Page 53 of A Sky Painted Gold

I realize I am still standing in my underwear. “Yes, of course,” I mutter, pulling the dress over my head in one jerky movement.

Madame Carradice sweeps the curtain aside and we emerge back into the room where Caitlin is waiting. A lot has been happening during the brief time we have been away, and we find her surrounded by bolts of beautiful fabric, their colours glowing in the lamplight, as though she is sitting in the middle of a rainbow.

I sit down next to her, my hand reaching out as if it has a mind of its own, to run the silky cloth through my fingers. “Beautiful,” I breathe.

“Which one do you like?” Caitlin asks.

“Oh, all of them,” I say. My eyes fall on a pale green silk organza. It is so delicate, so light, and it reminds me of the sea around the island. “I love this,” I say.

“Seafoam.” Madame Carradice nods approvingly.

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“Seafoam,” she repeats. “It’s the name of that particular colour. One of my favourites.”

“Oh.” My fingers linger here as I turn the word over in my mind. Seafoam.

“Now, I have some samples to show you, and some things for you both to try,” Madame Carradice says, and she claps her hands. A girl steps out from behind the pink curtain wearing a beautiful dress. It has a layered skirt of black silk and tulle, and a body of black-and-gold brocade with little gauzy cap sleeves. The dress is quite long, falling several inches above her ankles.

“I thought perhaps this might meet with your approval for this evening,” Madame Carradice is saying. My eyes are glued to the model as she walks towards us and twirls around. The skirt floats out around her, and the gold in the brocade shimmers. I sigh. It is lovely.

“Lou?” Caitlin asks.

“Oh, yes,” I say. “You’ll look wonderful in it.”

“Not for me.” Caitlin laughs. “For you.”

I turn to see that both she and Madame Carradice are looking at me.

“It will need hardly any alteration to fit,” Madame Carradice says. “You have almost identical measurements to Lacey.” She gestures towards the model, who has come to a stop in front of us.

I find this hard to believe. Lacey looks elegant and mature in the dress, as though she belongs in it, as though she belongs here in this shop. Is it possible that I could look like that?

“For me?” I say at last.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Caitlin rolls her eyes. “We can’t keep doing this. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I reply, and the answer is a truthful one. “And…” My eyes gleam. “I could wear it for my birthday party as well!”

“Fine,” Caitlin says. “That’s decided, then,” and with that Lacey trips back to the changing room while another beautiful girl appears wearing another beautiful dress.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur, and by the time we leave we are followed out to the car by people carrying great piles of packages. I can’t tell you what we have bought, and how much of it is meant to be for me. (Although by the time we leave, my old dress has been consigned to the bin and I am wearing a new pale pink summer dress that makes me feel incredibly sophisticated.) Over the last few weeks I have resisted Caitlin’s offers to borrow her clothes, clinging stubbornly to my own scruffy dresses and shorts rather than risk feeling like a doll that she is dressing up. One afternoon in Carradice’s seems to have blasted these intentions to smithereens. I am a little uneasy about it, but at the same time I know that I can hardly run around London with Caitlin Cardew, and go out on the town this evening, in my own clothes. It’s easier to feel all right about it here, surrounded by so much, to feel that taking a tiny bit of it for myself isn’t so bad.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted,” Caitlin says, though the way she talks is anything but – it’s breathless and on edge. “We’d better go and have a quick bite to eat, then take a nap before this evening.”

“Where are we going this evening?” I ask.

“Oh, the usual,” Caitlin says, and her expression is one of, if not boredom, then resignation at least. “Cocktails first, then a club or two.” She drums her fingers on the seat beside her, an anxious tap, tap, tap.

“It sounds wonderful,” I say, and I wonder if her restlessness is part of being in London, if she’s as affected by the spirit of the place as I am.

“And Bernie and some of the others will be around, no doubt,” Caitlin adds brightly. “They’ll be thrilled to see you.”

“Oh, good.” I’m a bit relieved to hear this; here among this desperate press of anonymous people I’m beginning to feel just a little overwhelmed. It will be nice to see some friendly faces.

“Let’s have a quick lunch on the roof at Selfridge’s,” Caitlin says decisively. “It will be heaving, of course, but on such a beautiful day it’s a nice way to see the city. I think you’ll like it. That way we can order some party supplies on our way out. They know what I like.”

After we make our way through the store (where I manage to stop Caitlin only six or seven times to look at something extraordinary) and up in one of the mahogany-panelled lifts, the roof garden is a complete and utter vision. There are flower beds, and benches, and still pools of water, and stone urns full of a riot of tumbling pink and yellow flowers. Along one side of the roof is a long pergola covered in ivy, under which tables with white linen tablecloths are set up for lunch.