The Empty Space
You’ve become an empty space, Alice. Do you understand? Empty. Space.
His words were steady, almost bored, as if he were reading a shopping list. He stood at the window, his back to her, gazing out over the communal garden. Outside, someone was walking a small, lively ginger dachshund, tugging impatiently at its lead towards a puddle.
Alice Bennett sat hunched on the sofa, a mug of tea cooling in her hands. The tea had gone cold twenty minutes ago, but she still held the mug, not knowing where else to put her hands.
What do you mean? she asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I mean just that. Edward finally turned around. His face was bland, weary, the look of someone forced to explain something so self-evident that it drained him. I look at you and I see nothing. Nothing at all. You potter about, cook, sleeplike a piece of furniture, Alice. Good, solid furniture, but still just furniture.
She set her mug down; the porcelain clicked against the tables wood.
Ten years, she whispered.
What about ten years?
We’ve been together ten years.
So? A shrug as he crossed the room and sat in the armchair opposite her. Ten years. Long enough to see its pointless to go on. I dont want to live like this. I want… He paused, searching for a word. I want to feel something. And you, you dont make me feel. You dont inspire me. Youre simply herenot even really, just physically.
Alice felt some small, stubborn piece of herself, deep inside, beginning to bend.
Where am I supposed to go, Ed?
Thats your responsibility. He crossed his legs, matter-of-fact. The flats in Mums name, you know that. Legally youre no one here. I wont rush you, but… is a week enough? Youll figure something out.
A week, she echoed, voice hollow.
Good. He picked up his phone, scrolling. The conversation, for him, was finished.
Alice stood up. She walked into the bedroom, closed the door. She lay on the bed, on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling was white, with a small stain in the corner shed meant to paint over two years ago. She never had.
Through the wall, she could hear the low drone of the television. Edward was busy now.
She lay there, dry-eyed, gazing up at the white ceiling and its stubborn mark. Inside her chest, it was as quiet as a house right after a window has shattered.
***
The week blurred into a strange, foggy time. Edward barely came home, and when he did it was late, and he left before she woke. They did not speak. Alice packed, and it was humiliatingly simpleher own possessions barely filling two bags. A handful of dresses, an old winter coat, a box of photographs from another life, sewing magazines shed kept for some reason, though she never looked at them anymore.
She left the sewing magazines behind.
Then picked them up again.
She rang her mothers cousin, Auntie Rose, whom shed last seen at her mums funeral seven years ago. Rose listened, was silent for a long while, then said: Come, there’s a room herenot big, but you’ll manage for a bit.
Auntie Rose lived on the edge of town, far North End, where the bus came only once an hour and the corner shop was the only decent one after three streets. Alice had never liked that part: blocks of grim council flats, cracked awnings, poplars that fluffed the air white every spring.
She arrived with two bags and a suitcase on Friday evening.
Good grief, love, youre skin and bone, Rose said when she answered the door. She was short and sturdy, her face kind and lined, and she smelled of lavender and the beef stew simmering in the kitchen. Come in, dont just stand there. Fancy some supper?
No, thank you, Auntie Rose.
Youve got to eat, said Rose firmly, bustling off.
The room was smallnarrow sofa, battered wardrobe, a window overlooking the blank brick wall of the building next door. The wallpaper had long since faded from its pale blue. On the windowsill, three pots of geranium flourished, vivid and alive.
Alice set down her bags and sat on the sofa. The springs squeaked beneath her weight.
Tea? Rose called from the kitchen.
Yes, please, Alice managed.
And there, in that little room with geraniums and peeling blue wallpaper, Alice finally wept.
***
What followed was a long, uneasy time.
Days when morning brought no reason to rise. Alice would wake at six, lie still, listening to Rose’s kettle whistling in the kitchen, the rare rumble of cars past the window. She would finally get up, wash, drink tea, and stare at the blank brick.
Rose was shrewd. She didnt pry, offer platitudes, or urge, Youll find better. She fed Alice bowls of stew, let her use the television, and sometimes, evenings, scattered cards onto the table and asked, Game of rummy?
And theyd play, wordless, together.
Alice had a bit of moneyjust enough. She pulled the last of it from her modest account: £1,200. That might see her six weeks or so, if she didnt splurge. She did not splurge.
She still had her part-time bookkeeping job at a fussy construction firm, three days a week on the other side of town. There, she sorted out receipts and managed her £800 a monthenough to pay Rose for the room, though Rose refused until Alice left a brown envelope on the kitchen table and withdrew. No chance for argument.
Evenings, the hurt was worse. Alone in her boxy room, her thoughts circled the same track. Ten years. Ten years of breakfasts, holidays, birthdays, Christmas trees, seaside trips, quarrels and making up. Hed looked at her and seen only emptiness. Maybe she was emptiness. Maybe something in her had burnt out. Or maybe in him. Or both.
Now and then she scrolled up through old messages: photos from Cornwall, three summers ago. Edwards arm round her shoulders, laughing, both of them. She couldnt remember the joke.
Those nights, she crawled under the duvet early, pulling it over her head.
Rose would sometimes call through the door:
Alice, you sleeping?
No.
I can tell. A pause. You hungry?
No.
Well, you get some rest then. Another pause. I once kicked my own one out, you knowbefore you were born. Thought Id die of heartbreak. Didnt.
Click of the door. Gone.
Alice stared at darkness. Nearly fifty, and starting again. Simple as that.
***
She found the machine in the middle of her second month.
Rose asked her to clear out the top shelf in the halluntouched fifteen years, and every attempt to open it threatened a landslide of old junk. Alice agreed, desperate for something to do.
She hauled out dog-eared Womans Weeklys, a broken umbrella, boxes of buttons, empty perfume bottles, postcards for long-past birthdays with smudged notes. Finally, deep at the very back, she found something heavy, swaddled in a musty old sheet.
She unwrapped it.
A sewing machineold, black metal, gold flowers curling up its sides, chipped but unmistakably elegant. On the front panel, a script logo: Singer.
Auntie Rose! Alice called.
She appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
Oh, Singer! My mums sister Noreens pride and joy. I forgot we even had it. Not sure it works. Been ages.
May I have a go?
Rose eyed her.
You know how?
I did, once upon a time.
Go for it.
Alice lugged the Singer into her room, set it up by the window. She dusted it off, pulled off threads wound round the spool decades ago, found a tin of accessories: bobbins, needles, measuring tape, blunt scissors.
There was a little oil can too. The oil was dried up, so she bought some more and greased the parts, cleaned the feed, and spun the wheel. It was stiff at first, then smoother.
She sat a long time, fiddling with bobbin and thread. Finally, she fed a scrap of cloth under the needle, pressed the pedal.
The machine sanga neat, metallic hum. Alice felt something strange: like life returning to a numb handa little pain, but thrillingly alive.
She stopped, inspecting her seam. Straight. Almost perfect.
Something old stirred in a far corner of her mind.
***
At eighteen, she’d sewn constantly. Anythingher mothers cast-offs became skirts, cheap sale-room cottons turned into blouses. Across from college, Mrs. Barker ran a tailors, her hands toughened by years of pins, and Alice learned from watchinghow to cut, pin, finish. Mrs. Barker would teach anyone willing to watch, and Alice always watched.
Then came university, then Edward, then marriage, and domestic routineoverwhelming in its demands. The machine shed bought with her first pay went, sold when she moved into Edwards small flat. He said it took up too much space. She’d barely protestedso in love she thought nothing else mattered.
Years passed; she nearly forgot about sewing. Sometimes she saw a lovely dress in a shop window or magazine and thought, just fleetingly: I could make that. But she never did.
Now she sat in a small room on the edge of town, hearing the staccato, purposeful rhythm of the old Singer.
Next day, she visited the market. Not the shopping centre, but the fabric stalls, where rolls were piled high and nothing cost much.
She wandered, fingers brushing linen, poplin, crepe, wool. She stopped at a bolt of soft, slate-blue cotton with a matt finish. How much? she asked.
All in, its four metres.
Ill take it all.
The seller wrapped it up. Whats it for?
A dress, Alice repliedsurprised by her own certainty.
***
She laid the cloth on the floor, pinned paper patterns she sketched from memory, double-checking with an old magazine she found in Roses stash. The design was simple; straight, with a tie waist, high collar, three-quarter sleeves. No fussjust clean lines.
Rose peeped in, watching her work. She said nothing, just left a mug of tea nearby.
Thank you, Alice said, not looking up from her work.
Lovely colour, that, said Rose, leaving quietly.
For one moment, Alice dreaded cutting the cloth. In the desk drawer, she found sharp, unused scissors. She lined up the bladesthen simply started cutting; fear vanished with the first snip.
She sewed for three eveningsnot because it took so long, but because she didnt hurry. Bit by bit, after work, she returned to the sewing machine: seams, then the invisible zip in the back, the collar, the stubborn sleeves that took three attempts.
Whenever a problem came, she stopped, unpicked, tried again. The Singer ran smoothly, quietlyjust that gentle hum. In those hours, her thoughts never strayed to Edward. Only to the stitches, the way to shape a collar.
On the third evening, she finished, ironed the seams, hung the dress and stepped back.
A good dress.
Simple slate-blue, soft curves, the fabric belt cinching the waist, the high neck just right, understated, elegant.
She tried it on.
In Roses hallway was the flats only mirrorold, its edges fogged, but honest.
Alice stared at herself. A minute, at least. Maybe more.
In the glass, she saw not no one, not empty space, not furniture. Simply a womanfifty, with brown hair twisted in a plain bun, straight posture, and something uncertain but growing in her eyes.
The dress fit beautifully. Absolutely beautifully.
Alice! Rose called from the kitchen. Come onlets see whats come of it.
Alice walked in wearing her dress.
Rose turned from the hob, looked her up and down. She was silent for a second.
There you go, she said at last. Thats more like it.
She turned back to her stew, but Alice saw her smiling.
Alice returned to her room, sinking onto the sofa. She touched the hemsoft, comfortable, exactly as it should be.
Something insidewhatever had bent that first nightbeginning to straighten.
***
She wore the dress that Saturday.
Just out for a walk. Rose wanted some tablets from the chemist, so Alice took the prescription, shrugged on a pale jacket she’d found at the bottom of her suitcase, and headed out.
It was beautiful weather: early October, the air crisp and dry. The poplars lining the street had started to yellow.
She walkedfeeling somehow different, no longer rushing, no longer ignoring the world. She noticed: a cat foxed on the windowsill, watching with philosophical detachment. An old woman knitting blue wool on a bench. A child dragging his mum eagerly towards a puddle, mum resisting.
The chemist was just a block away. Next door was a tiny caféThe Cornernew, or maybe Alice had never noticed. A sign read, Fresh Pastries & Coffee.
She went in. Ordered a cappuccino and a croissantbecause, today, why not?
It was a tiny placefive tables, perhaps. In the corner sat a well-dressed silver-haired lady, her earrings bold, hair neat and white, a paperback and phone before her. She radiated the calm, assured look of someone used to getting things done.
Alice carried her coffee and pastry to a table by the window.
Ten minutes passed. She sipped coffee, watched the world outside, thought of nothing in particular. Simply well. Quietly well.
Excuse me…
Alice turned. The silver-haired lady was looking at her.
I hope you dont mind me sayingyour dress is beautiful. Do you mind my asking where its from?
Alice blinked. I made it myself.
You did? The lady leaned forward. Are you a seamstress?
No, not really. WellI know how to sew. I used to. Im just picking it up again.
The cut It looks simple, but it fits so wonderfully. I know what Im looking atI worked in tailoring for years.
Thank you, said Alice, a little lost.
Im Margaret Parker, the lady said, extending a hand. Just Margaret, please.
Alice.
Alice, a cheeky questionplease just say no if its too much. In three weeks, itll be my sixty-fifth birthday. I want to look good, but every dress Ive tried on is either for an old dear or for a girl, nothing… just right. Yours, thats precisely the look I want. Would you consider making one for me?
Alice met her eyes. Margaret watched her calmly, unhurried, just asking.
Something shifted inside.
Id be happy to, Alice answered.
***
Margaret arrived two days later, bringing fabric shed chosen from a shop in towna deep cherry-red crepe, smooth and rich.
Alice took her measurements right there, on the big table cleared of Roses jigsaw puzzle. She sketched a few designs as they sipped tea, finally settling on one: softly flared skirt, three-quarter sleeves, a subtle v-neck. Refined but modern.
That one, Margaret said. Perfectly so.
Itll be ready in two weeks.
Whats your fee?
Alice hesitatedshe hadnt even considered it.
Im not sure.
Then allow me. Thats what this job would cost in a good London dressmakers. Margaret named a sumequal to Alices fortnights pay from the construction job.
Alice paused.
Thats settled then.
When Margaret left, Rose came in.
Heard the whole thing. Thats good money.
Yes, Alice agreed.
Keep at it, love. You’re good at this.
Alice looked at her.
Auntie Rosecan I ask, why did you take me in? We barely knew each other.
Rose considered. Because youre Ninas girlmy cousin. She helped me out once, years ago. Now I can return the favour. Just setting the accounts right.
She left. Alice drifted to the window. Outside, the blank wall was now painted with a huge blue-and-white mural shed never noticed beforebright, cheerful flowers winding up the concrete.
***
Making Margarets dress was a different experiencenot for herself, but for someone else. A responsibility, Alice felt it every time she sat at the Singer.
She took care, hesitated over the expensive fabric, but then cut precisely. The cherry crepe came together in five days, every seam straight and clean. She finished every edge properly, hand-stitched the zip down the back, hemmed the skirt invisibly.
When Margaret arrived for her fitting, Alice saw from her face at once.
My goodness Margaret turned in front of the mirror. My goodness
She admired the back, the sleeves, smoothing the fabric. I feel like someone else.
Youre just you, Alice insisted. In a really great dress.
No Its more. When something’s tailored for you, you stand differently. You really do.
Alice made a slight alteration at the side seam. Margaret was clinging to the dress.
My friends got a big birthday soon too, desperately looking for something that fits. Can I give her your number?
Of course.
Andlook, my daughter-in-laws getting married next year. Shell need a smart dress, not a classic wedding oneshe struggles with anything off the rack. Would you?
Id be delighted.
Margaret nodded, as though this was exactly what shed expected.
***
The next two months were a whirlwind, but not in a bad wayin a wonderfully mad, unfamiliar way.
Margarets friend asked for a suit. She recommended Alice to an acquaintance who wanted a skirt and blouse. Then came a young woman, a friend of Margarets neighbours, needing an evening dress for her company do; Alice made it. The woman posted pictures onlinefinally found a real dressmakerand within a week, three more enquiries.
Roses spare room filled quicklyfabric stacks on the windowsill, the bed, the chair. The Singer purred through every evening, sometimes mornings on weekends.
Rose never once complained. One day, finding Alice up to her ears in fabric, she said, gently, You need a proper space, love.
I know.
I cant have this taking over here.
I understand, Auntie Rose.
Alice had been thinking the same. She actually had some money nowmore in two months than she earned in half a year before. And the orders werent slowing.
She went to town, checked adverts, visited spaces. Two were dark and mouldy; the third was perfect: second floor of a lovely old building, big south-facing window, roaring with light, wooden floors, high ceilings. Expensive, though.
She calculated: if she rented, bought a proper machine, an overlocker, a big worktableshed spend every penny saved, and still need to borrow more.
On a whim she called Margaret.
Margaret, can I get your advice?
Go ahead.
Alice explained. Margaret went quiet, then said: Take the room. Let me lend you the rest, no interest, as long as you need.
I really couldnt, I
Alice, you made the best dress of my life. Let me give something back. This isnt charitythis is what people do. Help one another.
Alice was silent.
And besides, Margaret added, half-smiling, Ive another four friends already waiting for you. I need my dressmaker sorted, dont I?
***
Alice opened her studio in early December.
She moved the Singer, though it was now mostly sentimentalher new professional machine, bought from the big sewing shop, was faster and far smoother. But the Singer had pride of place in the window.
A strip-lit, calm space: worktable, two sewing spots, a shelf of fabrics and trimmings, a big mirror. On the wall she hung sketches of her designs in frames. Rose came to look, running her fingers along the shelves, standing a long moment before the mirror.
Its nice, was all she said.
Auntie Rose. Alice took her hand. I want you to have something.
She held out an envelope.
No, Alice, you
Yes, I must. Rent for the room. For everything. I kept count.
I never did
I did. Please.
Rose took the envelope. After a fidget, she looked up. I need a new fridge, anyway. Old ones a noisy disaster.
Lets get you one, Alice smiled.
They went out together to choose it, Rose examining freezer drawers, testing handles, fussing over details. Finally, she settled on a big, two-door, shiny silver fridge.
This ones wonderful, she said, so full of happiness that Alice knew shed done the right thing.
***
December was frantic. Before Christmas, everyone wanted something new: party dresses, office suits, bright blouses. Alice often worked till nine at night, cradling her third mug of tea, soothed by the gentle whirr of her machine.
January was quieter. Alice brought in helpa young woman called Molly, adept at finishing seams and hemming, but new to pattern making. Molly was eager, Alice found unexpected satisfaction in teaching: showing, correcting, watching anothers progress.
She left the construction jobcalled her boss, explained, agreed to work until April.
In March she got a call from a strangeranother woman, a keen hobby sewer, asking for lessons.
Im not a teacher, Alice protested.
But youre good. You come recommended by Margaret.
Alice considered.
Come by, lets see.
So, her first masterclass; then another. Soon, a little group. Different, but fitting in somehow.
In spring, she finally left Roses place.
She let a studio flat near the ateliera single room, third floor, with a bright kitchen. White walls, spotless, not a stain in sight. Alice set out her things, hung curtains shed sewn herself.
The first evening, she sat in her new kitchen, mug of tea in hand, gazing out at a little green with birch trees.
It was hers. Strange, lonely still, but hers.
***
She saw Edward at the end of May.
She was walking home from the studio, slow-breathing the warm air, the scent of lilac, daylight slipping through the young leaves. A heavy bag filled with fabric samples pressed on her shoulder.
He came her way.
She saw him twenty yards off and knew him instantly, though hed changedthinner, somehow. His jacket hung awkwardly, his walk shrunken.
He saw her, too. Stopped.
Alice didnt slow down, but as she came alongside, he said, Alice.
She stopped.
Hello, Ed.
He looked at her; his expression was unfamiliarlost, almost.
You look good.
Thank you.
Pause. Hands in pockets.
Where are you headed?
Home.
Living near here?
Yes.
A silence. A woman pushing a pram passed, interrupting the hush.
Alice, I he faltered, can we talk? Just for a bit?
She scrutinised him; he looked worn, but not just work-tireda deeper, defeated sort of tired.
Lets sit, she suggested, nodding to a bench.
They sat. Edward stared at his hands knotted between his knees.
I dont know where to start.
Just as it is, she said gently.
Shes gone, he blurted. The one Ishe left. Six months ago. Said I was dull, no ambition. He forced a laugh. Bit of irony there, eh?
I suppose.
Im at Mums now. Works a mess, firm folded. Everything He glanced up, meeting her eyes. Everything fell apart. Sometimes I think I made the worst mistake. A huge mistake, Alice.
She listened.
I didnt appreciate you, not really. You cared, you did everything, you were real. And I He stopped. I was chasing something. Didnt know what. Called you nothing. Empty. He grimaced. I know I cant be forgiven. But I do think about it. Often.
Alice looked across at the birch trees. Their leaves trembled faintly. Somewhere, the smell of a barbecue drifted from the houses.
Ed, she said, its not a crime to fall out of love. Happens to the best of us.
He was silent.
What was cruel was how you said it. Empty space, furniture, get out. That was needless. Not because youre terriblejust, it hurt, and I remembered it a long time.
I know, he whispered.
But you did do me a kindness by it.
He glanced at her, startled.
You shoved me out. She was calm, no bravado. I was terrified, Ed. Two bags and £1,200 in my account, no idea what came next. I felt like an orphan, sobbing each evening in that box of a room. It was a pretty miserable patch.
Alice
Wait. She didnt want to wound him, just to tell the truth. It was there I found the Singer, and I remembered I could sew. I always loved it. Id stopped because ofwell, life, and youd said it was clutter, so I let it go, like so many things. I started again. First for myself. Then for others. Now I have a little studio in the centre, Edfor six months. Clients come, I enjoy the work.
His face was hard to read.
If youd never shoved me out, Id still be there, simmering stew, no clue who I was. I dont blame you, not really. Things unfolded as they did.
So you forgive me?
Alice reflected.
I dont hold a grudge. Thats not the same as wanting to go back. I dont. Not out of spiteIm just living my own life now. For the first time, I think.
He looked away.
We could
No, she said, soft but sure. No, Ed.
The silence stretched, comfortable this time.
Hows Auntie Rose? he asked suddenly. Hed met her, once.
Good. Got her a new fridge. I visit Sundays, play rummy.
Her lips twitched; Ed smileda real one.
You were always good-hearted, Alice.
Youre not bad, either. We just didnt fit. Maybe we havent for years.
She stood, shouldering her bag of cloth.
You need to go?
I do. Early start tomorrow. Clients coming at eight, only time shes free.
Right. He stood, too. Im glad youre alright. Really.
I wish the same for you, she replied.
And it was the truth. No bitterness, no gloatingjust simple truth. She wished him well; anger was far behind her.
Alice walked across the grass towards home. She felt him watching, then not. Likely gone the other way.
A birch cast a fine shadow on the pavement. She walked along it, her heavy bag swinging, filled with deep green tweed and a catalogue marked with tabs. Tomorrow at eight shed see Mrs. Fairfax, a retired teacher longing for a plain but elegant skirtfor the West End and the GP, you know.
Alice thought about putting in the darts to flatter Mrs. Fairfaxs small but sturdy frame. A straight skirt demanded careyou had to find the precise line that elongated but never clung.
She thought about that, and noticed the dusk air, the little boy careering past on his scooter singing an old cartoon tune, the smell of chips roasting from an open kitchen window.
***
She didnt work late that eveningshed made a rule: after seven, machines off. She popped in to fetch her notebook of client measurements. It waited for her on the big table, the Singer nearby, shiny and still.
Alice touched the machine lightly.
Thank you, she said.
It felt silly, thanking a sewing machine. But whom else could she thank for this turn in her lifeRose, Margaret, Molly, luck itself? Perhaps all of them. Perhaps the chain of events beginning from heartbreak and ending up here, in this calm room, white and bright with light.
She collected her notebook, turned off the lights, and slipped downstairs.
The city evening bustled on. People walked by, cars rumbled, children laughed close to home. Just an ordinary English evening.
She called into Fresh Loaf before heading home, picked up a seeded bloomer and a jar of honey from the local beekeeper.
Evening, said the old lady behind the counter.
Evening, Alice smiled. You say the honeys good this time?
Best batch yet, dear. Try it in the morning toastdivine.
I will, thank you.
She walked out, bag in handa loaf, honey, her notebook, her cataloguewearing last weeks new dress: ivory linen, soft and generous in the sleeves, belted just so. A good dress. A joy to wear.
She walked home, letting her mind drift: Mrs. Fairfaxs skirt, the sewing supplies shed order, Mollys steady progress with basic patterns.
Then she stopped thinking about work, simply walking.
The evening sky was pale as rosewater over the rooftops, swifts darting shadow-quick. Somewhere close by, life thrummed with all its tumble and unpredictability.
Happiness after divorce, a magazine would have titled it. As if happiness were a separate brand. Alice didnt see it that way. She just thought: Im walking home. I have work I love. Rose is waiting on Sunday. Clients come and leave content. The old Singer sits at the window. The sky is pink and alive.
It was enough.
Not too muchnever not enough. Simply enough. Maybe that’s all anyone means by a second youth, a fresh start, the confidence that comes at any agenot in a single flash, but dress by dress, a studio, a flat, a May evening with honey and bread swinging in your bag.
She called Rose.
Auntie Rose, are you in tonight?
Where would I be? Watching telly, love. Why?
Oh, nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice.
A pause.
You coming Sunday?
Of course. Shall I bring apple turnovers?
With apples, if its no bother. Those are my favourite.
With apples, Alice smiled.
She tucked her phone away, climbed the stairs, let herself into her flat.
The place still smelled faintly of linenshed been cutting yesterday, while rain pattered and the world closed in. Shed tidied up, but the smell lingeredgood, clean.
She put the kettle on, sliced the bread, spooned honey over it. The honey was pale gold, clear, perfect.
Swifts dipped across the window, thinner and fewer in the darkening air.
Alice bit into her bread. The honey was just as good as promised.
***
The next morning arrived bright and clear.
Mrs. Fairfax appeared at the door at eight sharp, a tiny brisk woman with snowy hair and sharp blue eyes behind her glasses.
Alice Bennett? she asked. I brought a picturethis is the sort of thing I want, though not quite so flared.
She pulled a print-out from her bag.
Alice inspected it. A fine skirt, dignified and neat. A challenge, but a pleasure.
Take a seatIll talk you through it.
Mrs. Fairfax perched, folding her hands in her lap.
Ive dreamt of a skirt like this for years, she said, scanning the studio. No shops ever have the right thing. My neighbour insisted I see yousaid you made her feel like a woman again after her dress. I think thats the best endorsement you can get.
It absolutely is, said Alice.
She opened her notebook, ready with the measuring tape.
If you’d step up here, Mrs. Fairfax.
The old teacher straightened her shoulders, looked herself squarely in the mirror.
You know, she said, Ive been retired four years. Almost convinced myself not to care what I looked like. Then realisedwhy on earth not care? Theres so much living left, God willing. Why dress down for it?
Couldnt agree more, Alice smiled.
She measured, scribbled, planned her cut. The studio was awash with sunlight; the Singer gleamed in the corner. Molly would be in at ten, another client at eleven…
And in that golden light, Alice got to work.
