September (1990) (46 page)

And Isobel, feeling all at once carefree and pleasantly sinful, abandoned her Calvinistic tendencies and followed.

The shop was narrow and deep, thickly carpeted, lined with mirrors, and sweetly scented like a glamorous woman. They were the only customers, and as they came through the plate-glass door, a woman rose from behind an enviable little marquetry desk and came to meet them. Dressed for work, she wore the sort of outfit that Isobel would have happily gone out to dinner in.

"Good morning."

She was told what they searched for.

"What size are you, madam?"

"Oh." Isobel, already, was flustered. "I think a twelve. Or maybe a fourteen."

"Oh. no." A professional eye was cast over Isobel, gauging. Isobel hoped that her tights hadn't laddered. "I'm sure a twelve. The ball gowns are through here, if you'd like to come."

They followed her into the back of the shop. She swept aside a curtain and revealed open wardrobes bulging with racks of evening dresses. Some short, some long; silk and velvet, glimmering satin, chiffon, and voile; and every beautiful colour under the sun. She rattled the hangers along the rail.

"These are twelves, here. But of course, if you find something you like in another size, I could always get it altered for you."

"We haven't time," Isobel told her. Her eyes moved to the darker gowns. Dark colours didn't date, and you could always add bits to them to make them look different. There was a brown satin. Or a navy-blue ribbed silk. Or maybe black. She took down a black crepe with jet buttons, and moved to the mirror to hold it in front of her ... a bit governessy perhaps, but she saw it standing her in good stead for years. . . . She tried squinting at the price ticket but was not wearing her glasses.

"This is nice."

Pandora scarcely gave it a glance. "Not black, Isobel. And not red." She pushed more hangers aside, and then pounced. "Now, this"

Isobel, still listlessly holding the black crepe, looked -at the most beautiful dress she had ever imagined. Sapphire-blue Thai silk shot with black, so that as the light moved over the material, it shimmered like the wings of some exotic insect. The skirt was huge, puffed out with petticoats, and it had a low neck. The sleeves were finished at the elbow with narrow ruffles of the same silk, and an identical ruffle bordered the hem.

Scarcely daring to imagine herself owning such a garment, Isobel eyed the tiny waist. 'Til never get into that."

"Try."

It was as though she had lost all will of her own. Bundled into a curtained changing-room, stripped, like some votive sacrifice, of all her outer clothes. "Now." She stood in her bra and tights, and the profusion of whispering silk was lowered cautiously over her head; sleeves pulled up over her arms; the zip . . .

She sucked in her breath, but there was no problem. The waistline hugged her snugly, but she could breathe. The saleslady settled the shoulders, bouffed out the skirt, stepped back to admire.

Isobel saw herself full-length in the mirror, and it was like seeing another person. A woman from another age, stepped down from the frame of an eighteenth
-
century portrait. The hem of the dress swept the floor, the stiff silk arranging itself in gleaming folds. The sleeves were infinitely flattering, and the deep neckline revealed Isobel's best points, which were her pretty plump shoulders and the swelling curve of her breasts.

Overwhelmed with desire, she tried to remain practical. "It's too long."

"It won't be with high heels," Pandora pointed out. "And the colour makes your eyes as blue as ink."

Isobel looked and saw that this was true. But she put her hands to her tanned and weathered cheeks. "My face is all wrong."

"Darling, you're wearing no make-up."

"And my hair."

"I'll do your hair for you." Pandora narrowed her eyes. '"You need jewellery."

"I could wear the Balmerino earrings. The diamond drops with the pearls and sapphires."

"Of course. Perfection. And Mamma's pearl choker? Have you got that as well?"

"It's in the bank."

"We'll get it out this afternoon. You're beautiful in it, Isobel. Every man in the room will be in love with you. We couldn't have found anything more becoming." She turned to smile at the silent but satisfied saleslady. "We'll have it."

The dress was unzipped, gently removed, and taken away to be parcelled up.

"Pandora!" Isobel whispered urgently, reaching for her Marks and Spencer's petticoat. "You never even asked the price." |

"If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it," Pandora whispered back and disappeared. Isobel, torn between excitement and guilt, was left to put on her blouse and skirt, button up her jacket and lace up her shoes. By the time she had done this, the cheque had been written, the price-tag removed, and the ravishing dress packed into a huge box.

The saleslady went to open the door for them.

"Thank you so much," said Isobel.

"I'm glad you found something you liked."

The whole transaction had taken no more than ten minutes. Pandora and Isobel stood on the pavement in the sunshine.

"I can't thank you . . ."

"Don't thank me. ..."

"I've never in my life owned such a dress. . . ."

"Then it's about time you did. You deserve it. . . ."

"Pandora . .

But Pandora did not want to hear any more. She looked at her watch. "It's only a quarter to twelve. What shall we go and buy now?"

"But haven't you spent enough money?"

"Heavens no, I've only just started. What's Archie going to wear to the party? His kilt?"

They began slowly to walk down the pavement.

"No. He hasn't worn his kilt since his leg was shot off. He says a horrible tin knee sticking out is an obscenity. He'll just wear his dinner jacket."

Pandora stopped dead. "But Lord Balmerino can't go to a Highland dance in his dinner jacket."

"Well, he's been doing it for years."

A fat lady with a basket, annoyed by the obstruction they were causing, said "Excuse me" and pushed her way between them. Pandora ignored her.

"Why doesn't he wear tartan trews?"

"He hasn't got any."

"Why ever not?"

Isobel tried to think why this obvious solution had not solved the problem years ago, and realized that, along with his leg, Archie had lost all pride and pleasure in his appearance. It was as though it didn't matter any longer. As well, luxury clothes cost money, and there always seemed to be something else more essential to spend it on.

"I don't know."

"But he always used to look so yummy at dances. And what's more, knew he did. In a boring old dinner jacket, he'll look like an undertaker, or a part-time waiter. Or worse, a Sassenach. Come on, let's go and buy him something brilliant. Do you know what size he is?"

"Not offhand. But his tailor will."

"Where's his tailor?"

"In the next street."

"Would he have tartan trews? Off the peg?"

"I should think so."

"Then what are we waiting for?" And Pandora was off again, striding away with her mink coat open and flying. Isobel, lugging her parcel, had to run to keep up with her.

"But even if we find some trews, what's he going to wear with them? He can't wear a dinner jacket."

"Papa had a very handsome velvet smoking jacket. Faded bottle green. What's happened to that?"

"It's up in the attic."

"Well, we'll go and find it. Oh, how exciting. Just imagine how majestic the dear man is going to look."

They found the old tailor working away at his table in the back regions of the shop, a Gentleman's Outfitters Specializing in Highland Dress for All Occasions. Disturbed, he raised his head from an unrolled bolt of tweed, saw Isobel, laid down his scissors and favoured her with a beaming smile.

"Lady Balmerino."

"Good morning,. Mr. Pittendriech. Mr. Pittendriech, do you remember my sister-in-law, Pandora Blair?"

The old man looked at Pandora over the top of his spectacles. "Yes, I remember. But it's a long time ago. You couldn't have been more than a wee girl." Across the table, he and Pandora shook hands. "Very pleased to see you again. And how is His Lordship, Lady Balmerino?"

"He's very well."

"Is he able to get up the hill?"

"Not very far, but . . ."

Pandora, impatient, interrupted. "We've come to buy him a present, Mr. Pittendriech. A pair of tartan trews. You know his measurements. Would you come and help us choose a pair?"

"Most certainly. It would be a pleasure." He abandoned his cutting and emerged from behind his table to lead them back to the main shop, where a plethora of tartans, leather sporrans, skean dhus, diced hose, lace jabots, silver-buckled shoes, and cairngorm brooches fairly dazzled the eye.

Mr. Pittendriech obviously felt that all this was a little beneath his dignity.

"Would it not be better if I were to tailor His Lordship a pair of trews? He's never been a gentleman to buy his clothes off-the-peg."

"We haven't time," Isobel said for the second time that morning.

"In that case, would it be regimental tartan, or family tartan?"

"Oh, family tartan," said Pandora firmly. "Anyway, it's such a pretty one."

It took a little time to find the right tartan, and then more time fiddling with a tape measure to ensure that the inside leg was the correct length. Finally, Mr. Pittendriech made his choice.

"This pair should do His Lordship very nicely."

Isobel considered them. "They aren't going to be too narrow, are they? Otherwise he won't be able to get them over his tin leg."

"No, I think they should be amply comfortable."

"In that case," said Pandora, "we'll have them."

"And how about a cummerbund, Miss Blair?"

"He can wear his father's, Mr. Pittendriech." She turned her dazzling smile upon him. "But perhaps a really lovely new white cotton shirt?"

More parcels, more cheques. Out on the pavement again. "Time for lunch," said Pandora, and they headed, mutually delighted with themselves, in the direction of the Wine Bar. Propelled into this popular rendezvous by the revolving door, they came up against the first obstacle of the day. There was no sign of Lucilla and Jeff, most of the tables were occupied, and those that weren't had "Reserved" notices placed upon them.

"We want a table for four," Pandora told the superior-looking woman behind the high desk.

"Have you resairved?"

"No, but we still want a table for four."

"I'm afraid if you haven't resairved, then you will have to await your turn."

Pandora opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything the telephone on the desk began fortuitously to ring and the woman turned aside to pick up the receiver. "This is the Waine Bar."

Behind her back, Pandora dug Isobel in the ribs, and then, looking unconcerned, stalked over to where an empty and reserved table stood by the window. Reaching it, she unobtrusively whisked the "Reserved" sign up and pushed this deep into the pocket of her coat. A brilliant and professional piece of sleight of hand. She then settled herself gracefully, disposed of her bag and parcels, spread the mink over the back of the chair, and reached for the menu.

Isobel, horrified, hovered. "Pandora, you can't. . . ."

"I have. Bloody woman. Sit down."

"But someone's reserved it."

"But we've got it. Possession is nine-tenths of the law." Isobel, who dreaded any sort of a scene, continued to hesitate, but Pandora took no notice of her waffling, and after a bit, with no alternative, she sat down as well, facing her blatantly criminal sister-in-law. "Oh, look, we can have a cocktail. And we can eat quiche and salad, or an omelette aux fines herbes."

"That woman's going to be livid"

"I hate cocktails, don't you? Do you suppose they have any champagne? Let's ask when she comes gunning for us."

Which she did, almost immediately.

"Excuse me, madam, but this table is resairved."

"Oh, is it?" Pandora's eyes were bland and innocent orbs. "But there's no sign."

"This table is resairved, and there was a sign upon it."

"Where can it be?" Pandora craned her neck to look under the table. "It's not on the floor."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you will have to move an
d a
wait your turn."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we're not going to. Will you take our order, or would you rather send one of the waitresses?"

The woman's neck was growing red, like turkey wattles. Her mouth worked. Isobel felt rather sorry for her.

"You know perfectly well that there was a resairved notice upon this table. The manager put it there himself this morning."

Pandora raised her eyebrows. "Oh, there's a manager, is there? Then perhaps you would like to go and find him, and tell him that Lady Balmerino is here and wishes to order lunch."