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She’s laid a butler’s tray with china cups and saucers, milk and sugar cubes, and she goes into the kitchen then comes back with a teapot with a felt tea-cosy.
She pauses before pouring and looks at me steadily. ‘In Chalk Farm, you stopped the bus for me so that I could be reunited with my money. I’m grateful for that. So now it’s time for me to do something for you.’ She has a sharp and lively gleam in her eyes. ‘Let’s talk business,’ she says, pouring the tea. ‘It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?’
‘Obviously, I’m curious,’ I reply, my heart thumping with excitement.
‘Do you know of a place called Morland Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, good. There is a post office there, do you know it?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Next to the post office is my husband’s tailor shop. It’s a big shop; you can’t miss it. You know the one I mean?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, it’s there, anyhow. He also offers dry-cleaning but,’ she pulls a face, ‘that’s something that he farms out to another company and there’s no money in it. Dressmaking is what he does best.’
She’s lost me. I have absolutely no idea where this conversation is going, but I nod.
The tea is dark and very strong; I can taste the tannin on my tongue. I take the sugar tongs and put in a couple of sugar lumps just for the novelty value. Now it’s very sweet, too.
‘Tell me, who do you use for your alterations?’
‘What?’ Yikes. She’s got the entirely wrong idea about me. I don’t need a tailor. My thoughts keep returning longingly to those rows of garment bags lined up in the wardrobes. Dior, Chanel, Grès … ‘I don’t offer that kind of service. My clients get it done themselves if they need to.’
She sucks her breath in sharply and tuts. ‘But you’re a curator of fashion. You need a good tailor for couture. My husband was in the atelier for a French fashion house. You know the word atelier?’
I nod. ‘It’s the workshop where the dressmakers stitch the garments.’
‘Exactly, yes. You know how important that job is, the dressmaking?’
‘Sure, of course.’
‘Well then. Before the war he was with Chanel and after coming here as a refugee, he worked for Norman Hartnell, so you see, he has credentials. He’s been in the rag trade all his life and between you and me,’ she says, lowering her voice, ‘his life has been a long one. Listen to me. He’s the best. I can recommend him to you.’ She grips my wrist, pulling me towards her. ‘You helped me out and now I’m helping you out, as a friend.’
This is what happens when I big myself up; it’s very misleading. ‘Dinah, I’m so sorry, I’ve given you the wrong impression,’ I confess. ‘I don’t sell couture. I sell vintage, retro, ready-to-wear.’
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