Thursday Afternoon

Mrs Haversham's establishment was at the smarter end of the High street, but the premises were restrained, with a shop-front that was tasteful to the point of fastidiousness. Anne and I stopped outside, and I studied the three dressed mannequins in the window for a moment to work up my courage before going in.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Haversham I presume?"

"Ah, Mr. Pilsbury! Nice to see zat you are above being 'fashionably late.'" The woman who greeted me was small and intense, almost birdlike in her movements. Her accent was strong, and I recognised it as being from Normandy or one of the other French states. "Shows, no doubt, a 'ealthy respect for your Mother — which is almost as good as a 'igh regard for your tailor. Now, let us get straight to business. Tell me, what do you think of zese?"

She led me to one of the dozen mannequins in the shop, and started quizzing me on what I thought of the gown it was displaying.

I didn't want to give offence, but I was struggling to find complimentary things to say. "Er, well, this shows very fine workmanship. I can see hundreds of hours of nimble finger work went into the sequins alone," I mumbled, regarding the thing — a cross between an inverted peacock tail and a fairground attraction — with vague horror. She moved on to the next.

"Look, what is all this about?" I asked, puzzled and frustrated after several more of these constructions. "I am here to get a dress suit, not a ball gown. Why are we spending all this time discussing these? Especially as, well, they are clearly not to my taste!"

She laughed in delight. "So, you are being zo polite! But I need to find out what you like, silly boy. Zome things I can get from 'ow you dress, mais oui, your outfit is distinctive and singular, but I consider ze best way to discover your tastes in clothing is to zee what you think of other clothes, n'est-ce pas? But, you need not, 'ow you say, pull ze punches. You just be as rude as you like!"

So I was, which was, I am afraid, all too easy for the next few examples of ostentation. I paused and inspected the largest ball gown: a great sweeping pink and white dome of festoons of satin and layered lace, prominent in the place of honour on a raised dais.

I struggled for a second. "I'm sorry, It's like an over-the-top wedding cake — all frosted sugar, covered in layer upon layer of icing and just too sweet and sickly for anyone to eat, never mind wear!"

She laughed in delight again. "Ze 'Wedding Cake', I love eet! Do you not know, my young beau, zat zis is ze most expensive dress I make for anyone?"

"They must have more money than sense!" I retorted, shaking my head.

"Of course, mon ami! Zis is ze one I save for ze woman 'oo will not take advice from 'er dressmaker, 'oo must 'ave more lace zan 'er friends, and wants to use my dress to show she 'as more money zan Lady Astor. Hee hee hee. 'Wedding cake'."

Then my eye caught something else, in the corner behind the "Wedding Cake". It was on a bare torso, not a full mannequin like the others, and tucked away almost out of sight. Shimmering grey-green silk fell like water from the shoulders of the cloth tailor's dummy. "But what is that, behind there? Can I get a better look?"

Without waiting of the answer, I negotiated my way around the "Wedding Cake" to stand in front of my quarry.

Devoid of embellishment, it was cut with such subtle seams that it appeared to be moulded to the shape beneath it. It was like one of those amazing slinky affairs you see on photos of film stars from the twentieth century, the sort of thing that was presumably held up by sticky tape just for the photographer.

She watched my face as I inspected it. "Ah, but zis one is not for the faint of 'eart. It is a toy of my own devising; I should not have left it out 'ere. But I zee it is zis which catches your eye?"

I nodded, firmly.

"Zo. You like it simple. You 'ave the eye of a Beau Brummel. I see vat we 'ave to do."

"Beau Brummel? I thought he was the great Pre-crash dandy, from the nineteenth century or sometime like that. But wasn't he very ornate; I thought he was famous for leading the fashion world at the time?"

"Eighteenth century, mon ami. And no, 'e was ze one who turned zem away from frills to pure design. His style was austere, 'is only colour, black; and 'e would spend two hours tying 'is cravat. I think you and 'e would have got on very well. 'Ze maximum of luxury in ze service of minimal ostentation, ' 'e would say. So, zat is what we must look for. Let us see what we can do."

She sat me down on the sofa and pulled out a book of photos of male fashions and models, turning to certain pages. I had to say they were much better than what my Father's blessed idiots had had in mind. While I browsed, Anne gazed wistfully at the green silk creation in the corner. Dream on, girl, I thought, but fondly.

I paused at one that particularly caught my eye.

"Zis one, eh? Zis man was called Armani. 'E dressed only ze most beautiful and the most expensive women, and ze most discriminating of men. 'Ow did I know it would be zis one?"

So saying, she disappeared into the back of the shop, and then returned a few minutes later bearing a dusty cardboard box. "So, not exactly what you 'ave in front of you, but... " She pulled out a dark man's jacket, and held it up in front of me. It was clearly from the same stable as the photo on my knees. I had never seen anything like it in real life before.

"Try it on, eet is real — an original Armani and one 'undred years old. A museum piece, a treasure, zat I 'ave 'idden away until zis moment."

It felt wonderful to wear, and made me look exactly like a Pre-crash film star.

"I 'ave never dared offer zis to anyone before, but I zink ze fashion world is ready for a shock. Are you ready to make it?"

I laughed, and turned again to see myself in the mirror. This was perfect, amazing and just so right. I could dress to please me, shock my Mother, and turn up at the Ball to wreck my havoc; all at the same time. "Pass me the trousers."

"Hortense!" she called out. "Bring my measure! Where is zat dratted girl. Now, let me get you measured up. I can see I need to make just a few tiny alterations. Yes, zis fabulous suit 'as been gathering dust in a box for far too long. Time to give eet a trip out into ze wide world!"

There was plenty of time that evening to do my Electronics homework, and instead I spent it on another trip to the Cockfosters show room. Yes, ridiculous, it was a twenty minute bus ride each way, and it was not as if I had not done it six times before. But for some reason, I just had to press my nose to the glass again. I had no doubts, of course not, but it was as if I couldn't remember what one looked like.

Maybe it is a boy thing, I have no idea about girls, but I cannot see them feeling like this. But if you are male, you must have come across something that was perfect. The folding knife, the camera, the fone, that was just right; that had exactly every thing you wanted it to, but none of the things that were superfluous. The balance just so; the workmanship just that little bit more careful than was strictly necessary; the attention to detail that would only be appreciated by one who knew.

And there it was, in the window, in a motorbike. My forehead against the cold glass, I gazed and drank my fill. It was not mine, of course; this one was canary yellow! Who could have a yellow motorbike? Mine was going to be red. But the solid weight of it sang; the perfect line of every heavy beautiful machined part whispered to me and I could almost feel the texture of polished surfaces of the aluminium castings under my fingertips.

I dared not go in. The salesman had already given me an illicit ride on the pillion three weeks ago, when I had admitted what my parents were going to get me for my birthday. The memory of that ride flooded back. The noise; the rushing of air; the feeling of drunken exhilaration at every corner. That thing could do nought to sixty in less than ten seconds, and I could have one next week! I was going to be firm. I could be a man; I could resist any temptation my parents could lay in front of me.

Yes, that girl was going back, and next week I would be walking into that showroom with my Father's credit on my fone, and telling the salesman he had an order.

I had decided not to take Anne with me on my visit to Penelope Jones. I knew I was supposed to keep her by my side, but if she kept in my room my Father would not know. It was ridiculous that I should be feeling guilty about a collar, but, well, for some reason I did, and I had a bad feeling about inflicting a return visit on her. Whatever I was heading for, I was pretty sure it would be better if Anne were not there.

She was helping me change — I was going to hit the Jones' in full parade gear — and she was apparently keen to practise her dressing skills. It was, I decided as I sat on the bed to let her struggle with my shoes and socks, something one would have to get used to. A thought struck me. "Annie, you didn't ask me for your favour today. Make sure you think of something before I get back."

She did not reply for a moment, and I looked down to check there was nothing wrong. I could not make out her lowered face. "Annie?"

"You did it again Sir! You called me Annie!"

"Well of course, that's your name. Oh, I see. Annie. It's the diminutive. Like with..." like with children, or pets, I had been about to say. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no, of course not, Sir. I ... I like it, Sir." She was blushing, I realised with some surprise.

"Hmm. Well, names are odd things. After all, I have to put up with you calling me 'Sir' all the time."

"Sir! Oh, sorry. But ... it would feel so wrong to use your first name, Sir and ... what else can I say?"

"Do you actually think of me as a 'Sir'?" I asked with interest.

"Of course, Sir." Her apparent discomfort deepened. "Well, no. You are much more than that. You are my Master, Sir, my Boss."

"Well even 'Boss' would be better than 'Master'."

"May I call you Boss?" she asked, with a shy smile.

I could not help laughing. "Whatever keeps you happy. Talking of which, what about that favour?"

"Oh. I did think of one thing, Boss. I was wondering about it, while I was waiting for you. But it's a bit..." Her voice was tentative, and again there was that pause. "Um. That thing you did earlier, in the kitchen. That thing with your tongue."

"Yees?" I replied, encouragingly but completely mystified.

"Would you do it again?" she asked, all in a rush.

I stood up, astonished. Picking up my shirt, and donning it with automatic fingers I walked slowly around the girl who knelt there, motionless. She was frozen, as if uncertain whether I would hit her or kiss her.

"Stand up" I said softly, reassuring her. "It's all right." I could ask her why. Or I could find out. Slowly I held out my hand to brush my fingers against her cheek, and she moved her head almost imperceptibly towards them.

"Open up then," I whispered, and leant in towards her. Her lips opened and the small shy tongue crept out.

My eyes closed. The rest of the world disappeared. I felt nothing, I knew of nothing, except for the small warm wet tip that licked against mine and then became a tongue; a tongue that wrapped itself around me and caressed me. Without warning her tongue was in my mouth and my tongue was in her mouth and they both belonged in their new homes. I explored, amazed, drunk on the sensation, until urgently I was out of breath, and, gasping, we pulled apart.

What the hell was that!

My mind a confused whirl, I gave her a few contradictory instructions about sorting out my wardrobe, and staggered out the door. With hands on autopilot I donned my coat and escaped out into the evening. All right, maybe I forget the bike, I thought as I strode along the street. But how could I? Oh, hell!

Wariness was warring with curiosity as the elderly collarmaid showed me into Penelope's little parlour. I should have been nervous, but the afterglow of that strange kiss with my collarmaid was still buoying me up. Right now, I could take on anything, even Penelope Jones in full steam, and the memory of my poor collar writhing with humiliation on the day before yesterday stiffened my resolve.

I had not been in there in the evening before, and, in the glowlamps, with just her sitting at her desk, the room seemed smaller and more intimate than I remembered. She had let down her hair. I decided it was good that way — it made her look quite human.

She stood for me, but did not come forward for any formal cheek kissing. "Thanks for coming," she said quietly, glancing at me but not looking me in the eye. "Have a seat." I could not conceive of this girl being embarrassed over anything, but she seemed oddly awkward as she sat herself.

"How did it go at the tailors'? I am sure you have picked out something splendid," she asked, toying with the green satin folds of her dress.

"I don't think you asked me here to compliment me on my dress sense," I replied dryly, not wanting to explain it all.

She took a deep breath. "Very well then, about Tuesday. It was Charlotte's idea to tease you with the collar, you know. She thought it would be fun. And then — I don't know what got into Madeline. Well I suppose we encouraged her, but she..."

"This is an apology?" I interrupted, incredulous.

"Yes." she said simply, head down. "We should not have treated you like that. I'm sorry."

I was stunned. "Well ... Thank you." I shrugged. "Frankly, I suppose I should be used to it. I despise polite society and what it stands for, so perhaps I should not be surprised if you lot are rude to me." She looked up with raised eyebrows. "You were a bit hard on my poor collarmaid, though."

"Perhaps we were. It was a cute little thing. But then, you didn't really want that collar, did you?" she asked. "I could tell. Why did they give you one?"

For the second time that day, I found myself reeling out the saga of the motorbike and the collar. I was getting better at being dispassionate, but it was all too close for me to succeed in pretending not to care. For a second, she looked almost sympathetic.

"Coming of age presents," she muttered darkly. "They are not for you, they are for your parents, and the sooner you realise that, the better."

Now I was puzzled. "But your diamond ... it's beautiful. Could I see it again?"

She smiled wryly. "Why, thank you. It is, and no doubt it will do its job on Saturday night. But you can't see it," she continued. "It's locked up in my mother's jewel safe and I won't be allowed near it until Saturday."

"Surely every girl dreams of a coming-out gift like that. The others must be green with envy."

"Such a fuss over a bit of squashed carbon. I would swap it for a decent dress without batting an eyelid. Go on, guess what it's worth," she challenged me.

I thought of a reasonable number and then doubled it. "Thirty thou?" I shrugged.

"We have been told we need to insure it for fifty," she replied. "Not that we have. Now guess how much it cost."

"I don't understand what you're getting at..."

"I'll tell you what it cost. Nothing. " She glanced at my puzzled face and went on. "It has been in the family for generations. My great-great-grandfather got it for my great-great-grand mother, just after the Crash. I don't know how, but he could not have paid what it was worth, and I bet the story would stand telling." She frowned at this, which puzzled me.

"Well, that makes it an heirloom. Very nice." For some reason I felt the need to be polite, even sympathetic.

"Exactly. An heirloom; something to stay in the family and keep for the next generation. God forbid we could sell it to use the money now," she growled. "What about this ball? Why do you think we are doing a two-way instead of my own thing?"

I was unsettled now. This was not how Penelope addressed me. I struggled vainly to answer, and eventually managed to think of it from my Mother's point of view. "Wider selection of guests, bigger social event, better turn out... " I trailed off, as I was obviously not getting near the answer she was looking for.