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Mr. Harding was, Sylvia had decided, her archnemesis. He was in charge of all deliveries for Fuller & Crosgrove, which was one of the suppliers her mother had apparently used for years, if the receipts she’d found were anything to go by. Considering that she had never once in her time at the shop seen an order from Fuller & Crosgrove show up on time and in full, she wondered why.

Every telephone call to Mr. Harding to fix an order cost her precious time she didn’t have. It was, she had to admit to herself, becoming more and more difficult to keep all of the plates in her life spinning. The shop was like a needy child, tugging at her skirt. It might have been fine if that was all she had to contend with, but there was also the matter of being Mrs. Hugo Pearsall. She ran their household, directing Mrs. Atkinson in what needed to be done around the flat, doing the accounts, and paying all of the bills in her husband’s absence. Then there was the social aspect of her life. She couldn’t exactly stop answering letters or turn down every single invitation from friends because of the shop, because no one was supposed to know about it. Nights out had been easy to beg off of because of the blackout and the cold winter they’d had, but that still left luncheons, committee meetings, and teas to try to juggle around the shop’s needs.

Sylvia straightened in her mother’s desk chair and prepared to fight the familiar battle. “Mr. Harding, I will not be paying your invoice until you bring the correct order to the shop.”

“You took delivery of it, Mrs. Pearsall. There’s nothing I can do,” said Mr. Harding.

“Half of the order was missing, and the other half was wet through. What did you do? Leave it out in the rain because you knew it was coming to me?” she asked, her voice sarcastically sweet.

“Now, Mrs. Pearsall, there’s no need to make accusations. If you’ll pay for the order, I’ll see to it that the missing items are sent to you,” said Mr. Harding.

“No, you will see that the entire order is sent to me as soon as possible in full, and I expect a discount of twenty-five percent,” she said.

The man scoffed. “Mrs. Pearsall, I understand that you may not be familiar with how this business works—”

“Mr. Harding, I have been in the garment trade since I was eleven years old, so I suggest that you take another tack, because you will not find any success trying to cow me into agreeing with you,” she said sharply.

“Now, now, I didn’t mean any offense.”

“I’m certain you would never do anything so unwise,” she said, knowing she sounded utterly unconvinced.

The man sighed. “I can send you the missing items, but only after you’ve paid.”

Outside of the closed office door, she heard Miss Reid’s sewing machine stop its whirring. There were no appointments scheduled for at least two hours, but walk-in business had begun to pick up a little in the past month. Sylvia tried her best to greet any woman who entered with a smile and the sort of gentle attention she received when she had her clothes made at Hartnell or Worth, but she was at a critical juncture with Mr. Harding. This time she let Miss Reid handle whoever had come through their door.

She leaned forward, elbows on the desk as she cradled the telephone receiver closer to her ear. “Mr. Harding, I find myself growing tired of our little discussions, so I will explain what will happen. You will send the complete order again—dry and undamaged—as soon as humanly possible. You will also send a new invoice less the amount of twenty-five percent of the total of the order. If you do no not do this, I will make it my personal mission to telephone every dressmaker, tailor, and designer in London and explain to them that it would be in their best interest not to trade with Fuller and Crosgrove because of your unjust business practices.”

The man was so quiet, Sylvia thought that they might have become disconnected until a deep sigh filled her ear.

“Ten percent,” said the man.

She smiled. “Twenty.”

“Fifteen,” he said.

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen is more than I give anyone.”

“You’ll give us twenty, and you personally will ensure that any future orders for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions are received full and on time,” she said firmly.

Mr. Harding made an exasperated noise and then said, “Fine. You’ll have it within the next three days.”

Sylvia sat back in her chair with a grin just as there was a knock on the door.

“I look forward to receiving the order then, Mr. Harding.” She settled the telephone back on its cradle and then called out, “Come in!”

Miss Reid opened the door, and Sylvia knew from one look at the woman that something was wrong.

“What is it?” she asked, sitting up abruptly.

“Mrs. Pearsall, you’re going to want to come now,” said Miss Reid in a loud whisper.

“Why? What’s the matter?” she asked standing. “And why are you whispering?”

Miss Reid glanced over her shoulder. “It’s—Well, you’d better just see for yourself.”

Sylvia rounded the desk and was almost to the threshold of the office when Miss Reid pushed the door open to its full width, revealing Izzie in uniform with a tall, blond WAAF at her side. Sylvia was about to greet her sister when Izzie looked up with righteous fury in her eyes, and Sylvia knew instantly that this would be no happy family reunion.