‘Out of the mouths of babes!’ Meg said brightly, glancing at Amy and catching her eye.
‘Indeed,’ Amy said.
When did people grow out of Pearl’s way of thinking, she wondered. In Amy’s case, it was probably when she realised how much losing Lily had hurt her father. Somehow, in Amy’s head, there’d been a conflating of John’s occasional melancholy moments with his consumption of romances in all their forms. They’d become something frightening and destructive to Amy: misrepresentations that inspired you to want people and things you couldn’t have in real life. That was the lesson Amy had learned, though she was sure now that her father hadn’t meant for her to. And was it really one to live by?
After a ninety-minute journey they arrived outside Copthorne’s: The Costumier, located on the old high street. It was set in a tall Georgian building– much like the ones in Rowton– made of red bricks that stretched three storeys high. The shopfront was painted a vibrant buttercup yellow, with the name of the store spelled out in gold and black letters above the door. Nisha clapped her hands. ‘This looks like heaven!’ she cried, pointing at the mannequins visible through the window. All were dressed in the sort of clothes Philippa Fotheringham was adept at depicting in her novels– usually right before she described their frenzied removal.
Inside, a woman who introduced herself as ‘Mrs Thomasina Copthorne’ greeted them. Dressed from head to toe in her own stock, she was stout, smiley and seemed entirely comfortable in her outlandish outfit: a shiny silk gown in deepest purple, bejewelled slippers and a feather headdress that added at least four inches to her already considerable height.
‘Is it yourself, in need of a costume?’ Thomasina asked, nodding her head towards Meg. ‘When I spoke to whoever called me on the phone, I understood it was just one dress you were after, plus accessories.’
‘That’s right,’ Meg said. ‘But it was probably Nisha you spoke to, and it’s Amy here who needs the outfit.’Meg gestured at her companions, then added: ‘I believe my brother has been to see you, though. He’s Amy’s dance partner.’
‘Pity,’ Thomasina said, still focused on Meg. ‘You have the right look for these Napoleonic-era gowns: peachy skin, ample bosom, graceful figure.’ She turned to Amy. ‘Your man’s tall, isn’t he? You’re rather on the petite side, so it’s an unconventional pairing … And we might find your dress options a little limited, too.’
Amy found herself liking Thomasina less by the second. ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ she said, as her heart hammered painfully at the costumier’s reference to ‘your man’.
‘Nonsense,’ crowed Thomasina, clapping her hands briskly. ‘We’ll find you something. It just might take a little longer.’
Amy stifled a groan as the woman looked her up and down, appraising her with the keen eye of the professional. She began pulling scraps of silk and linen from drawers– stockings and undergarments of types that Amy didn’t recognise– then retreated upstairs to find some shorter-than-average gowns for her to try.
Just over a quarter of an hour later, Amy was transformed: Thomasina had coaxed her into a linen shift, around which she’d fastened traditional stays. Unlike her modern, wireless bras, the stays pushed Amy’s modest breasts up and together in a manner that felt like it should be X-rated. Thomasina, however, was not interested in Amy’s embarrassment, and proceeded to throw the first of several dresses over her head for inspection. With a gulp, Amy left the changing room to face her audience for the first time.
The stunned silence she met with convinced her that this gown wasnottoday’s winner. Made of shiny silk, it was as stiff as a board– the fabric so thick that Amy could barely move in it. Thomasina announced that it was a shade of period-appropriate ‘old gold’, but to Amy’s eye the dress was simply orange: bright, eye-watering, borderline toxicorange.
‘You look …’ Meg began, evidently trying to find something positive to say. Next to her, Nisha stifled a giggle.
‘I know!’ Pearl cried. ‘I know what that dress looks like– one of those sweets. You know, the ones Grandma and Grandpa have at Christmas time. The ones in the big purple tin.’
No longer in control of herself, Nisha guffawed and hid her face behind one of the scatter cushions that had been helpfully placed on the couch beneath them.
Meg bit her lip. ‘I think you mean Quality Street,’ she said in a strangled sort of voice, before snorting and allowing a fit of the giggles to overtake her.
‘Great,’ Amy said, placing her hands on her hips.
Nisha laughed harder. ‘That’s made it worse!’ she shrieked. ‘The sleeves look like the ends of the sweet wrapper! Oh God, Meg, which one is it that she looks like? It’s doing my head in.’
Gasping for breath, Meg managed: ‘I think it’s the toffee penny.’
‘Marvellous,’ Amy hissed. ‘I look like confectionery, and not evengoodconfectionery. Everyone knows the only Quality Streets worth bothering with are the soft centres!’
Pearl had folded her arms, clearly disapproving of her mother and Nisha’s behaviour.
To Amy’s intense relief, Thomasina decided this was the moment to intervene. ‘I think we should try another. Amy, let’s go back into the dressing room.’ Amy was only too glad to oblige.
The next gown was less ridiculous, but still not right.
‘You look like a princess!’ Pearl said when she saw her, while Nisha and Meg– fully recovered from their meltdown– ooohed and aaahed their approval.
‘You don’t look comfortable, though,’ Meg said.
‘I think it’s too showy,’ Amy agreed, gesturing at the chartreuse silk gown she had on. ‘Too “look at me”. This is an outdoor country dance, not a formal ballroom situation … And I don’t want to stick out too much– especially as there’s a real chance I’m going to put more than one foot wrong during the performance.’
Meg nodded. ‘I think I agree. Too loud. Next one!’
‘I wish we’d brought popcorn,’ Nisha giggled.
The next dress was made of a creamy cotton muslin, spotted with pale pink flowers and trimmed with pink ribbon. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Nisha said, ‘but I think it’s too pale. It doesn’t do much for your complexion.’
