The Accidental Mistress. Sophie Weston
gleamed with a million stars. There was a concerted gasp from the audience.
Yes! thought Izzy. She let herself breathe again.
There was another gasp as the dustsheets rose like flock of huge birds before flopping to the floor like paper. Silent-footed, the junior helpers folded and rolled the sheets, getting them rapidly out of sight. Izzy waved them away. But they had rehearsed this. They didn’t need any more direction. They had all identified their nearest exit. Now they melted through the various doors while the audience was still staring entranced at the starscape.
Izzy was the last to go. She held the door to the kitchen open the tiniest crack so she could see the effect of her production. She was not disappointed. When the lights came up, there was a long indrawn breath of wonder from a hundred throats.
The reception room had magically turned into a big attic, full of sunlight. Wooden trunks of clothes stood invitingly open. Comfortable shabby chairs were set beside old fashioned clothes horses from which every colour of garment hung. There were cushions and books and pot-pourri, and the friendly smell of coffee and fresh bread. The guests looked around, enchanted, as if they could not believe their eyes.
Izzy let the door swing shut. She looked round the stainless steel work surfaces of the empty kitchen as if she didn’t quite know how she had got there.
‘We did it.’ She sounded dazed, even to her own ears.
‘You did it,’ said Geoff.
They shared a high five.
On the monitoring system they heard Pepper saying serenely, ‘Welcome to Out of the Attic. A whole new shopping experience.’ On the black and white screen above their heads, she spread her hands. ‘Enjoy.’
They did. They wandered round as if they had just discovered a treasure chest. Women who lived all their professional lives in designer black threw scarlet and gold shawls around themselves and looked wistfully in the mirror. Hard-bitten fashion professionals ran their hands sensuously over velvet and angora and sighed.
Izzy slid rapidly along to the Ladies’ Room to change out of her working decorator gear. Now that the theatrical tricks were over she had to turn herself back into Pepper’s efficient assistant and work the room. She was already hauling the dark tee shirt over her head as she walked in.
Jemima was at a basin, scrubbing the ink prompts off her hands. She looked up when the door opened and grinned at Izzy in the mirror.
‘That was a blast. Proud of yourself?’
‘I suppose I am, quite,’ Izzy admitted.
Jemima flicked water at her. ‘Make that lots. You’ve got them eating out of Pepper’s hand.’
Izzy wriggled out of her jeans. ‘You did your share. What happened up there? Pepper freak out?’
Jemima shrugged. ‘Said she couldn’t remember her words and you’d told her not to go into detail too early.’ She shook her head. ‘She may be a retail genius, but she sure doesn’t talk the talk.’
‘She does with a little help from her friends,’ said Izzy. ‘You handled that brilliantly.’
She splashed cold water under her arms and the back of her neck.
Jemima watched as she towelled off and pulled on sheer dark tights. ‘I couldn’t make head or tail of Pepper’s gibbering. So I went back to the first speech you wrote and said, “You do this bit; I’ll do that.”’
‘Worked like a dream.’ Izzy’s voice was muffled as she pulled a slim charcoal-grey dress over her head. ‘Looked good, too. Very cool. How did you get her to do it?’
‘I told her she owed you.’ Jemima was whipping her maltreated hair into place with expert rapidity.
‘Owed me?’
‘Yup.’
‘Owed me? But this is her project, her idea. I wouldn’t even have a job if it weren’t for Pepper and Out of the Attic.’
‘Correction. You’d have another job.’
‘Maybe. But—’
‘No maybe about it,’ broke in Jemima. She stopped fiddling with her hair and sent Izzy a minatory look. ‘Don’t put yourself down. You can turn your hand to anything.’
‘So can the odd job man in our block.’
Jemima ignored that. ‘And you’re always the best, too.’
Izzy smiled in spite of herself. ‘You’re prejudiced.’ She cast a cursory look in the mirror and fluffed her hair out.
‘Let me do that,’ said Jemima impatiently.
She pressed Izzy into one of the small gilt chairs and took up a brush. Her own tangled ponytail had been an artful creation, whereas Izzy’s tangles were the result of too little attention and a hectic three hours spent scrambling among the installations.
‘I am going to give you a present of a day at a decent salon,’ Jemima said, attacking the tangles ruthlessly. ‘When did you last have your hair done properly?’
Izzy chuckled. ‘The last time you gave me a present of a day at a salon.’
Jemima smacked her lightly with the brush. ‘How you have the gall to lecture Pepper, I’ll never know.’
‘That’s different. That’s business. It matters how Pepper looks.’
‘It matters how everyone looks,’ said Jemima, shocked to the core.
‘Believe me, it doesn’t.’
Jemima paused in her work. She met her sister’s eyes in the mirror.
‘You mean when you were hiking round the world you had more important things to think about than your split ends?’ she interpreted.
Izzy was shocked. ‘Am I that smug?’
‘You’re that weird,’ corrected Jemima. She extracted the last tangle and pursed her lips. ‘Plait,’ she decided. ‘No option. Don’t fidget, I gotta concentrate.’
‘I’m not weird,’ said Izzy, offended.
‘Yes, you are. Don’t give me that nonsense about not caring about clothes. You love clothes. But you’re always finding stuff for other people. I used to think it was just me. But since Pepper arrived you’re always coming home with things to suit her, too. Never you.’
Izzy shrugged. ‘Well, you two are on display all the time. I’m a backroom girl.’
Jemima was whipping threads of thick red hair into a plait. They kept springing free.
‘Oh, this is hopeless. I need gel. Don’t move.’ She rootled through her bag, saying over her shoulder, ‘You go to parties. Most people like to look good at a party.’
Izzy clicked her tongue. ‘I go to parties to meet people. Not to be looked at.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jemima dryly.
Izzy slewed round. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t move.’ Jemima found the gel. ‘And, yes, you did mean it,’ she said. ‘And I’m tired of it. At some point you decided that I was the pretty one. So you delegated caring about clothes and makeup and stuff to me. Boring.’
‘I—’
But Jemima was combing the gel through her hair with busy fingers and refused to be interrupted.
‘You’re not on some broken-down Latin American bus any more. You live in London. You have a job. Out of the Attic sells clothes, for heaven’s sake. Wake up and start looking in the mirror. You’re beautiful.’
This time the hair slid sweetly into its elaborate plait.
‘There!’ Jemima stepped back. ‘Bit darker