‘Of course you will.’ She patted the top of his arm. ‘By this time tomorrow you’ll be about to see in the new year having sold the first painting of many and with the woman of your dreams in your arms.’ She thought of Charlie’s hands on Rachel’s clawlike toes again and shivered. ‘You’ll see.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He nodded towards the living room. ‘You should go in; don’t get cold. Goodnight, Becky.’
He turned and made for the car. The icy air wrapped itself around her ankles and she shivered again. Her tummy squirmed and her chest felt tight. She wished Dylan was home. But then he would have been something else for her to worry about and if her guts were acting up already she must be more nervous about the ball than she had thought. Perhaps she should call Lloyd and check he had his side of things under control.
Doubtlessly focussed on racing into Rachel’s open arms, Charlie didn’t give Becky a second glance as he got into the car and reversed onto the road. Becky gave a parting wave as he accelerated away, leaving her standing alone in the bright frame of the doorway and muttering ‘Goodbye, Charlie’ to the indifference of the swirling snow.
Chapter 44
The last day of the year began lazily. Becky had a decent lie-in and pottered about in her dressing gown feeling lost without Dylan until lunchtime, when knocking drew her to the front door.
A leering courier, apparently accustomed to finding ladies in their nightwear at midday, brought a large white box out of his van and deposited it on the living room floor.
Having used a knife to slice the box open, she lifted the lid and picked out the envelope lying on top of the mauve tissue paper inside. It contained a black card which carried a brief message in silver script:
Dearest Becky,
A small, belated Christmas gift. Please accept these
with my compliments.
I look forward to seeing you in one of them tonight.
Your humble servant,
Lloyd Blake
She peeled back the tissue to uncover three evening gowns. Pinching them out of the box, she draped them over the sofa and stared at them like Goldilocks contemplating bowls of porridge.
The first was a black knee-length dress. It had cap sleeves and dropped to a deep but respectable V at the neck. The skirt was pleated and a thick band of additional fabric pinched the whole structure at the waist.
The second was a fitted, dark green sheath. The shimmering tube of cloth ran all the way to the floor and was designed to hug every lump and bump, leaving them no place to hide.
The last was a ballgown in an off-white fabric, warmed by a faint blush of shimmering pink. Its bodice had wide shoulder bands designed to sit off the shoulder and cling to the top of the arm. The result was a shallow V neckline which skated below the collarbones. This dip was mirrored at the bottom of the bodice, giving the illusion of a cinched waist. Cascading to the floor, the skirt fluted outwards thanks to a number of stiff petticoats. The bodice was plain except for a row of embroidery around the neckline and at the waist. Silver and gold threads formed the delicate and interweaving trails of a dancing procession of stars, each flecked with a few points of bright blue. This same motif was developed on the skirt in a spectacular glittering explosion.
Returning the dresses was not an option. She didn’t want to offend Lloyd and, given there was nothing in her wardrobe as suitable, it would be as irrational as it would be ungrateful. Considering the three of them, she dismissed the green as impractical: she was planning to eat and dance. Of the remaining two, Becky’s head drew her to the black. It would be flattering and comfy; she had shoes that matched; it was the sensible choice. But her heart drew her to the third dress. This might be her last chance to wear something so flamboyant outside a children’s fancy dress party.
She was still undecided when Phoebe arrived at six. The dinner started at eight, but there was a drinks reception from seven. Becky had arranged to meet Virgil there and Phoebe had volunteered to do her hair and make-up before chauffeuring her to the Hall.
Phoebe cast a critical eye over the dresses and was categorical: it had to be the ballgown. Becky responded with a weak protest as Phoebe arranged her hair, a process which involved three electrical appliances, a whole packet of pins and half a can of hairspray. Her stylist then moved on to make-up, another complicated procedure. Becky wriggled with impatience and was told off more than once for fidgeting.
‘Remind me. Why can’t we do this in front of a mirror?’
‘Eyes closed,’ Phoebe said, poised to dab another substance onto Becky’s eyelid. ‘Because we don’t want to spoil the big reveal.’
Becky snorted. Phoebe had watched too many makeover shows.
‘Now quiet. Almost done.’
When the artist finished her work, she ordered Becky to close her eyes again and steered her to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. ‘And … open them!’
Becky blinked. Then stuttered.
‘Well?’ said Phoebe. ‘What do you think?’
Becky lifted a hand towards the mirror. ‘Who is that?’
The woman in the mirror sparkled. Her soft, glossy curls had been gathered and pinned behind her head. Two spiralling tendrils and some golden wisps framed her face, showcasing her large sapphire eyes. She was lucky enough to have high cheekbones and smooth, flawless skin. And all despite wearing a grey flannel robe.
Phoebe laughed. Becky closed her shiny pink lips and raised her fingers to her new cheekbones. ‘How did you do this?’
‘Contouring. Jess at school does beauty videos for her YouTube channel. She showed me some stuff and let me borrow her magic kit. Now,’ she said, pulling Becky away from the mirror, ‘time for the dress.’
‘If the law doesn’t work out, you should consider beauty school.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ Phoebe moved to the back of the dress and set to work on tightening the complicated corset lacing at the back of the bodice. ‘Does my dad think you’re working at the ball?’ she asked as her fingers looped and pulled.
Becky looked up at the ceiling. ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t tell him I was.’
‘But you didn’t tell him you’re going with Virgil either?’
Had that last tug been a tad vicious? ‘No. But I don’t see why he’d care. He’ll be busy with Rachel.’ Another sharp yank spurred her on to further explanation. ‘And I’ll be there if he needs help with his speech. I’m not abandoning him.’
‘Good.’ She threaded the ribbon through another eyelet. ‘What’s happening with you and Virgil, anyway?’
‘Nothing. We’re friends.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Good.’ Phoebe finished her task and came to the front to inspect the results of her work. ‘And … good!’ she said, with a note of surprise which Becky tried not to let hurt her feelings.
‘You don’t think I’m too old to wear this?’
‘God, no!’ She stooped to help Becky into her silver shoes. ‘You sound like Dad. He spent ages fiddling with his bow tie and going on and on about being “too old for this sort of thing”.’ She stood up, lifted one of Becky’s hands for inspection and grinned. ‘You used my Christmas present!’