One day, after Ophelia had dismissed her most recent beau, she sat in the back room and finished a blood-red coat she’d been sewing for herself. It was made of silk, and lined in candy-striped cotton, and Daphne thought it the most daring thing she’d ever seen, because despite covering Ophelia from neck to ankle it was fitted to her form and showed her shape, thus revealing nothing yet everything. Its hue ensured that Ophelia would stand out wherever she was, yet no one could accuse her of dressing improperly because the cut of the coat was de rigueur for the time. It was, in short, a manifestation of Ophelia’s self-confidence and therefore an act of rebellion in a society that taught young women that they must succumb to and obey others’ wants anddesires for them. Ophelia had no intention of succumbing to anything other than her creative expression.
‘Sointeresting, Daph,isn’t it,’ Ophelia had said as she twirled in front of her agog employee, flapping part of the coat’s skirt, ‘how one piece ofmaterialcan turn you into amatadorand amaharaniat the same time.’
She had grinned then, and in her open face Daphne had perceived the strategy behind the sewing, and understood fully – for the first time – how much power a piece of clothing could wield.
That’s the sort of power she wants Margot to feel. Power and control over one’s destiny. It can start with a piece of clothing that acts as a costume, so the person – Margot, in this case – can play the role of a confident lady in command of herself. Over time, the role becomes life. It’s how we evolve ourselves away from difficulty, Daphne knows. She has done it herself.
‘The weather’s warming up,’ she says to Margot, ‘so we should find you something light.’
She goes over to the rack and pulls out a shirtdress made of a white cotton with thin pale-blue stripes. It comes with a belt that, when cinched, gives it a semi-professional look. When it arrived at the shop it had its tags on, so Daphne knows it’s unworn – always best for white clothes.
Margot makes a noncommittal noise, but Daphne keeps hold of the dress and pulls out another in a pale yellow. It’s more flouncy and wouldn’t really suit Margot, but sometimes it’s good for ladies to try on options so they can compare. This one has a small stain at the waist, which could be covered with a belt. She goes for a third – a lime-green wrap dress that would suit Margot’s frame but probably not her skin tone. Still, there’s a limited number of options so she’s doing her best.
‘I like this yellow one,’ Margot says, and Daphne suppresses a sigh.
‘Take them all into the changing room,’ she suggests.
Margot stays in there for about fifteen minutes and Daphne doesn’t bother her. Women need time to adjust to new clothes, to think about whether they can take them into their lives. Because that should be part of the consideration. A wardrobe is an extension of self and not to be constructed flippantly.
Eventually Margot emerges in the white-and-blue shirtdress. As Daphne thought, it looks lovely on her. The right size, the right shape, the right tone for her skin.
When Margot turns toward her, Daphne sees something new: a sparkle in her eyes.
‘You were right,’ Margot says, then peers down at her feet. ‘But what shoes will I wear?’
‘Do you have a white sandal?’
Margot frowns and shakes her head.
‘Something in a neutral – tan? Beige?’
Margot’s face relaxes. ‘Tan court shoes.’
‘They’ll work.’
Margot smiles.
‘Take that dress home and see what else you have that may go with it,’ Daphne says.
‘Oh, I …’ Margot’s sparkle vanishes.
‘It’s a gift,’ Daphne says, and holds up a hand before Margot’s pride compels her to protest. ‘Come back and show me the whole outfit, with the shoes,’ she goes on. ‘That will be my payment.’
Margot’s eyes flit everywhere and her bottom lip trembles.
‘Go on, take it off so I can put it in a bag,’ Daphne says bossily, knowing Margot will respond to a firm tone.
And she does, closing the curtain on the changing room, then opening it a few minutes later and emerging patting her hair down.
‘Thank you,’ Margot says as she takes the bag.
‘Don’t forget to come back and show me.’ Daphne folds her arms across her bosom and smiles. Her bosom never used to be substantial enough to provide a ledge for her arms, but old age has its benefits, she supposes.
‘And Margot?’
‘Yes?’
Daphne smiles in a way that she hopes shows her as compassionate and non-judgemental. ‘I told the dentist you’d be coming in to see him.’