“Sort of.”
“And just like glass, our brains – or the way they show us the world – can be tinted or obscured, changing the way we see things. Sometimes, the glass gets smeared up and it makes things look distorted, or prevents us from seeing them altogether.” He presses his hands together, almost like he’s praying. “Glass can be cleaned, Flora. Just because you can’t see through the window now doesn’t mean you never will.”
I only glare at him. He doesn’t know anything.
“Everything is temporary,” he says. “Even this.”
I kept the account. I didn’t understand why my therapist was so fussed about one stupid social media account – but now I think I get it. It was about the future. It didn’t matter what I did with it – all that mattered was that I believed there was one. That I might want one.
When I open my eyes, Mira is still holding my hand, watching me.
“I’m okay.”
“You are. I know.” She lets go, and throws her arm around my shoulders, rocking me alongside her. “But whenever you aren’t, even if I’m not here, you’ll call me? Yes? You promise?”
“You don’t want that. I mean, thank you, but—”
“No. No ‘but’. And no, I don’t want you to not be okay – but if you aren’t, I want to be there.”
Something has stuck in my throat. I don’t know what it is or how it got there, but it feels like it’s the size of a fist. “Even if you’re going away?”
She shakes her head. “I’m going to college. Not the moon.”
The last hill before Bath drops away, and the little city spreads out along the river valley, its honey-coloured buildings shining like possibility as the bus bounces down towards it.
“No. No. Nope. Maybe – oh, no. Definitely no.” Mira grabs the dress hangers out of my hands and, one by one, tosses them all over the nearest rack. It’s so like it used to be, like I used to be, but different. Better? Not sure. But it’s something.
“What’s wrong with this one?” I lunge for my favourite from the pile, a dark blue one.
She just gives me a withering look. “You are kidding me, yes?”
“Fine.” I drop onto the padded bench in the middle of the changing-room waiting area. “So what do you suggest? I told you leaving it until the day of the party was dodgy.”
“And I told you we should have gone to Bristol, but here we are! Never mind. I have an idea.” She ditches the last of the dresses and scoops up the bag with her dress in it. The very first one she tried on, made from gorgeous green lace. Twenty-three attempts later, I’m still dressless. “Come on.”
“Maybe it’s me and dresses. Maybe we’re just not meant to be.”
She tows me out of the shop and along the busy main street. “Shhhh. This way.”
“Mira, can we not just…” She yanks me down a narrow side street, then another – and finally into a tiny lopsided courtyard. “Where are we going?”
“I told you. I have an idea.” And she gives me a shove towards the back of the courtyard.
“Would you stop shoving…oh.” Because there, in a shop window hidden away from the street, is a dress. A perfect dress. Such a pale blue that it’s almost grey, and soft enough to look like it could fly; it’s floor-length and chiffony, and there are rows of tiny pearls sewn around the edges of the neck and the arms.
“Oh.” I look at the shop sign. “But it’s a vintage shop – I’ll never be able to afford it!”
Mira grins. “Don’t you see the tag? It’s half price.”
I spin back around so fast I almost fall over on the uneven cobbles of the courtyard. “It is? Oh my god. It is. And it’s my size. How is that possible?”
“It’s a sign.”
“I don’t believe in signs. Or coincidences,” I mutter. This is enough to make Mira snort with laughter.
“Then let’s say I do.”
As she propels me through the door, I spot the little framed notice.
I picture Felix’s face when I tell him.
Maybe it is a sign after all…
Inside, the shop is tiny and nothing like the ones we’ve been in already. Each piece of clothing is carefully hung and labelled with a brown cardboard tag: heavy woollen suits, a black-and-white dress that looks like it was meant for dancing all night in a smoky jazz club, a duffle coat, a pair of trousers that shimmer under the light like water. Hats and old leather suitcases sit on antique luggage racks above the rails, and below the clothes, neat pairs of shoes sit side by side. Mira spots what look like cowboy boots and lunges for them – leaving me to face the woman who has appeared behind the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“The…um…dress in the window. Is it really half price?” She looks me up and down and narrows her eyes. “You’re interested in that one?”
Mira emerges from underneath a fake-fur coat waving a cowboy boot. “She is. She really, really is.”
The woman’s face softens and she actually smiles at me. “Good. It’s my favourite, and it’s been stuck here for ever. Would you like to try it on? It should fit you perfectly.”
“Please.” I clamp my hands together in front of me so she can’t see me shaking as she edges past to reach the window.
“I told you,” Mira whispers. “A sign. It’s been waiting for you.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
But when the owner lifts the dress out of the window and swirls it around in front of me, it feels like maybe Mira’s right after all. Maybe it has been waiting.
“It’s not the most valuable piece we’ve ever had in, but I think it’s one of the prettiest. Based on a pattern from 1912, I believe – altered, of course. You’d never have had a neckline like that, or the cross-ruching on the front, but the idea’s still there.” She holds it out to me. “The changing room’s through the curtain there. I’ll be right here if you need anything – sometimes the fastenings can stick on these ones, so just call.”
A pattern from 1912? Okay. That’s so much a sign it’s almost spooky.
The little changing room is hidden behind a heavy red velvet curtain, and everything is softly lit by warm white bulbs all around the full-length mirror. Another mirror, just about as tall as I am and mounted in a wooden frame, is tucked into the far corner of the room along with a deep red velvet armchair.
“How are you getting on in there?”
“Good, thanks!”
I’m not about to say that I’m just standing here, staring. Hooking the hanger over the top of the mirror, I shrug my T-shirt off and drop it on the floor along with my shorts and kick off my trainers. The dress slides over my shoulders like it was cut for me, sitting perfectly. It even fastens without a single hiccup. When I pull back the curtain and step out into the shop, Mira lets out a squeak, then beams.
“Yes. That one.”
I smooth the skirt down.
“I think we have a match, don’t you?” says the owner, nodding.
I turn, letting the fabric flare and fall – and when I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind me, just for once the Flora reflected in the glass agrees.