‘How long ago?’ Her voice came out in a dry whisper.
Outside the room, there was a sudden noise of floorboards popping. They both jumped.
Katrina froze, her eyes wide, listening again.
Ella wondered if they were imagining it. The sound of footsteps receding, as if someone had been standing listening right outside the door and was now walking softly away.
‘C’mon,’ she said, finally, ‘Mum’ll kill me if she finds us in here.’
She placed the piece of metal back on the shelf – gently, precisely – and then opened the door a crack.
‘Quick. Now. Coast’s clear.’
Later, when they were safely back in Katrina’s bedroom, positioned in the pink leather armchairs, their textbooks spread across their knees, Ella glanced up to meet Katrina’stare.
Her face was pale, serious, and she was watching her intently with those eyes of hers – one blue, one brown.
‘To answer your question, Ella-Pella, it was six years ago when he died. The Potato Head. It happened when I was nine.’
She shut her copy of New GCSE Maths Revision with a snap.
‘Katrina. I’m so sorry…’ Ella said. ‘Do you want to…? I mean, would it help to…?’
‘Talk about it?’ said Katrina, pulling a face. ‘Not really. I think I want to be on my own now, El. We’re finished, anyway, aren’t we? I’ll see you here on Friday for the party.’
15.
Handkerchief with embroidered initial, F. Lace edging. 1930s.
Ella wishes that she were invisible.
She wants to slip silently past all the guests, kicking off her shoes, feeling the cool tiles against her bare feet.
No one would see her as she moved through the hallway, running her hand along the white wall, letting her fingers linger over the plaster border, its weave of vines and flowers.
At the foot of the staircase, she’d step out of the black dress, turning her body through the pools of light from the stained glass windows, letting red and yellow fall all over her, splashing her hair, her arms, her bare shoulders.
‘Ella, Ella-issima, you’re miles away, tesora.’
Mamma is looking at her, a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth.
‘Come on, Dippy Day-Dream. I want to show off my beautiful daughter.’
Ella smiles and smiles until her lips are dry and her teeth throb. She smiles at Katrina’s mother and at Katrina’s father, who she meets now for the first time. She smiles at Councillor Pike and at Mrs Cossington and at all her mother’s customers. She even returns the smug smile that hovers over Katrina’s face, Katrina lingering like a ghost on the stairs in her dress – pink, of course – made by Mamma. There’s a blotch of red light falling through the stained glass window and seeping over her right cheek like fake blood.
She takes the glass flute from the silver tray and follows David’s immaculately tailored back into the drawing-room. She looks at the pattern in the Indian rug. She admires, when prompted by Mamma, the prints on the walls, someone’s particularly lovely pair of earrings, a vase of white roses. She smiles and smiles again.
All the time, she feels The Signals, pressing at her throat and elbows, pushing up between her shoulderblades like tiny pairs of hands.
Run, they whisper. Run.
*
In the television room, in front of the vast TV, a group of men had sunk into the enormous leather sofas.
The window blinds were inching their way silently down the windows, as if all by themselves.
‘They’re on very sophisticated motion sensors,’ Katrina’s father explained. ‘They pick up over there on anyone entering the room.’ He pointed to the door. ‘Invisible, huh? All hidden behind the cornicing… And then they adjust to the exact levels of light at any one time, to minimise reflection on the screen.’
He crossed to the window. ‘Of course, you can adjust the settings to your own personal preferences. I like total darkness for film-viewing myself but my wife, well, she prefers a softly dimmed light…’
He gestured out of the window to the expanse of lawn shimmering into the distance. ‘Got the entire irrigation system – sprinklers, hidden hoses, all that stuff – linked up too. All works beautifully…’
‘Well,’ said David, smiling politely, ‘that’s very impressive. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’
Mr Cushworth looked at them both with a suddenly self-conscious expression. Katrina saw that the collar of his carefully-pressed shirt was limp with sweat. The bold blue checks hung crumpled and askew. As if he could feel his eyes on her, Mr Cushworth undid the second button at his collar and began to unfasten his heavy silver cufflinks, folding his sleeves up over themselves as far as the elbow.
‘It’s going to revolutionise the way we live,’ he said, a little defensively. ‘DOMOHOME, we’re calling it. Because, of course, the correct term for home automation is domotics. See what we’ve done there?’ He gave a little nervous laugh.
He’s not at all like Katrina or her mum, thought Ella. He actually cares what we think. He doesn’t want David to think he’s stupid.
‘We’ve got Sony and a whole bunch of other people already signed up,’ Mr Cushworth went on. His voice was getting higher, faster, as if he sensed that David’s attention might be waning. ‘Been holding talks with Microsoft this past week, in fact. We’ve already got contracts with celebs and musicians and footballers. They can’t get enough of us, those guys.’
‘Is that so…?’ said David, stroking his chin. ‘Incredible.’
‘Yep,’ said Katrina’s father. ‘The world’s going mad for home automation. It’s the future. If you’re interested, I might have a few tips for you…’ He touched the side of his nose and winked at Ella.
David smiled. ‘Ah. I’m not an investing man, myself,’ he said. ‘Never understood how it all works. No, I’ll stick to medicine and leave the rest to the people that know what they’re doing. Men of business, like your good self.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t tip you off,’ said Katrina’s father. ‘You do have Blu-Ray though, I presume?’
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you on that score too,’ said David, good- naturedly. ‘I hardly even have time to sit down most evenings. In fact, you’d probably think my TV set a bit of a museum piece. But it suits me just fine for now.
Mr Cushworth looked genuinely perplexed. There was a moment of silence in which he ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass.
Then a loud voice broke in.
Mrs Cushworth swept through the door, balancing a tray of canapés in one hand and a champagne flute in the other.
‘Graham, I really hope you’re not boring everyone to death,’ she said in her harsh, bright voice, then turned to us with her fake smile. ‘I do apologise for my husband, darlings. He’s getting to be an absolutely awful bore. I’ve told him. Haven’t I, Graham? I’ve told you over and over again, if I hear another thing about sprinklers or automated HVAC…’
‘That’s heating, ventilation and air conditioning…’ Mr Cushworth chipped in hopefully, his voice dying away as his wife shot him a look.
‘Yes, dear. Thank you for enlightening us. As I was saying, and I say it to him all the time, all the time, if I hear another darn thing about it, well, I might just slit my wrists. I certainly might just leave him for someone a bit more interesting, anyway…’
Her laugh whinnied around the room, drifting over the heads of the guests on the sofa, some of whom now hoisted themselves to a standing position and drifted off, muttering excuses about getting another drink, more of those delicious little snacks.
The familiar warm tide began at Ella’s neck and crept over her face. She could feel The Signals leaping between Mr and Mrs Cushworth, scratched shapes with red spikes, hers firm and jagged, his wavering, curling back on themselves, already beginning to fade to orange.
David moved in swiftly. ‘I find it quite fascinating,‘ he said, ‘Quite, quite intriguing,‘ and he flas
hed Mrs Cushworth one of his friendliest smiles. ‘Yes, I think your husband should feel awfully proud of what he’s achieved here. As I understand it, and I don’t really know what I’m talking about, but it’s one thing building a purpose-designed modern home and quite another to update a house as old as… erm, your very beautiful period property here, concealing everything, retaining all the lovely features and so on…’
His voice was slow, purposeful, smooth as the crema on Mamma’s coffee. It was his reassuring-a-patient voice and it worked like a charm on Mrs Cushworth, bringing her back to herself, leaving her, for once, lost for words.
She put her hand to her throat and directed her icy blue eyes at David.
‘Well, I can see that you two boys are already hitting it off,’ she said. ‘The doctor and the inventor. How charming! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to play with your little toys.’
And she stalked off.
‘Cheers,’ said David, raising his glass, ‘Now, tell me about this sprinkler system… ’
Mr Cushworth cleared his throat and jangled the loose change in his trousers. ‘Sorry about my wife,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t mean it. She’s always been a bit… well, fiery… passionate, you know…. So, erm, what exactly would you like to know?’
‘It’s starting,’ someone shouted in the hallway and people began to press into the room around them, balancing on the arms of the sofas, even crouching on the floor.
Ella noticed that Pike had placed himself at Mrs Cushworth’s elbow, handing her another brimming flute of champagne. His hand strayed to the small of her back where her dress – the one that Mamma had sewn so skilfully with the new fabric from London – was cut daringly low. Pike, on the other hand, was wearing a very shiny grey suit, in a fabric that Mamma would have described as cheap. An anaemic red silk tie thrust itself from his button-down collar and every so often he smoothed at it nervously with those long white fingers. Ella could see that, despite the way that he was leanng against the marble fireplace, his eyes fixed on Mrs Cushworth, he was uncomfortable.
His eyes flickered over hers briefly, scanning the room and then returning to her once again. Did she imagine the tip of his tongue darting over his thin dry lips as his eyes travelled up and down her body and then fixed her with a stare? Katrina was right. He really was a snake. There was something reptilian about him.
There was a general shhhing.
On the enormous TV screen, the Prince had just arrived at the Abbey. He was tugging at the tunic of his uniform.
‘Oh, bless his heart,‘ a woman in a purple kaftan slurred, tipsily.
Mamma stood transfixed, alternately exclaiming and protesting at the procession of hats, handbags and dresses.
And then finally the Princess-to-be arrived. She stepped from the silver car and Ella heard Mamma let out a long slow gasp.
‘Alexander McQueen,’ she breathed, admiringly. ‘Oh, look at all the lace, the detail. It’s just perfect.’
Later, they watched as the couple emerged and climbed into the state coach.
‘Marvellous,’ said Councillor Pike loudly, tugging at his tie as the camera zoomed in on the gold of the cherubs and the rich braid on the footmen’s uniforms.
The rain held off and sunlight glinted off the guardsmens’ plumed helmets, making little patches of intense white on the screen.
The sunlight flooded the room where people continued to linger, shifting their weight from one foot to another. It fell through the long conservatory windows.
Glasses were filled and chinked together. People began to speak at normal volume again.
They watched as the Queen and the Royal Family stood on the Palace balcony, waving at the people gathered in The Mall.
‘Every man, woman and child of Britain, her Commonwealth and Empire, must be rightfully proud, at this moment, of what we in Britain do best, of our rich heritage, our history…’ said the commentator.
‘And, of course, our foreign guests to these shores are most welcome in joining us in our celebrations,’ announced Councillor Pike.
Ella felt his gaze settle over her. He made a deep mock bow from his position on the other side of the room. She felt her face tingle as the other guests turned to look at them.
Mamma’s face tightened with anger. Ella watched as Mamma opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. David stepped closer and squeezed her hand.
‘Damned tricky business, that,’ someone said, nodding towards the screen where the cameras were focusing in on the Red Arrows, their formations gathering and scattering. ‘One false move and you’re done for.’
*
Ella would have liked to dance. She stood for a while, watching the other people, their bodies twisting and writhing, loosened by wine and laughter. She saw the way that some of the women kicked off their shoes, sighing with relief as they spread their pinched toes.
She thought of Billy, found herself wondering if he was dancing. Probably not. But whatever he was doing, he was probably having much more fun.
She checked her phone constantly, unsnapping the little clutch bag sewn all over with yellow satin petals.
Finally, she wandered through rooms and corridors, looking for Katrina. She hadn’t seen her much since they’d arrived. And even Katrina would be better company than the potted palms, the older men who keep trying to catch her eye over the rims of their half-filled pint glasses.
She passed the inner hallway, the small space that Leonora used to hang up her coat and change into her pinafore and carpet slippers. Leonora wasn’t at the party, of course. Katrina had said that she was in an awful huff about being given the day off. She didn’t think it was right to find herself temporarily replaced by a team of hired caterers in stupid frilly outfits. She’d gone to her sister’s house.
Now Ella heard a noise coming from the unlit vestibule. A giggle and a sound like scratching in the walls. She stopped in the corridor. The sound stopped. She walked again and the sound began again.
Suddenly, from out of the gloom, stepped Katrina, smoothing her pink dress over her hips, patting her hair into place.
‘There you are,’ she said, as if she’d been the one looking.
Ella allowed herself to be led away down the corridor. She let Katrina’s arm slip through hers. She half-closed her eyes and listened to Katrina’s chatter.
It was only as they turned into the drawing room again that she saw it for a moment. A dark shape at the edge of her vision, moving from the shadowy corner, crossing the corridor that they’d left behind. It was so quick that she might have imagined it. The creak of a polished shoe. A flash of striped shirt.
‘What?’ said Katrina, sticking out her chin. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Ella’s mouth moved easily, as if of its own accord. ‘I thought I saw something, that’s all.’
*
Fabbia swirled the champagne around her glass. She felt the warmth of it spreading through her arms and shoulders, flushing her cheeks.
Despite that awful man Pike and his little speech, she was enjoying herself. She’d always liked parties. And in fact, since Pike’s badly-judged words, several people had made a point of coming up to her, complimenting her on the success of her business, asking her how she was settling in. They seemed at pains to be genuinely welcoming and friendly, to cancel out any lingering air of unpleasantness, and she began to feel her shoulders relax, to enjoy the music and chatter as it swept through her in waves of gold and green.
She was also enjoying, with a sense of satsfaction, watching several of her dresses move around the room. There was Ali Braithwaite in a simple dress of navy crepe, draped at the neck with a tulip skirt, and accessorised with one of Fabbia’s favourite finds – an enormous Trifari brooch of clustered flowers in crystal and gilt. And she’d risked the leopard print courts, too. They looked perfect.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ Ali had said, giggling in front of the mirror. ‘I’d never have dared try them on if you hadn’t sugg
ested it. And I love them. But are you sure they’re not, well, a bit tarty?’
‘On the right person, worn in the right way, absolutely not,’ Fabbia had said. ‘The trick is to keep things simple.’ And Ali had followed her advice, the shoes and the brooch her only accessories, except for a tiny pair of diamond stud earrings. Ali glanced across at Fabbia now and smiled, raising her glass. She looked radiant.
And then there was that nice young woman who worked in the Braithwaites’ shop. Fabbia could never remember her name. But here she was in such a lovely outfit, the 1950s dress in daffodil silk, with a prettily ruched sweetheart neckline and a lovely full skirt with six net petticoats. With a few alterations, it looked as if it had been made for her. And Fabbia had found her just the right handbag too – a basket bag of the same era, with a base of natural-coloured woven raffia, the lid covered in imitiation seed pearls and embellished with a cornucopia of fruit made of appliqued and beaded velvet. Strawberries, oranges, a bunch of grapes – it was such a fun piece. And she’d even worn the little white cotton gloves. Fabbia watched her now, flirting with one of David’s colleagues. Yes, she could really carry it off.
‘Mrs Moreno? My dear…’
Fabbia felt a firm hand on her shoulder and turned to see Audrey Cossington, Ella’s teacher, beaming at her.
‘Fabbia. Do call me, Fabbia. Please…’
Audrey nodded, tilting a bottle of champagne wrapped in a starched white napkin in the direction of Fabbia’s glass.
‘Thank you. But I have to be careful. It goes straight to my head…’
‘I’ll drink yours then, shall I?’ Audrey emptied the remains of the bottle into her own glass and placed the empty on a table. She made a little grimace. ’Quite a gathering, isn’t it? Jean certainly knows how to do these things. I usually find them a dreadful ordeal but I’ve been rather enjoying spotting your creations. You’ve been busy transforming the entire town…’
The Dress (Everyday Magic Trilogy: Book 1) Page 16