Twenties Girl - Kinsella Sophie - Страница 32

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“Where are you?” Sadie’s impatient voice pierces my eardrum. “Come here!”

She’s beckoning from a rack toward the back. Feeling sudden misgivings, I head toward her.

“Sadie,” I say in a low voice. “I agree this stuff is cool and everything. But I’m only going for a casual drink. You can’t possibly think-”

“Look!” She gestures in triumph. “Perfect.” I’m never letting a ghost give me fashion advice again. Sadie is pointing at a 1920s flapper’s dress. A bronze silk flapper dress with a dropped waist, little beaded capped sleeves, and a matching cape. The store tag reads: Original 1920s dress, made in Paris.

“Isn’t it darling?” She clasps her hands and whirls around, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “My friend Bunty had one very similar, you know, only in silver.”

“Sadie!” I find my voice. “I can’t wear that on a date! Don’t be stupid!”

“Of course you can! Try it on!” She’s urging me with her skinny white arms. “You’ll have to cut off all your hair, of course-”

“I’m not cutting off my hair!” I move away in horror. “And I’m not trying it on!”

“I’ve found you some matching shoes too.” She flits eagerly to a rack and points at some little bronze-colored dancing slippers. “And some proper makeup.” She whirls over to a glass counter and gestures at a Bakelite case next to a little sign reading: Original 1920s makeup set. Very rare.

“I had a set just like this.” She’s gazing at it fondly. “This is the best lipstick that was ever made. I’ll teach you how to do yours properly.”

For God’s sake.

“I know how to do my lipstick properly, thanks-”

“You have no idea,” she cuts me off crisply. “But I’ll teach you. And we’ll marcel your hair. There are some irons for sale.” She points at an old cardboard box inside which I can see some weird-looking ancient metal contraption. “You’ll look so much better if you make an effort.” Her head swivels around again. “If we could just find you some decent stockings-”

“Sadie, stop it!” I hiss. “You must be crazy! I’m not getting any of this stuff-”

“I still remember that delicious smell of getting ready for parties.” She closes her eyes briefly as though transfixed. “Lipstick and singed hair-”

“Singed hair?” I squeak in horror. “You’re not singeing my hair!”

“Don’t fuss!” she says impatiently. “We only singed it sometimes.”

“Are you getting on all right?” Norah appears, jangling amber, and I jump in surprise.

“Oh. Yes, thanks.”

“Are you particularly interested in the 1920s?” She heads over to the glass case. “We’ve some marvelous original items here. All fresh in from a recent auction.”

“Yes.” I nod politely. “I was just looking at them.”

“I’m not sure what this was for…” She picks out a little jeweled pot mounted on a circular ring. “Strange little thing, isn’t it? A locket, maybe?”

“A rouge ring,” says Sadie, rolling her eyes. “Does no one have any idea about anything anymore?”

“I think it’s a rouge ring,” I can’t help saying casually.

“Ah!” Norah looks impressed. “You’re an expert! Maybe you know how to use these old marcel irons.” She takes out the metal contraption and hefts it cautiously in her hand. “I believe there was quite a knack to it. Before my time, I’m afraid.”

“It’s easy,” says Sadie scornfully into my ear. “I’ll show you.”

There’s a ting from the door and two girls come in, oohing and aahing as they look around. “This place is wicked,” I hear one of them saying.

“Excuse me.” Norah smiles. “I’ll let you keep browsing. If you’d like to try anything on, let me know.”

“I will.” I smile back at her. “Thanks.”

“Tell her you want to try the bronze dress on!” Sadie shoos me forward. “Go on!”

“Stop it!” I hiss as the woman disappears. “I don’t want to try it on!”

Sadie looks bemused. “But you have to try it. What if it doesn’t fit?”

“I don’t have to, because I’m not wearing it!” My frustration bubbles over. “Get real! This is the twenty-first century! I’m not using some ancient old lipstick and curling irons! I’m not wearing a flapper’s dress on a date! It’s just not happening!”

For a few moments Sadie seems too taken aback to reply.

“But… you promised.” She fixes me with huge, wounded eyes. “You promised I could choose your dress.”

“I thought you meant normal clothes!” I say in exasperation. “Twenty-first-century clothes! Not this.” I pick up the dress and brandish it at her. “It’s ridiculous! It’s a costume!”

“But if you don’t wear the dress I choose, then it might as well not be my date at all. It might as well be your date!” Sadie’s voice starts rising; I can tell she’s cranking up into a scream. “I might as well stay at home! Go out with him on your own!”

I sigh. “Look, Sadie-”

“He’s my man! It’s my date!” she cries passionately. “Mine! With my rules! This is my last chance to have some fun with a man, and you want to spoil it by wearing some frightful dreary outfit-”

“I don’t want to spoil it-”

“You promised to do things my way! You promised!”

“Stop shouting at me!” I pull away, clutching my ear. “Jesus!”

“Is everything all right back here?” Norah appears again and eyes me suspiciously.

“Yes!” I try to compose myself. “I was just… er… on the phone.”

“Ah.” Her face clears. She nods toward the bronze silk flapper dress, still in my arms. “You want to try that on? Wonderful piece. Made in Paris. Have you seen the mother-of-pearl buttons? They’re exquisite.”

“I… um…”

“You promised!” Sadie’s about three inches from me, her chin set, her eyes fiery. “You promised! It’s my date! Mine! Mine!”

She’s like a relentless fire-engine siren. I jerk my head away, trying to think straight as best I can. There’s no way I can cope with a whole evening of Sadie yelling at me. My head will explode.

And let’s face it. Ed Harrison thinks I’m a nutter anyway. What difference does it make if I turn up in a flapper dress?

Sadie’s right. It’s her evening. I might as well do it her way.

“All right!” I say at last, cutting across Sadie’s insistent voice. “You’ve talked me around. I’ll try on the dress.”

If anyone I know sees me, I will die. I will die.

As I get out of the taxi, I look quickly up and down the street. No one in sight, thank God. I have never looked so ludicrous in my life. This is what happens when you let a dead great-aunt take control of your looks.

I’m wearing the flapper dress from the shop, which I only just managed to zip up. Clearly they didn’t go in for boobs in the twenties. My feet are squished into the dancing slippers. Six long bead necklaces are jangling around my neck. Circling my head is a black headband, beaded with jet, and sticking out of that is a feather.

A feather.

My hair has been tortured into a series of old-fashioned-looking waves and curls, which took about two hours to do with the marcel irons. When it was done, Sadie insisted I smother it in some weird pomade stuff that she also found in the vintage shop, and now it feels rock solid to the touch.

And as for my makeup: Did they honestly think this was a good look in the 1920s? My face is covered in pale powder, with a spot of rouge on each cheek. My eyes are heavily outlined in black kohl. My lids are smeared with a lurid green paste, which came out of the old Bakelite case. I still don’t know exactly what’s on my eyelashes: some weird lump of black goo which Sadie called “Cosmetique.” She made me boil it up in a frying pan and then smear it all over my lashes.

I mean, hello, I have a new Lancome mascara. It’s waterproof, with flexible fibers and everything. But Sadie wasn’t interested. She was too overexcited by all this stupid ancient makeup and telling me how she and Bunty used to get ready for parties together and pluck each other’s eyebrows and take little swigs from their hip flasks.

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