round slender debutantes and their portly chaperones.
Ada had learned her trade from Isidore and her nerve from Mrs B., as the other girls all called her. Where Isidore had been wise and kind and funny, genuine, Mrs B. was crafted through artifice. Ada was sure the Hon. Mrs Buckley was neither an Hon. nor a Mrs, and her complexion was as false as her name, but that didn’t stop Mrs B. What she didn’t know about the female form and the lie of a fabric was not worth writing on a postage stamp.
Mrs B. was a step up from Isidore. Paris. That was the city Ada aimed to conquer. She’d call her house ‘Vaughan’. It was a modish name, like Worth, or Chanel, but with British cachet. That was another word she’d learned from Mrs B. Cachet. Style and class, rolled into one.
‘Where did you learn all this French, madame?’ The girls always had to call her ‘madame’ to her face.
Mrs B. had given a knowing smile, her head pivoting on the tilt of her long neck. ‘Here and there,’ she said. ‘Here and there.’
Fair dues to Mrs B., she recognized in Ada a hard worker, and a young woman with ambition and talent. Aitches present and correct without aspiration, haspiration, Ada was made front-of-house, Madame Duchamps’s instore fresh-faced mannequin, and the young society ladies began to turn to her to model their clothes, rather than Mrs B., whose complexion and waistline grew thicker by the day.
‘Mademoiselle,’ Mrs B. would say. ‘Slip on the evening gown.’
‘The douppioni, madame?’
Midnight blue with a halter neck. Ada would lean into her hips and sway across the floor, swirl so her naked back drew the eye, and that eye would marvel at the drape of the fabric as it swallowed the curve of her figure, out and in, and fanned in a fishtail. She’d turn again and smile.
‘And now the chiffon.’
Veils of mystery and a taffeta lining, oyster and pearl and precious lustres. Ada loved the way the clothes transformed her. She could be fire, or water, air or earth. Elemental. Truthful. This was who she was. She would lift her arms as if to embrace the heavens and the fabric would drift in the gossamer breeze; she would bend low in a curtsy then unfold her body like a flower in bloom, each limb a sensuous, supple petal.
She was the centre of adoration, a living sculpture, a work of art. A creator, too. She would smile and say, ‘But if you tuck it here, or pleat it there, then voilà.’ With a flourish of her long, slim fingers and that new, knowing voilà, Ada would add her own touch to one of Mrs B.’s designs and make it altogether more modern, more desirable. Ada knew Mrs B. saw her as an asset, recognized her skills and taste, her ability to lure the customers and charm them with an effortless eloquence, thanks to Miss Skinner’s skilful tutoring.
‘If you cut on the bias,’ Ada would say, holding up the dress length on the diagonal to a customer, ‘you can see how it falls, like a Grecian goddess.’
Draped across the breast, a single, naked shoulder rising like a mermaid from a chiffon sea.
‘Non, non, non.’ Mrs B. tut-tutted, spoke in French when Ada pushed the limits of decency. ‘That will not do, Mademoiselle. This is not for the boudoir, but the ball. Decorum, decorum.’
She’d turned to her client. ‘Miss Vaughan is still a little inexperienced, naïve, in the subtler points of social correctness.’
Naive she might be, but Ada was good publicity for Madame Duchamps, modiste, of Dover Street, and Ada had hopes that one day she could be more than an asset but a partner in the business. She had developed a respectable following. Her talent marked her out, the flow and poise of her design distinguished her. She conjured Hollywood and the glamorous world of the stars and brought them into the drawing rooms of the everyday. Ada became her designs, a walking advertisement for them. The floral day dress, the tailored suit, the manicured nails and the simple court shoes, she knew she was watched as she left the shop and sauntered west down Piccadilly, past the Ritz and Green Park. She would clip-clop along, chin in the air, pretending she might live in Knightsbridge or Kensington, until she knew she was free of curious eyes. Then finally she turned south, clip-clopped over Westminster Bridge and into Lambeth and past the sniggering urchins who stuck their noses in the air and teetered behind her on imaginary heels.
Late April, black rain fell in turrets and drummed on the slate roofs of Dover Street. Torrents, scooped from the oceans and let loose from the heavens, thundered down to earth and soaked deep into the cracks between the paving, fell in dark rivers along the gutters, eddied in dips in the pavements and in the areas of the tall, stuccoed houses. It splattered off the umbrellas and sombre hats of the pedestrians and soaked the trouser legs below the raincoats. It seeped into the leather of the shoes.
Ada reached for her coat, a soft camel with a tie belt, and her umbrella. She’d have to bite the bullet today, turn left right away, pick up the number 12 in Haymarket.
‘Good night, madame,’ she said to Mrs B. She stood under the door frame, then out into the sodden street. She walked towards Piccadilly, looking down, side-stepping the puddles. A gust of wind caught her umbrella and turned it inside out, whipped the sides of her coat so they billowed free and snatched her hair in sopping tentacles. She pulled at the twisted metal spokes.
‘Allow me, please,’ a man’s voice said as a large umbrella positioned itself above her head. She turned round, almost brushed the man’s face, an instant too close but long enough for Ada to know. His face was slim, punctuated by a narrow, clipped moustache. He wore small, round glasses and behind them his eyes were soft and pale. Duck egg blue, Ada thought, airy enough to see through. They chilled and stirred her. He stepped back.
‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I was only trying to protect you. Here, you hold this.’ He passed over his umbrella and took hold of hers with his free hand. He sounded continental, Ada thought, a sophisticated clip to his accent. Ada watched as he bent it back into shape.
‘Not quite as good as new,’ he said. ‘But it will take care of you today. Where do you live? Do you have far to go?’
She started to answer, but the words tangled in her mouth. Lambeth. Lambeth.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’ll get the bus.’
‘Let me walk you to the stop.’
She wanted to say yes, but she was frightened he’d press her on where she lived. The number 12 went to Dulwich. That was all right. She could say Dulwich, it was respectable enough.
‘You’re hesitating,’ he said. His eyes creased in a smile. ‘Your mother told you never to go with strange men.’
She was grateful for the excuse. His accent was formal. She couldn’t place it.
‘I have a better idea,’ he went on. ‘I’m sure your mother would approve of this.’ He pointed over the road. ‘Would you care to join me, Miss? Tea at the Ritz. Couldn’t be more English.’
What would be the harm in that? If he was up to no good, he wouldn’t waste money at the Ritz. Probably a week’s wages. And it was in public, after all.
‘I am inviting you,’ he said. ‘Please accept.’
He was polite, well-mannered.
‘And the rain will stop in the mean time.’
Ada gathered her senses. ‘Will? Will it? How
