Margaret gasped; she couldn’t help herself. Kat was everything she had hoped she would be. She had an oval face with creamy skin and high cheekbones. Her eyes were blue-grey, their paleness emphasised by black mascara on long lashes, and her eyebrows were sculpted to a dramatic V. She looked like a model. She was tall and sophisticated and elegant, though some of her height had to be credited to the heels on her shoes, which looked as if they were five inches. The classic design of her black tailored costume, with its pencil skirt and buttoned kick-pleat at the back, showed off her long legs to perfection. The cut of her jacket accentuated the smallness of her waist, while drawing attention to the curve of her hips and the fullness of her bust. The finishing touches to the stylish ensemble were a bright red silk scarf round her slender neck, and a black felt trilby that she wore tilted over her left eye. Katarina Kaplinski looked magnificent.
Margaret stood open-mouthed, wondering what an austere young woman who was possibly a spy would wear under her suit. She imagined her in a scarlet blouse with matching underwear, or perhaps steel grey, the year’s most fashionable colour. To her surprise, and disappointment, Kat wore white. A white silk blouse, white underskirt trimmed with narrow white lace and beneath that a plain white brassiere and camiknickers. If it hadn’t been for her smooth, dark brown hair tied back in a tight ballerina-bun, and ruby-red lips, Katarina Kaplinski would have looked quite ordinary.
While Ivy helped Kat out of her own clothes Violet lifted her new red and black costume from the rail and Sylvie stood by with scissors and pins. Mrs Horton nodded to Margaret, which was her cue to hang up Kat’s clothes. By the time she returned Kat was in costume and putting it through its paces. Arms in the air, clicking her fingers in time with her feet, which were pounding the floor boards so quickly they were a blur, Kat danced the Flamenco. Suddenly she gave a small jump, brought her feet together, whipped her arms down by her side and flicked her head forward in a tilt.
Margaret held her breath and when Kat looked up, she clapped wildly.
Mrs Horton shot her a sideways look. But Margaret couldn’t help herself. ‘Wonderful,’ she shouted, ‘the dress, the dance--’
‘Thank you, Margaret!’ Mrs Horton glared at her. Margaret knew it wasn’t her place to comment and looked at the floor. Sylvie stifled a giggle. But the others, seeing the seams in the side of Kat’s dress, which had weakened from her vigorous dancing, had more important things on their minds.
‘I don’t understand it. The costume appears to be a little tighter,’ Violet said, diplomatically. ‘Is it possible that you’ve put on a pound or two, Miss K--?’
‘No, it is not!’ Kat spat. ‘How dare you accuse me of putting on weight? You obviously made a mistake when you measured me. Or you cut it out wrongly. Where are my measurements?’ Kat threw her head back haughtily and stood as tall as she could. Her grey eyes hardened with anger while Mrs Horton slowly and methodically leafed through the pages of the measurements book.
‘Miss Kaplinski, your measurements were taken correctly and they were written down correctly,’ she said at last. No one, not even Kat, dare suggest Mrs Horton had made a mistake. ‘The measurements were then transferred to the pattern, which was cut correctly. Neither myself nor Violet has made a mistake.’
‘Never mind, dear, the seams can be let out a touch,’ Violet said. ‘Leave it to me. Come in the day after tomorrow, same time, and I’ll have it ready for you. Good as new, it’ll be.’
Kat didn’t look pleased, but she nodded.
Margaret brought Kat’s clothes while Ivy and Violet helped her out of her costume. As Ivy was fastening the buttons at the back of her own skirt, Kat turned this way and that, looking at herself in the long mirror. Margaret could see Ivy getting more and more frustrated. Finally, when she had fastened the last button, Ivy stepped back and Violet helped Kat on with her jacket.
Before she left Kat turned and smiled – not at the women who had helped her, but at her reflection in the mirror. Kat was a madam, all right!
The following morning Goldie Trick, whose real name was Doreen, was due for a costume fitting. She was late.
Sylvie nudged Margaret. ‘She brings us treats,’ she whispered, as they waited. ‘Chocolates for the sewing room and biscuits for Mrs Horton. Thank you presents, she says, for the work we do. No one knows where she gets ‘em from, with everything being rationed, but they say her young man’s a gangster, so I expect he gets ‘em on the black market. Most of the girls look down their noses at ‘im, but they never refuse to eat the chocolates he buys with ‘is ill-gotten gains – as Ivy says.’ Sylvie giggled.
‘It’s very kind of her.’
‘It is, but she wouldn’t eat ‘em anyway. She’s always on a diet.’
‘He’s not only a gangster, he’s one of Oswald Mosley’s lot. A Nazi,’ Ivy said. ‘And his generosity often coincides with Goldie turning up for work with bruises on her arms, or swollen eyes from crying. It’s when that particular penny dropped that the girls began to give him a wide berth. He’s a bad lot!’
‘You look a bit like her, Margaret,’ Sylvie said. ‘You’ve got a tipped-up nose and your hair’s the same colour.’
‘What, mucky blonde?’
‘No, honey blonde. But you’re right, Sylvie,’ Violet said. ‘How tall are you, Margaret, about five feet seven?’
Margaret nodded. ‘About that.’
‘Here,’ Ivy said, taking a tape measure from the table, ‘let’s see what size
