Page 26 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

There was an attachment, which I opened, and I saw the pdf version of the Padcock Prowl — or, to give it its proper name, the Padcock Pathway. This was brilliant — my paper copy was thoroughly scrunched up now, and tucked behind a pile of unread Darling! magazines on my bookshelf. When I lacked inspiration, I could work my way through the landmarks on the lovely, clear pdf, and I wouldn’t have to keep bothering Jay for information . . .

And then the smile slowly slid off my face.

Is that why he’d sent me the document? So I wouldn’t have to keep bothering him?

I definitely didn’t feel smiley any more.

But maybe I was just second-guessing Jay’s motives and overthinking things.

Whatever. I’d push that out of my mind too, and get on with quirking things up. I had a picture to draw, and an imagination to stoke. And that, really, had to be my priority today.

Chapter Nine

April

Life got very busy over the next few weeks. My sister got in touch to see if I could help with some dresses in preparation for a school prom. Conor, Damien’s brother and my soon-to-be brother-in-law, worked with disadvantaged kids, and a lot of them were worried about having beautiful gowns for the upcoming events.

‘Would you be able to work your Triple M Designs magic?’ asked Sophia, referring to the fashion label I’d always said I’d copyright and never did.

‘Matilda Margaret Matthews. That’s me!’ I told her. ‘What can I do?’

‘We’re asking for donations of dresses, and hunting frocks out at the charity shops. We want to do like a Borrowing Boutique. So the girls can choose a dress, and you can work your magic. We might need a few nips and tucks here and there. Or some letting out of seams. Or some details changed on them — you know, like off-the-shoulder styles getting shoulders. Or vice versa. Getting the skirts shortened. Or adding an extra frill on. Just so the girls feel they have their own dress, and not someone else’s hand-me-down. I mean, I’m not just asking you, we know it’s a lot of work. We’re putting a call out for anyone who’s handy with a needle to help. But you were the first one I thought about. We’d pay you, of course.’

‘That sounds fantastic!’ I smiled down the phone. ‘Just tell me where and when you need me.’

Sophia did indeed do that, and before I knew it, I was travelling back and forth to Essex on my days off, taking clothes either back there or back home, armed with a notebook full of diagrams, ideas and measurements. I loved working on the prom dresses, and talking to the girls at Conor’s work, who were super excited about getting a “designer dress” for the prom. The frocks that came in Rosie-sizes, Rosie tried on, so I could pin them up or let them down or see what different embellishments looked like. Which was quite helpful, really.

And of course, I couldn’t resist joining in — I did the same, and set Rosie going with pins and bits of lace to help out while I modelled them. Unfortunately, the day I wore a rather revealing, deep V-necked dress (there was going to be a modesty panel added, don’t worry), Jay turned up unexpectedly.

He came in to the flat, and stood stock still, staring at me. ‘Wow,’ was all he could say. ‘Wow. Matilda. You look — you’re like — wow.’

‘I scrub up okay, you know,’ I said, all flustered and embarrassed, clutching at my cleavage like a twittering Victorian maiden. ‘And it’s not what it looks like.’

Jay recovered himself first and smiled. ‘What on earth do you think it looks like? It looks like you look — amazing. Like I said.’

‘Like I got hold of a dressing-up box and do this for kicks in my spare time.’ I turned away from him in an indignant rustle of taffeta and stalked out of the lounge into my bedroom to get changed, burning up with embarrassment. Was it wrong that I’d been imagining what my own wedding dress might look like at that moment? The moment that Jay, my imaginary bridegroom, no less, wandered in and saw me in a teenager’s frock?

‘She does do this in her spare time,’ I heard Rosie say. ‘Don’t believe half of what she says. I think she wants to be in a Padcock costume drama, personally. Coffee?’

‘I’d love one, thanks,’ I heard Jay say. ‘Shall I take her back with me, and see what we’ve got coming up next? I don’t mind.’ I struggled out of the dress, cringing, and went back in to accept my own coffee with my head held high. He grinned at me as I walked back in. ‘I really don’t mind taking you back, Rosie. Even if there isn’t a costume drama to film. I’d like your company. And by the way, you really did look amazing there.’

He said it very sincerely, and even blushed a bit, which made me spill a little of my coffee — but I didn’t dare dwell on it too much.

And of course, it wasn’t long before Damien found out I’d been modelling the wares — I can only assume Rosie told him — and then I had to endure comments from him as he reminisced about our hideous school prom years ago when I’d ripped the bow off the front of my dress by getting it caught in the toilet door. I had had to use my corsage to pin the two halves of my bodice back together, and I’d made him walk in front of me for the rest of the night . . . a vile memory.

So with all my dress work, I’d been so busy that I’d only done about three pictures from the Padcock Pathway by the end of May. But at least the girls had a good range of dresses to choose from, and I felt I’d done something really productive.

I’d also been working at the café, so I’d just been fitting the art in whenever I could, but I was in a reasonably good mood. I was enjoying doing my pictures and loving the feeling of there being no pressure on me.

I suspect that, had I decided to pursue the exhibition, I would not have been enjoying the art so much. Unlike some people, I don’t perform well under pressure — and if I knew I had to do something, I’d do anything in my power not to do it. Except working on those dresses, of course — because that was something I was doing for someone else.

On the evening I finished the third picture, an extremely startling thing happened: there was an intruder in my bedroom.

Let me clarify — it was scary at first, but then it was just annoying.

My bedroom, as I have said, doubles as my studio. Rosie and I swapped a couple of months ago, because the light is better in my room than the other bedroom. Even though my original room was bigger, this arrangement actually suited us both better.

The flat has an odd sort of layout. It’s part of a Victorian terrace, so the rooms are all high-ceilinged and nicely proportioned, but the back of the house faces the back of another terrace, with just the back lane and the respective tiny gardens/yards (depending on the predilections of the inhabitants) in between. The smaller room, my room, was at the front of the house next to the lounge.