She let herself smile at the way his eyes were trying to compel her to agree – but not for himself, for Tamzin. She was still mighty pissed off at him, but this wasn’t the moment to act it. This was about Tamzin. ‘How about if I were to bring the fitting to her? She might co-operate if I just turn up.’
His eyes brightened. ‘I ought to refuse; I live in Webber’s Cross, so it wouldn’t be a quick trip for you – but it would be brilliant. Thanks,’ he added softly. His eyes smiled.
Despite the unresolved tension between them, she touched the warmth of his hand as she got up to leave. For an instant, his fingers tangled with hers.
Tamzin was in her favourite spot – rolled in her duvet like a giant larvae.
Gazing at the curtains, gold on pink and still drawn shut, she picked out the segment of pattern that looked like a wild-maned lion resting his chin on his paws. She saw things like that. In the grain of her bathroom floor there was a goblin, winking, and on the wallpaper in the hall a bishop, in profile.
Staring at the lion sometimes helped on a day, like today, when her organs felt too heavy for her body, except for her stomach, which felt hollow. A day when memories of the Coven made her inert with misery.
And though she had heard two knocks at her door, she kept her gaze fixed on the lion. It would be Dad. He’d knock once more and then look in. Check on her. She wished he wouldn’t.
The third knock was louder and more impatient.
Then the door flew open. ‘Hello, Tamzin!’
Startled, Tamzin watched as Diane, billowing with fabric, unloaded a basket onto the bedroom chair. ‘I’ve come to do your fittings.’ The curtains swished back and were snagged deftly behind their ties. From the basket, Diane plucked a tape measure to loop around her neck and a pincushion to clip onto her wrist. She looked at Tamzin expectantly.
Tamzin pushed back the duvet, slowly, and rolled to the edge of the bed. ‘I don’t really feel like it.’
‘But I can’t get on without a fitting. Are those pyjamas?’
Looking down at herself, Tamzin had to admit that they were. A white top with a piebald pony and non-matching yellow seersucker bottoms. Baggy.
‘You’ll be OK in jeans on the bottom half but can you put a decent bra on the top?’ With an impatient movement, Diane consulted her watch then turned to the window. ‘I’ll admire your garden while you change.’
Tamzin gazed at the safety of her tumbled bed.
‘Tell me when you’re ready.’
Sighing, she clambered to her feet and opened her underwear drawer. Lying still for so long had left her feeling creaky, leaden.
She managed to find a bra and a pair of knickers respectable enough to be seen. From the wardrobe she selected a pair of black jeans that hung from her hips. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror, at her arms. Mingin. She curled up inside. ‘I don’t want to do this today.’
‘But I’m here today.’
Sullenly, Tamzin climbed into her clothes. ‘OK. Ready.’
Diane swung around.
Tamzin stared at the floor.
There was one still moment.
Then Diane swept up the pink fabric. ‘This is the double-breasted shirt, do you remember? I’ve set the sleeves in but they’re only tacked. I want to see how we are for length – left arm, please. Can you come to the mirror? Fasten the buttons, then I can see if I’ve brought the darts up far enough.’
Diane’s busy fingers twitched and smoothed. ‘The embroidery will behere, if you remember, with the little rings incorporated into it. I’ve done an experimental piece on this swatch, look, and I’m really pleased. Good, yes? I think the darts are OK, don’t you? But the cuffs need lifting about half-an-inch.’
The fabric felt smooth against her skin. Tamzin risked a glance at her reflection; more sufferable now she was covered. The colour was well cool; in it, she didn’t look like the neighbourhood ghost. ‘It looks nice!’ she observed, unwillingly captivated.
Diane laughed. ‘No need to sound so surprised. Of course it looks nice, what with my sewing skills and your good looks.’ She swooped suddenly on a wide-bristled hairbrush lying on the dusty dressing-table. ‘Do you mind if I get your hair out of the way? Then I can see the shoulders properly.’
Tamzin looked away from the mat of old hair in the brush. Mingin. Meekly, she allowed her hair to be brushed, pulled back and swished up onto her head, not even complaining when the knots were tugged.
‘What gorgeous hair you have – I wish mine had more colour.’
‘But yours is so pearly blonde!’
