‘I don’t mind living with Grandad,’ he said instead, and before he could feel thoroughly stupid about it, Peaches nodded her understanding.
‘That’s nice,’ she said, taking the garment off its hanger.
‘He’s pretty ace, actually. We have a laugh and he says having me there means there’s someone to bother cooking for, and he is a braw cook. Plus, he does the best movie marathons, so…’ He let the words trail away, unsure where he’d even been going with this. ‘So, eh, Peaches, is it?’
Another cautious nod, like she was used to being quizzed about her name, maybe as much as she was about her mum’s work practices.
‘’S’a good name.’
Since she didn’t say anything, he directed his attention to the garment she was holding out for him.
‘Uh… so, how exactly do I get that on?’
He was glad to see her smile at this. She untied the complicated wraps that looped around the torso of the long white top which had a mesh of silvery stitched chainmail on top.
‘What if I wreck it?’ he said quickly. ‘I’m clumsy. That’s what folk have told me.’
She dismissed this with a shake of her head, just as it was becoming obvious that she was waiting for him to slip his t-shirt off. Was she actually meaning to dress him herself?
‘Oh, uh… OK…’ he said, before reluctantly lifting his Motörhead t-shirt, wishing he’d done a few more crunches and eaten a few less Crunchie bars recently.
The truth was he had the lean, tall contours of the Forte men going way back, and he lifted his bodyweight in multiple reps every night on his bedroom doorframe, just the way he’d seen his grandad do when he was younger and thought was so cool.
Peaches dropped her eyes to concentrate on the delicate garment, sparing him a lot of blushes, before she slipped it ever so carefully over his head.
The sheer material was as light as smoke as it lay over his body – not soft, exactly, just filmy and barely there. Peaches lowered it to where it stopped just above his hips, letting its drapey wraps fall and hang. The garment took on a new weight. As she wrapped each one in turn around his stomach, it felt to Euan like she was bandaging a pharaoh for his tomb. He told himself not to make this observation out loud; he didn’t want to mess up and offend her, not when she was concentrating so hard on placing and tying each long strip of fabric properly and without tugging at the threads where they attached along the side seams.
He watched her deft fingers working and the way she kept her eyes on her task, passing the strands of material around his upper body, tucking the ends in tightly. He spun slowly for her, holding his arms out so she could reach around him.
He tried to look away, but found he couldn’t help glancing, just for a second, to where her hair was blonde under the pink; that winter white that spoke of the Highlands’ Scandinavian neighbours. Holding his breath as she wrapped his stomach, he inhaled her perfume. It smelled like old-fashioned roses. Retro, as his grandad would have said.
Dazed by her closeness, Euan didn’t mind one bit what he must look like now that Peaches was stepping back to admire her handiwork with professional focus (and, he hoped, relief) written on her face.
‘Will I do?’ he asked, and he was rewarded with a soft smile.
‘Tell me when to stop the clock!’ a voice yelled. Carenza’s, of course.
‘Oh no,’ whispered Peaches. ‘We were meant to be timing getting you dressed.’
‘Why?’ He noticed another tiny, bodily thrill in whispering like this.
‘Because, on the night, my model, Willie, will be dressing himself behind the scenes while I walk my next outfit down the runway. We need to know it’s possible to get in and out of the pieces before time runs out. We can’t leave the runway empty.’
‘Right,’ he said at his normal volume, not sure what else to say to take away the worried crinkle forming between her brows. ‘It’s serious stuff.’
‘You’re not kidding. There’s going to be buyers there, and scouts from all over Europe. It’s not just about presenting a collection for assessment at uni. One of last year’s Master’s graduates got offered a brand collab with Nina Miller.’
She’d said this as though he should know who that was, so he pulled a suitably impressed expression.
‘So, you see? This showcase could lead to real industry connections, big sales, even. It has to go perfectly.’
Euan felt the urge to apologise for not being modelesque, not like this Willie guy, who the clothes had been custom-made for, but Peaches pre-empted him by remarking how great he looked.
Again, he wanted to scoff and say that wasn’t possible, but, looking down his body, he had to admit, he felt pretty great. The white wrappings over the thin fabric gave the impression of an ornately knotted obi belt, the kind he’d seen in Samurai movies, and even the strange, thready white pants with the raw hems that puddled over his bare feet so that only his toes showed felt luxurious and special.
‘I’ve never seen clothes like this before. It’s a privilege to wear them.’
Something in her eyes shone bright for a second but was soon gone again as she turned business-like. ‘Shall we see how they walk?’
