much. This is not all right. I don’t want to be in contact with any tail end of the drug trade. It doesn’t matter if it’s just for personal use. I don’t want to get involved, and yet here I am, hurrying grudgingly along behind a man I barely know.
‘Okay?’ Marco says when I catch up. He’s standing behind an iron door.
I am so not okay. I glance back towards the empty street. The cab’s gone. I take a deep breath. It’s best to get my feelings about this out on the table. ‘I…’
He raps hard on the metal door; the sound ricochets off into the night.
‘I just f-feel…’ I stutter, needing to stop for another breath, trying desperately to grab hold of a little courage. He’s my new boss, and what with the audition bungle…
Marco raps on the door again, loudly, causing me to practically jump out of my skin. I feel myself stepping away from the door. What with the burglary, the missing admin, the fact I’m here looking for this mystery singer – looking for myself. I take another step back as Marco raps again, even louder this time. Then there’s the clown convention dress fiasco. I look down at my shirt dress, pulling it gently over my knees. I now hate this dress. Again, he raps. I clutch my stomach, feeling sick. Can I tell him I’m feeling sick? That’s an idea. I could go home. I could…
‘Nelly,’ Marco shouts at the metal door. ‘Open up.’
I cringe. He’s actually shouting now. Everything about him says desperately seeking illegal substances. I may have thought he was attractive before, but now the only thing I want to do is run. Turn tail and run fast, but it’s too late. The door pulls back. Standing on the other side is a man with Afro hair and a thin, dark face. He’s wearing a forest-green velvet jacket and some kind of … I peer closer. What even is that? A purple paisley cravat. And then there’s the jewellery. The man has more gold than a lost-at-sea Spanish galleon. Speaking of lost, now I seriously want to run. From the way he’s dressed, he must be high up in the drugs trade. I take a step back.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, darlings,’ the man called Nelly drawls. ‘Have you no patience?’
He gives Marco a withering look before returning his dark, wide eyes to me. ‘So what have we here?’
‘I’m–’ I stutter.
‘Hmm.’ He draws himself in. ‘An absolute walking fashion disaster.’
My mouth practically hits the floor.
‘I see exactly what you mean, Marco. Thank you for the text. I needed a warning. Good God.’ He pulls one bejewelled hand across his forehead in an exasperated fashion. ‘This,’ he waggles a hand in my general direction, ‘is all eighties secretary vibe.’ He throws both hands up in an attitude of total and unmitigated despair. ‘I didn’t know you could even buy clothes like this anymore unless you worked wardrobe for one of the networks. You were so right, Marco my friend. This is an absolute emergency.’ He takes a step back.
I stand there, dumbfounded. Marco is staring at me. Nelly is staring at me. I don’t like all this attention.
‘The favours I have to do for you.’ Nelly sighs. ‘You just make sure that your next “voice of whatever” is wearing one of my gowns, or I swear I’ll sue. This,’ he points straight at me, ‘is going to be difficult.’
‘You got it, Nelly,’ Marco says, glancing furtively back out into the street.
I wish someone would tell me what is going on. But Nelly looks like he’s on the move. He’s turning, throwing one skinny, velvet-clad arm up behind him in a circular motion. Inviting us to step over the iron grille at the base of the door before disappearing off into the darkness of his warehouse.
‘I’m not sure…’ I say, hurrying down corridor after corridor behind the two men.
‘Just keep up,’ Nelly calls back. ‘You get lost in here, we may never find you again.’
I can believe that; the place is like a labyrinth, with a myriad of concrete tunnels and corridors interspersed with sliding metal doors. Where in the hell are we?
‘Okay,’ Nelly says, coming to an abrupt halt. ‘This should do it. Cocktail, you said?’ He glances back towards Marco.
Marco nods.
‘Well.’ Nelly leans in to the door, pulling it back and releasing the sound of the high-pitched sing of iron on castors. ‘Anything you like?’
The door slides open. Nelly hits the lights, and now I am seriously dumbfounded because behind that industrial metal door is everything a girl could ever want for a night out. Sequins and tulles sparkle, intricate embroidery flowers up wide skirts, silk sleeves dangle from the bodices of flowing gowns waiting to be lifted and taken out for a dance. The place is packed to the brim with the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen outside of a magazine.
I gasp. Nelly looks over at me, trying to suppress a smile. ‘Can I touch?’ I say, raising one hesitant arm and indicating towards the row upon row of dresses.
Nelly takes my hand into his bony, ringed fingers. For a moment, I think he’s going to shake it. Instead, he turns my hand over and looks at the palm.
‘Clean. Yes.’
I feel relief well up inside me, imagining what he might think of my brother’s hands. Thank goodness that particular habit doesn’t run in the family!
‘Touch, yes…’ Nelly drawls, ‘but don’t tug.’ He lets my hand drop back down.
