The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [107]
As I stepped into the shop, a wave of perfume transported me back to that time when I had still accompanied my aunt on shopping expeditions. And there behind the counter, as if memory had conjured her, was a woman whose blond hair was coiled around her head in exactly the same style as my aunt’s. She was talking to a customer in a neat shirtwaist dress. Neither of them noticed me and I ducked behind a rack of jackets. I was looking at the price tags—one was thirty pounds, the next thirty-five—when I spotted a girl cleaning a mirror. I made my way over.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for a nice dress.”
In the mirror the girl studied my pleated skirt and flowery blouse. “Do you have a particular occasion in mind?” she said.
“My wedding.”
“Your wedding?”
Was no one but Nell pleased about my marriage? I turned to leave, thinking perhaps Vicky could alter the green dress; if not, I would wear my church clothes. Hugh wouldn’t mind. Over and over he had said there would be no fuss. But the girl was still speaking.
“Congratulations,” she said. “Do you have a favourite colour? A favourite style? You’re either a small or a petite. Let me show you some possibilities.”
For the next hour Deirdre brought a stream of dresses to the changing room and praised or rejected them as I tried them on. She had never met Mr. Sinclair but, being Kirkwall born and bred, she knew the name. Finally we settled on a dress the colour of the sea on a sunny day with tiny pink rosebuds around the neck, cuffs, and hem. Then she urged new underwear, new tights and shoes. I refused to buy a handbag but succumbed to a nightdress. When everything was packed in boxes and bags, including Vicky’s tights, the bill came to fifty-three pounds. Deirdre walked me to the door of the shop.
“I hope you get the good weather,” she said. “And I hope you’ll be very, very happy.”
As I walked down the winding street, people kept smiling at me—first two middle-aged women, then a woman with a baby, then a grizzled man in a tweed cap and anorak, then two girls my own age. When a boy on a tricycle beamed at me, I finally understood it was because of my own broad smile.
The last days of my unmarried life passed as slowly as a snail creeping along a wall, as swiftly as a gannet diving into the sea. Every morning I gave Nell lessons; in the afternoons, when it was fine, we visited our favourite haunts. With Vicky’s help I drew up a timetable for the week of my honeymoon: piano lessons were arranged, visits to two families with children Nell’s age. Meanwhile Hugh worked long hours at his desk and paid several visits to Kirkwall. In the evenings we sat in the library or sometimes walked across the fields down to the cove. In moving to London I was breaking my vow to always live beside the sea, and I tried to store up the sights and sounds and smells of the ocean. One evening as we walked along the shore, I asked why he kept his door locked. Months ago Vicky had confessed that she’d cautioned me about locking mine, not out of the fear of Seamus sleepwalking but because Nell had ransacked Miss Cameron’s room.
Hugh bent to examine a starfish, its pale pink arms curled stiffly in a strand of seaweed, and I thought perhaps he would dodge my question. But when he had put it back in the water he said, “I’m afraid you have an anxious husband.”
“Fiancé,” I corrected. I had only a few days to use the word.
“Fiancé,” he said, kissing my hand. Then he told me he’d been looking into finding a tutor to help me prepare for my exams—“you