An Empty Space
You’ve become empty, Emily. Do you understand? Empty. Just a space.
He said it evenly, almost without inflection, like reciting the weeks shopping list. He stood at the window, back to her, staring down into the shared garden. Outside, someone was walking a small ginger dachshund, letting it tug excitedly towards a puddle in the grass.
Emily Saunders sat on the sofa, a mug of tea cold in her hands. The tea had gone tepid at least twenty minutes earlier, but she clung to the mug, not knowing what else to do with her hands.
What do you mean? she asked.
Her voice was small, nearly absent.
Exactly that. Oliver finally turned. His face wore the blankness of someone forced to explain the self-evident; he looked weary more than anything. I look at you, and I see nothing. Nothing there. You move about, cook, sleepbut youre another piece of furniture, Emily. Good, solid furniture, but still, just that.
She placed the mug down carefully on the side table. Porcelain tapped against wood with a gentle clink.
Ten years, she said.
What about ten years?
Weve been together ten years.
So? He shrugged, crossed the living room, and sank into the armchair opposite her. Ten years is plenty of time to realise theres no point in carrying on. I dont want to live like this anymore. I want… He paused, searching for the word. I want to feel something. And you don’t let me feel. You dont inspire me, Em. Its as if you arent even here, even though I can see your shape on the sofa.
Emily felt something inside her begin to bendsome tiny, stubborn rod that held her upright.
Where am I supposed to go, Olly?
Thats for you to sort out. He crossed his legs. The flat’s in Mums nameyou know that. Legally, youre no one here. Im not kicking you out on the street, but… is a week enough? Youll find somewhere.
A week is enough, she echoed, voice mechanical.
Good. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table and started scrolling through something, the conversation already over for him.
Emily rose. She walked into the bedroom, closed herself inside. She didnt bother with the coversjust lay on top, staring at the white ceiling, where a faint water mark bloomed out in the corner, one shed meant to paint over two years ago, but never did.
Through the wall, the television played softly. Oliver had found something to occupy his mind.
She didnt cry. She just lay there, eyes fixed on that patch, with a silence in her chest like the hush that follows a broken window.
***
A week drifted by, thick and muddled. Oliver came home late, if at all, always leaving early. They barely spoke. Emily packed her meagre belongings, finding the process humblingly simple: a few dresses, a winter coat, a box of old photographs from another life, a handful of sewing magazines shed kept, though she hadnt opened them in years.
She left the sewing magazines. Then, on second thought, took them back.
She called her mothers cousin, Aunt Mary, whom she hadnt seen since her mothers funeral seven years before. Aunt Mary listened in silence, and finally said:
Come here. Theres a roomsmall, not fancybut you can stay until youre sorted.
Aunt Mary lived on the far edge of Leeds, in an estate with buses only once an hour and a lonely Savers shop for three blocks. Emily had never been fond of that areatired brick maisonettes, flaking porches, lines of poplars shedding snowy fluff every spring.
She arrived with two bags and a suitcase on a Friday night.
Good heavens, youve shrunk to nothing, Aunt Mary said when she opened the door. She was short, round, her face full of soft lines, and she smelled gently of lavender and something stewy. Dont stand there in the hallway. Are you hungry?
Not really, Aunt Mary.
You should eat something. Mary turned on her heel towards the kitchen.
The room was smalla narrow sofa, old wardrobe, the window facing the blank wall of the council block opposite. The wallpaper had faded to an unnamable blue. Three pots of geraniums perched on the sill, bright and red and thriving.
Emily set down her bags, sat on the sofa. Its springs sighed beneath her.
Do you want tea? Aunt Mary shouted from the kitchen.
I do, Emily replied.
And it was finally here, in this plain little room, among faded wallpapers and living flowers, that she cried.
***
Then began a long, lean time.
Those weeks where the whole world feels greyer in the morning, and its hard to see the point of getting up at all. She woke early, around six, listening to Mary put the kettle on, cars hissing in the distant street. Washed, sat in the kitchen for her tea, gazed out at the same blank wall.
Aunt Mary was wise. She asked no questions, gave no easy advice, never uttered time will heal or youll find someone better. She fed her, let Emily watch her telly, and sometimes in the evenings shed deal out cards and say, Fancy a game of Rummy?
And so they played, wordless, half-absorbed.
Emily had some money, but not much. She withdrew everything she hadone thousand two hundred pounds. Enough, at a push, for six weeks if she was frugal. She was frugal.
She still had her part-time job as a bookkeeper for a small construction firmthree days a week commuting to the other side of the city, processing invoices, earning just over eight hundred a month. Eight hundred for life, and to give to Aunt Mary for her room, though Mary refused payment until Emily pressed an envelope onto the table and left quickly.
Evenings were the worst. Alone in her small room, thoughts circling one question: ten yearsisnt that something? Ten years of breakfasts, sicknesses, Christmas trees, trips to Cornwall, quarrels and kisses. And he looked at her and saw nothing. Did that mean she really had become nothing? Or was it both of them, burning out unnoticed?
Sometimes shed scroll back through their old messages, up and up into the past. Photos from that year in Devon, three years ago: he shaking with laughter, his arm around her. She couldnt remember the joke.
Nights like this, shed retreat to bed early, pull the duvet over her head.
Once, Aunt Mary poked her head round the door. Emily, are you asleep?
No.
I can hear you, Mary said quietly. Pause. Are you hungry?
No.
Right then, rest up. Another pause. You know, I threw my own husband out once. Long ago, before you were born. Thought Id die of it. Didnt die, though.
The door clicked shut.
Emily lay there in the dark, thinking: nearly fifty, Em. Start againas if it could be that easy.
***
She found the sewing machine in her second month.
Aunt Mary asked her to help clear out the overhead cupboard in the corridorit hadn’t been touched in fifteen years, and when she tried to open it, half a museums worth of old tat threatened to fall out. Emily agreed, needing the distraction.
From the depths, amidst ancient copies of Good Housekeeping, a broken umbrella, boxes of buttons, empty perfume bottles, and faded birthday cards, her hand touched something heavy wrapped in a worn sheet.
She tugged it free.
It was an old sewing machine: black metal casing with ornate gold details, half worn away, but still elegant. The label read Singer, in old-fashioned script.
Aunt Mary! Emily called.
Mary padded in, dishcloth over her shoulder.
My word, Singer! That was Aunt Noras. Didnt know we still had it. No idea if it workshasnt been touched in donkeys years.
May I try?
Mary eyed her carefully.
You know what youre doing?
I used to.
Go for it.
Emily carried the Singer to her room, set it up on the little desk by the window. She wiped away years of dust, unwound old thread stuck fast to the bobbin, rummaged through Noras kitfinding a box of needles, several reels of cotton, a battered tape measure, old blunt scissors.
A bottle of sewing machine oil turned up at the backlong dried up. She bought new oil, painstakingly cleaned and lubricated every part, teasing life back into the mechanism.
She worked at it for hoursrelearning the shuttle, threading the bobbin, finding her rhythm. With a scrap of ancient calico clamped beneath the foot, she pressed the pedal.
It began with an uneven click, then smoothed into a bright metallic hum. And for the first time in months, Emily felt somethingsomething like that strange, tingling ache when your hand falls asleep and the blood begins to return.
She stopped the machine, examined the stitch. Straight, nearly perfect.
Deep in her memory, something stirred.
***
She was eighteen, always sewing. Anything she could findturning her mothers old dresses into skirts, making blouses from bargain bin fabric. Across the road from her college was a tiny dressmakersMrs. Perkins, a stooped old tailor, let her watch as she cut patterns, marked seams. Mrs. Perkins explained everything, seeing that the quiet girl was eager and attentive.
Then college ended. Then Oliver. The wedding, the flat and all the ordinary, practical routine that flooded in. Shed sold the machine shed bought with her first paycheque when she moved in with Olliehe said it took up too much space in the flat. She’d let it go without much fuss, believing love would make up for everything.
The years trickled on. She barely thought of sewing anymore unless she saw a beautiful dress in a shop window and fleetingly wished she could make it for herself.
Now she sat in this little room on the citys edge, the Singer purring beside her and the outside world slipping away as the needle chattered.
Next day she went to the market. Not a big shopping centre, but a proper fabric market, where you could run roll after roll between your fingers, buy a quarter-metre of linen for a few bob.
She wandered between stalls, touching wool, crepe, cottonuntil she stopped at a bolt of grey-blue viscose, soft and gently matte.
How much left on that? she asked the vendor.
Four and a half metres.
Ill take all of it.
The vendor measured, wrapped it neatly.
What are you making?
A dress, Emily replied.
It startled her a little, how certain her voice was.
***
She spread out the fabric on the floordrafted the pattern herself from memory, with the help of an old magazine from Marys stash. The dress design was simple, straight with a tie waist, a modest stand collar, three-quarter sleeves. Nothing flashy; just solid, good lines.
Mary would poke her head in, watching in silence. Once, she brought a cup of tea and set it beside Emily on the floor.
Thank you, Emily said without looking up.
Lovely colour, Mary commented quietly.
She hesitated with the scissors at first. But they were sharpshed found a new pair in the desk drawer. She lined up the blade on the chalk mark. Once she made the first cut, her nerves melted away.
She took three daysbecause she wasnt rushing. After work, shed sit at the machine, sewing in order: side seams, then invisible zip, then the collar, sleeves last. When trouble arose, she would pause, unpick, redo. The Singer ran smoothlynot a clatter, just a steady confident snip, snip, snip. And for those few hours, she wasnt thinking about Oliver, just the seam, the dart, the perfect clean corner on the collar.
On the third evening, she tied the last knot, ironed the seams, hung up the dress and stood back.
A simply beautiful dress. Grey-blue, with gentle lines, no pretence but quietly elegant. The fabric sash lay gently at the waist, the collar smart but understated.
She tried it on.
She stood before the hallway mirrorold, edged with a little tarnish, but honest enough.
Emily watched herself, a long time. Perhaps a minute, perhaps more.
Reflected was a womannot nobody, not furniture, not invisible. A woman of fifty, dark hair pulled back, straight posture, and eyes just beginning to kindle again.
The dress fitted. It really fitted.
Em! Mary called from the kitchen. Come show me how it turned out.
Emily stepped into the kitchen, wearing the dress.
Mary turned from the stove. Studied her quietly.
Well, said Mary after a moment. Thats more like it.
She turned back to the stew, but Emily saw the smile on her wrinkled face.
Emily returned to her room, sat on the sofa, touched the dresss fabric at her knee. The blue viscose was soft, pleasant. The dress neither pinched nor pulled. It was right.
Inside her, that little rod that had almost broken weeks ago, started to unbend.
***
She wore the dress out that Saturdayjust to run errands. Mary asked her to pop by Boots for her blood pressure tablets; Emily took the prescription, put on the blue dress, threw a cream jacket over her shoulders, and stepped out.
It was a beautiful day. Early October, the air crisp and clear, the poplars already golden.
She found herself walking differentlynot just hurrying, but really seeing things. A cat watched the world from a windowsill, the old lady from number eleven knitted blue wool on her bench, a toddler tried dragging his mum towards a puddle.
The chemist was down past the roundabout. Next to it, she spotted a new caféThe Cosy Corner glowing handwritten on the glass, promising fresh pastries and coffee.
She went in. She ordered a flat white and a croissantbecause today, she could.
There were only five tables. In the corner, a woman about sixty sat in elegant earrings, short silver hair, reading her phone by a single cappuccino. She exuded quiet authority, as if never doubting her right to her place in the world.
Emily took her seat at the window.
After ten minutes, as Emily sipped her coffee, the woman stoodthen paused.
I hope you dont mind, she said, smiling. But thats a lovely dress youre wearing. May I ask where you got it?
Emily blinked, surprised.
I made it myself.
You sew, do you?
I used to. Im picking it up again.
Wonderful cut, the woman appraised the dress keenly. Looks simple, but theres real skill in how it hangs. I know a bitI was with the Dress Agency for years.
Thank you, Emily managed.
Im Margaret, the woman introduced herself. Just Margaret.
Emily.
Emily, this might sound strange, but may I ask a favour? My sixty-fifth birthdays in three weeks, and I want something special to wear. Everything I find is dreary or too young. But yoursthats perfect. Would you make me one?
Emily regarded her. Margaret met her gaze steadily, without pressure.
Something inside shifted.
Id like that, Emily said.
***
Margaret turned up two days later, bringing her own fabricdeep burgundy crepe, subtle sheen, excellent quality.
Emily took her measurements over the kitchen table, noting them in her notepad. They talked through sketches until Margaret settled on an elegant designslight flare at the hem, three-quarter sleeves, a neat v-neck.
That one, Margaret affirmed, firm and sure.
Ill have it ready in two weeks.
How much do I owe you?
Emily faltered. She hadnt even thought to price.
I honestly dont know.
Ill tell you what a good dressmaker charges, replied Margaret briskly, quoting a fair sum. Ill pay you that. Its only right.
It was more than Emily made in bookkeeping over two weeks.
They let that settle.
Deal, Emily said eventually.
When Margaret left, Mary appeared from the kitchen.
Heard all that. Thats a good fee.
It is.
Sew, Em. Youre good at it.
Emily studied her aunt.
Marywhy did you put me up? We barely knew each other.
Mary thought a long while.
Youre Jeans girl. Your mum helped me out once, way back. Now Im just returning the favour, arent I?
She slipped away to her stew.
Emily glanced out the window. The same blank wall stared backonly now someone had daubed bright blue flowers in graffiti all up its rough grey face.
***
Margarets dress was a different experiencean obligation, a responsibility. Emily felt that weight at each stitch.
She took her time cutting the burgundy crepecarefully, no room for mistakes on such fine cloth. Sewing was slow; she hand-stitched in the zip to keep the drape perfect, hemmed the bottom with blind stitches.
When Margaret came for the fitting, her face said it all.
Oh, my word, she breathed at the mirror. Goodness.
She turned, touching the sleeve, smoothing the fabric lovingly.
Thats not just a dress. Thats a new me.
Thats just you, Emily smiled. In a good dress.
No, theres a difference. When somethings made for you, you stand up straighter. You can feel it.
There was just a little adjustment needed in the skirt; Emily pinned it expertly.
I have to tell you, Margaret said as Emily worked, my friend Susans turning sixty soon. Shed love a suit. Shall I give her your number?
Of course.
And my daughter-in-law is remarrying next year, wants something formal but not wedding-ish. Bit tricky shape, so shes struggling. Would you take that on?
Emily straightened.
Yes, Id take that on.
Margaret nodded, as if shed been waiting for that answer.
***
The next two months were utterly madin a joyous, unexpected way.
Susan came for her suit. Then Susan brought a colleagueskirt and blouse. Margarets neighbours daughter needed an evening dress for a corporate party. Emily sewed it. The young woman posted a photo to Facebookher caption: Finally found a real seamstress! More orders followed.
Marys box room filled with fabricon the bed, on the windowsill, stacked on the chair. The Singer worked every evening, sometimes early on weekends.
Mary never groused. Once, stepping in to find cloth spread across the floor, she merely said,
Em, you need somewhere bigger.
I know.
I cant have you here forever, much as Id love to.
She had a point. Emily had enough savedmore than in half a year at the firm, not masses, but a start. The commissions kept coming.
She viewed a few studio spaces in the city. The first two were dismalone damp, one poky. But the third: a big bright room above an old merchants house, now offices. Huge window facing south, high ceilings, wooden floors. A bit pricey.
She did her sumsbetween rent, a proper professional sewing machine, an overlocker, a cutting table, shed burn through her savings and need to borrow besides.
She rang Margaret. She scarcely knew whyshe just dialled.
Margaret, could I run something by you?
Well of course.
Emily explained. Margaret listened, then said:
Take the space. Ill lend you what you needno interest, pay back when you can.
I couldnt possibly
Emily, Margaret replied evenly. You gave me the best dress of my life. Let me do thispeople look after each other, its normal. And besides, I already have four friends queueing for an appointment, so I need your business to stay open.
***
Emilys studio opened in early December.
She brought the Singer, though it was more sentimental than practicalher professional machine from the haberdashery shop was faster, more precise. The Singer lived on its own little stand by the window nowa reminder.
The new space was calm, filled with light: cutting table, two workstations, racks for fabric and trims, a wall of framed sketches of her own designs. Mary came to see, wandered round, touching the shelves, eyeing the big mirror.
Its good, she said softly.
Aunt Mary. Emily grasped her hand. I want to give you something.
She offered an envelope. Mary started to protest.
Take itits for the months I stayed. I kept count.
I never kept count…
Well, I did. Please.
Mary pocketed it eventually. She shuffled, then said:
Ill buy myself a new fridge; the old one rattles like an engine.
Well get it together, Emily smiled.
They didspent an afternoon at Currys as Mary compared shelves and freezers. Chose a shiny silver model, double doors.
Nice one, said Marya kind of quiet happiness in her voice that made Emily glad.
***
December brought a wave of orders. Everyone wanted something party-worthy: Christmas dresses, office suits, festive blouses. Emily worked late, tea on endless refill, the hum of the machine a new rhythm to her evenings.
In January, things quieted. She took on an assistant, a young womanChloewho could finish seams and hems, but not yet cut patterns. Emily found unexpected pleasure in teaching, showing, watching anothers hands succeed.
She gave notice at the firmexplained she was leaving to follow her own path. Her manager was disappointed but wished her well.
In March, a stranger called. Another seamstress, wanting lessons in tailoring.
Im no teacher, Emily said.
But youre talented. Margaret recommended you.
Emily thought.
Give it a trywell see how it goes.
And she ran her first workshop. Then a second. Then a small class. Teaching was different, but it fita piece of the new routine.
In the spring, she found a flat. Not a room in Marys anymore, but a tiny place near the studio: one-bedroom, third floor, sunny kitchen, white walls with not a single stain. Emily hung her own curtains, ones she herself had made.
The first evening, she sat with tea at her kitchen window, looking out onto a little green square with silver birches.
It was hers now. Small, unfamiliar, but finally hers.
***
She met Oliver again at the end of May.
Walking back from the studio through the square, slow, unhurriedthe evening warm, the scent of lilac in the air, her bag heavy with sample fabrics to study at home.
He was coming toward her.
She saw him from twenty yards away, recognised him at once, though he seemed changed. Thinner. His jacket hung loosely. He moved with less certainty.
He saw her. Stopped.
Emily kept walking. When she was level with him, he said, Emily.
She stopped.
Hello, Olly.
He stared at her, uncertain. His eyes, for the first time she could remember, were unsure.
You look good.
Thank you.
A silence. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
Where are you heading?
Home.
You live nearby?
Yes.
Another pause. A woman with a pram rumbled past, breaking the hush.
EmilyIcould we talk, just a bit?
She studied hima tired look, not just a days weariness, but a sort of exhaustion born of bad luck and disappointment.
Lets sit, she said, nodding to a bench.
They sat. He stared at his clasped hands.
I dont know how to start.
Just say it, Emily said, not unkindly.
Shes gone, he said finally. The woman I left you for. Left me, six months ago. Said I was dull, lacked ambition. His laugh was bitter. Funny, really.
I see.
Im back at Mums. Dead-end jobmy company closed. Everythings well, it all fell apart. Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong. Think I made a terrible mistake, Em. A big one.
She just listened.
I took you for granted. You were always there, doing everything, for real. But I I wanted something moredidn’t even know what. Called you empty. Furniture. He winced. I know it cant be forgiven, but I think about it. A lot.
Emily watched the birch trees across the square, their leaves twitching. Someone was barbecuing nearby; the smell drifted through.
Olly, she said. Its not a crime to fall out of love. That happens.
He waited.
Youre responsible for how you did it. ‘Empty space,’ ‘furniture,’ ‘clear out.’ That was cruel. Maybe you werent a bad person, but it was a bad thing, and it stayed with me.
I know, he said softly.
But you did do something good for me.
He looked at her.
You pushed me out. I was terrified, Olly. I left with two bags and twelve hundred quid. Had no idea what came next. Lived at Aunt Marys, like a lost soul, cried nearly every night. It was dreadful.
Em
Let me finish. I found an old sewing machine there, remembered I used to make things. And I loved it. Id wanted to, but never didbecause of the flat, because you said it took space, because of this and that I started again. At first just for me, then for others. Now Ive a studio in town, Olly. For six months. People comeit’s work I love.
He gazed at her, his face uncertain.
If you hadnt thrown me out, Id be there still nowcooking stew, not knowing anything about myself. Im not saying you did wellIm saying it happened the way it did.
So you havent forgiven me?
Emily thought.
I dont hate you. Thats not the same as going back. I wont go back, Olly. Not out of spitejust because this is my life now. It feels like the first time Ive really owned it.
He looked away.
We could
No, she said quietly but definitely. No, Olly.
The silence was long, but not heavy.
Hows Aunt Mary? he asked, remembering her name from years ago.
Shes well. Got her a new fridge. I pop round Sundays; we play cards.
A genuine smile flickered on his lips.
You always were a good person, Em.
Youre not bad yourself. We just didnt fitnot for a long time.
She stood, hefted her bag of fabrics.
Are you off?
I amearly start tomorrow. Client at eight.
Alright. He stood as well. Glad its going well for you. I mean it.
And I wish you well too.
She did, simply. No venom, no silent victoryjust truth. She wanted him happy, no longer bitter, with no more energy wasted on old seasons.
She walked through the dusk towards her flat. She could feel him watching a few steps more, then not. Hed gone the other way.
A birch tree threw a lacy shadow across the path. The bag tugged at her shoulder, heavy with dark green wool and a trim catalogue flagged with marks. Tomorrow at eight, Mrs. Rowe would comea retired teacher, hoping for a winter skirt: Plain, not frilly, so it works for the theatre and the doctor.
Emilys mind turned over the skirts design, how best to shape it for Mrs. Rowe’s short, broad figure. Straight skirts took a clever eye to get the line rightflattering, not emphasising.
She thought about the cut, but also noticed the world: how lilac grew headier at dusk; a small boy singing loudly from his scooter; the smell of fried potatoes drifting out of an open windowwelcoming, homey.
***
That evening, she didnt work at the studio. Made a pact with herself: after seven, no sewing. She only popped in to fetch her notebook of client measurements. The book lay on the cutting table. Beside it, the Singer: black, fine gold patterns, still and calm.
Emily ran her finger along the Singers casing.
Thank you, she said softly.
It was silly, perhaps, to thank a machine. But who else? Mary, Margaret, Chloe, all those whod helped? Maybe all of them. Maybe it was fate itselfan injustice that had brought her, step by faltering step, to this bright, high-ceilinged room.
She picked up her notebook, turned out the lights, locked up, and headed down the creaking old stairs into the night.
The city bustled gentlypeople strolling, cars humming, somewhere children laughing. A typical May evening; nothing special.
On the walk home, she stopped at the little Fresh Loaf shop, bought a seeded baton and a small jar of local honey, sold by a wrinkled woman from her own beehives.
Evening, Emily greeted.
Evening, love. Coins exchanged. Good batch of honey this yearthe May stuff. Try it tomorrow and see.
I will, thank you.
She stepped out again. In her bag: bread, honey, her notebook, her catalogue of trims. Over her dressone shed made last week, ivory linen, with a soft belt and wide sleeves. Good dress: comfortable to wear.
She walked the last ten minutes to her flat, thinking about Mrs. Rowes skirt, about ordering new threads, about how Chloe was almost ready to cut easy patterns herself.
Then she let work slip away, just enjoying the walk.
The sky over the rooftops was still pale rose. Swallows darted like shadows. Somewhere nearby, life unfoldeduntidy, unpredictable.
Some columnist might have called it a womans happiness after divorce, as if happiness came in types. Emily didnt see it like that. She only thought: I am on my way home. Tomorrow I rise early. Work I enjoy waits. Aunt Mary will see me on Sunday. My clients come and go, smiling. The Singer stands by the window. Overhead, swallows.
It wasenough.
Not a fairytale, not a tragedy. Simply enough. Maybe thats what people mean when they talk about new beginnings, rediscovering themselves, finding such things at any agenot overnight, not all at once. Little by little: a dress, then another, then a studio, then a flat, then a May night with bread and honey in your bag.
She rang Aunt Mary.
Aunt Mary, are you home?
Where else would I be, dear? Watching the telly. Why?
No reason. Just saying hello.
A pause.
You coming for Sunday?
I am. Shall I bake an apple pie?
With apples then, if its not too much to ask, Mary said. Apples my favourite.
Of course, with apples.
Emily slipped her phone into her pocket, climbed the stairs, and let herself into her flat.
The place still smelled faintly of linenshed been cutting fabric on the kitchen table yesterday, while the rain battered the window. Shed tidied away the offcuts, but the scent lingereda good, clean smell.
She put the kettle on, cut a slice of bread, spread it with honey. The honey was light, amber, clear.
Outside, swallows still tumbled overhead, fewer now, settling as dusk thickened.
She tasted the honey, and realisedthe shopkeeper was right. The honey was truly wonderful.
***
Morning arrived bright and clear.
Mrs. Rowe came promptly at eight, as planned. A small woman, lively, her white hair swept into neat waves and a direct gaze below arched brows.
Emily, love, she said at the door. Brought a photosomething like this skirt, but less full.
She pulled a printout from her handbag.
Emily studied it. A good, classic skirtsensible lines, interesting to cut for someone of Mrs. Rowes shape.
Sit down. Ill talk you through how well do it.
Mrs. Rowe perched, hands in her lap, looking round the studio.
You know, she said, scanning the workroom, Ive wanted a proper skirt like this for years, but never knew where to go. Shops never get it right. Then my neighbour recommended youtold me her dress made her feel her old self again. If thats not a recommendation, I dont know what is.
Its the best there is, Emily smiled.
She opened her notebook, reached for the tape measure.
Please stand here.
Mrs. Rowe stood, straightened her back, eyed herself in the full-length mirror.
You know, she mused, Ive been retired four years. Thought, thats itdoesnt matter how you look anymore. Then I thought, why not? Im not finished yetno reason to give up now.
Quite right, said Emily.
She made her measurements, jotting them down, mind working on the pattern. Sunlight spilled through the big studio window, laying yellow squares on the wooden floor. In the corner, the Singer glimmered, black and gold. Chloe would be in at ten. Another client due at eleven…
