Empty Space
Youve become an empty space, Emily. Do you understand? Empty. Space.
The words left David’s lips flat, with no shade of feelingas if he were reading out the weekend shopping list. He stood by the window, back turned, staring into the back garden. A neighbour walked a cheerful ginger spaniel, the dog intent on pulling towards a puddle.
Emily Watson sat on the settee, clutching a mug of tea that had gone cold at least twenty minutes before. But she held on, not quite knowing what to do with her hands.
What do you mean? she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
Exactly that. David finally turned to face her. He looked almost bored, worn out, as though tasked with explaining the obvious yet again. I look at you and theres nothing there. Just… blankness. Dullness. You walk about, cook, sleepmore like furniture than anything else, Emily. Sturdy, well-made furniture, but only that.
She placed her mug on the little side table. China clinked against wood.
Ten years, she said.
Ten years what?
Weve lived together for ten years.
And so? He shrugged, crossed the room, and dropped into an armchair opposite her. Ten years. Thats long enough to know its pointless from here on out. I dont want this anymore. I want… He paused, searching for the word. I want to feel something again. And youyou dont make me feel anything. I dont see you anymore, even now, even when youre sitting right in front of me.
Emily felt something small, something persistent inside her, bending, just a fraction.
Where am I meant to go, David?
Thats your problem. He swung one leg over the other. You know the flats in my mums name. So, technically, you dont have a legal foot to stand on. Im not hurrying youbut is a week enough? Youll find somewhere.
A week will do, she echoed, her voice mechanical.
Good. He picked up his phone from the coffee table, already scrolling with his thumb, conversation over.
Emily stood. She walked to the bedroom, shut the door behind her, and lay on top of the bedspread, eyes on the ceiling. It was white, with a faint stain in the corner that she had promised herself shed paint over two years ago, but never did.
Behind the wall, the television flickered quietly. David had found another distraction.
She did not cry. Simply lay there, looking at the ceiling and its stain. Inside, there was a silencea hush, like the silence after glass shatters in a house.
***
The week blurred, each day as shapeless as the last. David was hardly ever at home, coming in late and leaving early. They spoke little, if at all. Emily packed her things, which turned out to be pitifully fewa reminder that she had never really taken up space in this flat. A couple of dresses, a winter coat, a box of old photographs from another life, some sewing magazines she hadnt opened in years.
She left the sewing magazines behind.
No, she turned back. Picked them up.
She called her cousin on her mothers side, Aunt Ruth, who shed last seen seven years ago at the funeral. Ruth listened, then was silent for a long while.
Come down, love. Ive got a roomsmall, but its here. Stay as long as you need.
Aunt Ruth lived on the outskirts of Leeds, at the edge of a sprawl of identical terraces. Emily had always hated the area: council blocks, peeling porch canopies, plane trees dumping catkins every spring. The only shop for three blocks was a limp little Co-op.
She arrived with two bags and a suitcase late on Friday.
Goodness, youve lost weight! Ruth exclaimed at the door. She was short and round, with a kindly, line-creased face; she smelled like menthol rub and something stewy. Dont just stand there, come in. Fancy some dinner?
Not hungry, Aunt Ruth.
Dont be daft. And off Ruth bustled to the kitchen.
The room was small, with a narrow single, an old wardrobe, and a window facing the neighbouring wall. The wallpaper had faded to an unnamed colouronce, probably blue. On the windowsill were three pots of geraniums, bright and alive.
Emily set down her bags and perched on the bed. The mattress creaked a little.
Tea? Ruth called from the kitchen.
Yes, please, she replied.
And somehow, in that little room, with the geraniums and their faded blue wallpaper, at last, she cried.
***
Then time slowed into a muddled, heavy limbo.
Waking was the worst: mornings where life seemed pointless, every dawn as empty as the last. Shed lie listening to the sound of Ruths kettle, to the screech of brakes outside, half-hoping for any reason not to leave the bed. Then shed get up, wash, drift to the kitchen, watch the sun burn a square onto the wall.
Ruth was wise. She didnt prod Emily for details, or offer advice, or say, theres plenty more fish at your age. She cooked Emily stews and let her use the telly, and sometimes, in the evening, shed lay out cards.
Fancy a game of Snap?
Emily always agreed. They barely spoke as they played.
Emily had a little cash lefther small savings account had eight hundred pounds left, which was a months living, maybe a little more if she stretched. She stretched.
She still worked at the building firm as their bookkeeper, and, thank God, hadnt lost the job. Three days a week she crossed the city towards the old office, processed invoices, pocketed her monthly pay: five hundred and fifty pounds. Out of that, she handed Ruth what she could for the room, though Ruth refused to take anything until Emily quietly left an envelope on the kitchen table.
Evenings were the hardest. Alone in her tiny room, her mind circled the same track: ten years. Ten years of breakfasts, sick days, Christmas trees, Medway getaways, blazing rows, careful reconciliations. Hed looked at her and seen void. Did nothing really remain? Had it all burned out? Both of themmaybe.
Sometimes shed scroll up, reaching back to old messages. Photos from Devon, three years ago, both of them laughing. She couldnt remember what was so funny.
On nights like that, shed turn in early, pulling the covers over her head.
One evening, Ruth popped her head around the door.
Emily, are you asleep?
No.
I can tell. A pause. Do you want something to eat?
No, thanks.
Well, just lie there, then. Another pause. You know, I threw my husband out, too, long before you were born. Thought Id die of it. Didnt, though.
The door shut. Ruth went back to her telly.
Emily stared into the darkness, thinking: fifty, nearly. Start again. As if its that easy.
***
She found the sewing machine at the start of her second month.
Ruth had asked her to clear the top cupboard in the hallway. Probably fifteen years worth of rubbish up there. Emily agreedshe wanted the distraction.
She pulled out old issues of Womans Weekly, a broken umbrella, tins of buttons, perfume bottles long evaporated, a stack of faded cards. Then, buried at the back, her hand knocked something heavy, wrapped in a worn bedsheet.
She unwrapped it.
A sewing machineold, cast iron, with gold-flowered flourishes half-worn but still handsome. The plate read Singer in curly letters.
Aunt Ruth! Emily called.
Ruth peered in, a dishcloth thrown over her shoulder.
Oh, the old Singer! she said, half laughing. That was my sister Margarets. Id quite forgotten. Dont know if its still working. Hasnt seen daylight for donkeys years.
Mind if I try it?
Ruth considered her for a moment.
You know how?
Used to, once upon a time.
Have at it, then.
Emily lugged the Singer to her room, set it on the desk. She wiped the dust, removed a fossilised, cotton-wrapped needle, found bits and bobs in one of Margarets old tins: rusty scissors, some stubby spools, a metal tin for needles, a tape measure stiff with age.
There was even a tiny bottle of machine oil, all dried up. She bought new oil at the hardware shop, cleaned out every gear, gently turned the wheel. By degrees, it loosenedstiff at first, then yielding, happier.
Emily spent hours hunched over the machine, reacquainting herself with bobbins and threads, feeding an old bit of calico beneath the foot, pressing the pedal.
The needle began to chattera soft mechanical song. Suddenly, Emily felt an odd surge: pain tinged with life, like blood returning to a long-numbed arm.
She stopped and checked the seam. It was straight. Almost perfect.
From some forgotten corner of herself, something stirred.
***
At eighteen, Emily was always sewing. Anything she could geta blouse out of a chintz remnant, an altered skirt from her mums old dress. There was a tailoress, Mrs. Barker, across from the college, hands always pricked and pitted from pins. Emily would spend lunches watching her cut, measure, edge a lapelMrs. Barker would explain, seeing the spark of real interest in Emilys eyes.
Then university happened, then David, then marriage, then endless everyday chaos. The little sewing machine Emily had bought with her first pay went as soon as she moved in with Davidhis flat was tiny and he said it cluttered up the place. She didnt argue; she was in love and thought it didnt matter now.
And years went by, the habit lost. Sometimes, passing a shop window, shed dream of making a dress but never did.
Now, here she was, in a cramped room above Leeds, a Singer trembling on the desk, and the needle making a neat, comforting racket.
The next day, she went to the market. Not a fancy shop, but an open-air stall: bolts of fabric, scraps cheap as chips.
Emily ran her palms over linen, viscose, soft wool. She stopped at a stack of slate-blue crepematte, simple, quietly beautiful.
How much is there? she asked the woman behind the stall.
Four and a half metres.
Ill take all of it.
The seller wrapped it up.
Whats it for?
A dress, said Emily, surprising herself with the certainty.
***
She cut on the floorlaying the crepe out, pinning a pattern sketched from memory and a battered magazine from Ruths cupboard. Nothing fancya shift dress, belted, with a collar and three-quarter sleeves.
Ruth watched, unspoken, only bringing in a mug of tea once.
Thanks, Emily said, not looking up.
Nice colour, Ruth remarked.
Emily hesitated before the first cutthen, with the sharp scissors shed found tucked in a drawer, she sliced through. The fear vanished after that first shear.
She spent three evenings sewing; not for want of skill, but by choice. No rushafter the accounts at work, shed come home, settle at the Singer, and sew. Side seams first, then the zip, then a collar that resisted her at the start, sleeves that needed three attempts before they hung right.
Sometimes a mistake crept inshed pause, undo, do it again, stitching in silence. The Singer sang quietly. In those hours, she forgot about David. There was only the fabric, the thread, the line of the collar point.
She clipped the last thread on the third night, pressed the seams, hung the dress by a coat hanger, and stepped back.
It was a good dress. Slate-blue, simple, fitting just so, the fabrics soft lines making it beautiful by being unambitious. The tie waist sat well, the collar held up the neck, elegant and neat.
She tried it on in Ruths hall, in front of the only full-length mirror in the flat. The mirrors edges had started to fade, but the reflection was honest.
Emily stared at herself for a full minute. Or more.
A woman looked back. Not nothing, not furnituresimply a woman, fifty years old, with dark hair knotted simply, her back straight, her gaze holding a quiet, halting flicker of light.
The dress fit perfectly.
Emily! Ruth called from the kitchen. Come tell me how it turned out.
Emily entered the kitchen in her new dress.
Ruth looked around from the hob. She held the moment in silence.
Well, thats more like it, she said. Then turned back to her stew, but Emily saw the smile.
Back in her room, she sat on the bed, touching the fabric against her knee. The crepe felt soft, pleasant. The dress hugged hernot tight, not awkward, just right.
Inside, that stiffening bit of self bent on the first night began, ever so slightly, to straighten again.
***
She wore the dress on Saturday.
Just a quick errand: Ruth wanted blood pressure tablets from the chemist. Emily slipped on the blue dress, found a pale jacket in her suitcase, and left the house.
The streets suited her stride this timeOctober air brisk and clear, plane trees yellow.
She walked differently somehow. Not hurried, not escapingjust walking, and noticing: a ginger cat gazing from a ground-floor window; a granny knitting on a bench; a small boy dragging his mum gleefully towards a puddle.
The chemist was a few streets away. Next door, a small café shed never noticed before, painted with the sign Fresh cakes and coffee.
She went in. Indulged, ordered a cappuccino and a croissantbecause why not today?
The café was tiny, with just five tables. In the corner, a silver-haired woman with sharp earrings sipped from a china cup, her phone beside her. She had the calm, tidy look of someone used to being in command of a room.
Emily settled by the window.
Ten minutes passed. She watched the street, sipped her coffee, thought of nothing grand. It felt good. Just goodfor no grand reason at all.
Excuse me.
The silver-haired woman leaned towards her.
Hope Im not intruding, she began. But your dress is rather beautiful. Mind if I ask where you bought it?
Emily was caught off guard.
I made it myself.
The woman lit up.
Did you really? Are you a dressmaker?
No. I justwell, I just sew. I used tonow, I suppose, Im starting again.
That cut The woman examined the dress, shrewdly. Looks plain, but its very well done. You can tell by the way it hangs. I used to know about these thingsworked in a tailors, years ago.
Thank you, said Emily, not sure what else to offer.
Im Margaret, the woman introduced herself, her smile reassuring. Just Margaret.
Emily.
Emily, I have a question. If its odd, just say no. Margaret cradled her cup. I turn sixty-five in three weeks. I want something special to wear at the celebration, but I cant find anythingeverythings either frumpy or too youthful. But that dressits exactly what I want. Would you make one?
Emily looked at her. Margaret held her gaze, calm and direct.
Something shifted inside her.
Ill do it, Emily said.
***
Margaret visited two days later, bringing her own fabric: rich burgundy crepe, barely shining, beautiful stuff.
Emily took measurements, wrote everything down in a notebook. Then, at Ruths kitchen table, she sketched designs until Margaret stopped her on onea gently flared dress, three-quarter sleeves, a modest V-neck.
Thats it, Margaret said. Thats the one.
Right. Itll be ready in two weeks.
How much do I owe you?
Emily hesitated. She hadnt really thought about payment.
Im not sure, she admitted.
Margaret nodded. Let me tell you what a proper tailor would charge. She named a sum. Ill pay you thatits fair.
It was what Emily made as a bookkeeper in two weeks.
She was silent for a beat.
Deal.
After Margaret left, Ruth poked her head in.
Not bad money, that, Ruth remarked.
Yes, Emily agreed.
Ruth hesitated. Youre a good sewer, Emily. You ought to keep at it.
Emily looked at her.
Aunt Ruthcan I ask? Why did you take me in? We hardly knew each other.
A small smile from Ruth. Youre Jenny’s daughter. And Jenny helped me, way back, when I was in a fix. Im just doing the same. And off she went.
Emily moved to the window. On the wall across the way, she saw graffiti shed never noticed: bright blue blossoms winding up the brick.
***
Sewing for Margaret was differentsewing for someone else, a responsibility Emily felt on her shoulders every stitch. The burgundy crepe was expensive; mistakes werent an option. She cut carefullyonce sure, she sliced straight and sure.
Five days work, no wasted movements. She finished the seams, hand-stitched the zip for smoothness, hemmed the skirt with invisible stitches.
When Margaret came for a fitting, her face told everything.
Oh, my word, she said, gazing at herself in the hall mirror. This is someone else.
This is you, Emily told her. In a very good dress.
Margaret shook her head. Noits different. When something fits, you stand taller. Do you feel that? I stand here and dont want to slouch.
A tweak on the skirt was all that remained. Margaret didnt want to take off the dress.
Could I ask something? she began while Emily marked the seam. My friend Charlotte has a big birthday coming up too, and shes desperate for a dress. Could I give her your number?
Of course.
Andwell, my sons fiancée is getting remarried next year. Shes awkward to fithates everything. Would you consider?
Emily straightened, smiled.
Id be happy to.
Margaret noddedthat was what shed hoped.
***
The next two months were chaos in the happiest way.
Charlotte wanted a suit. Then came a callCharlottes friend, wanting a skirt and blouse. Then another, a young woman needing an evening dress. Emilys photo wound up on social media: finally, someone who makes clothes for real women! Suddenly, bookingsa rush of them.
Ruths room ended up overflowing with fabric. The Singer rattled every night; sometimes even in the morning. Ruth never complained, merely appeared one day amongst the rolls.
Emily, you need more space.
I know, Emily sighed.
You cant do it here forever, love.
I know.
She thought about it. Two months earningsmore than six months at the firm. She looked for premises. The first two were all wrong: dark, low, musty. The thirdperfect: a high-ceilinged room above a Victorian shopfront in town, bright, airy, hardwood floors. Pricey, though.
She did the sums. Rent plus a real sewing machine, an overlocker, a cutting tableshed need all her savings and some borrowed cash too.
On impulse, she called Margaret.
Margaret, can I ask your advice?
Always.
Emily explained. Margaret was silent for a moment.
Take the studio. Ill lend you what you needno interest. Pay me when you can.
I cant accept
Emily, Margaret interrupted gently, you made me the best dress of my life. Let me return the favour. This isnt charity. Its what people do.
Emily could only sit, listening.
And besides, Margaret added with a soft laugh, Ive already got four more friends waiting for your services. The sooner you have your own place, the better for all of us.
***
Emily opened her dressmaking studio at the start of December.
She brought her Singer, though it was more ornament now than workhorse: the professional machine she bought was far nimbler. But the Singer stood by the window, a talisman.
The studio was light and calm. There was a cutting table, two workstations, a shelf of fabric and trims, a tall mirror. Her own sketches framed the walls. Ruth toured the room, touched the shelves, stopped in front of the mirror.
Its lovely, she said.
Aunt Ruth? Emily said softly, taking her hand. I need to give you something.
She handed over an envelope. Ruth started to object.
No, Emily
Yes. For the room. For these months; I kept track.
I never did
Dont argue. Please.
Ruth took the envelope. Hovered, then declared, I need a new fridge. Old ones like a tractor.
Lets get you a new fridge, Emily smiled.
Off they went to the appliance store, Ruth weighing every door and shelf, finally settling on a big, silver model.
Grand, this, she murmured, as pleased as if it were a new car.
Emily saw, then and there, that shed made something right after all.
***
December brought a deluge of ordersdresses for Christmas, office parties, sparkly blouses. Emily worked late, sipping her third mug of tea, stitching into the night.
By January, the pace eased. Emily hired her first assistant, young Aliceskilled at seams but shy with patterns. Emily taught her, found herself enjoying the process: showing, explaining, seeing real progress in someone else.
She eventually left the building firm, phoning in her resignation to a disappointed manager and agreeing to stay until April.
In March, a stranger rang upanother seamstress, wanting lessons.
Im not a teacher, Emily protested.
But you clearly know how. Margaret recommended you.
Emily hesitated. All rightcome round; lets try.
One student brought another, then another. Soon there was a small classa different sort of work, but it fit right in.
That spring, Emily moved out of Ruths.
She found a little flat not far from the studio: a third-floor place, bright enough, plain white walls, no stains. Her own things at last: dishes, curtains shed sewn herself.
She spent the first evening at her kitchen table, tea in hand, looking out over a patch of birch trees.
Her own flat. Not quite homely yet, but hers.
***
She bumped into David in late May.
She was walking back from the studio, enjoying the scent of lilacs in the evening. Her bag was heavy with fabric samples; the sun tinged the new leaves gold.
He appeared down the path.
She recognized him instantly, though he was alteredthinner, poorly suited jacket, gait less certain.
He stopped.
Emily kept walking, but as she drew near, he said, Emily.
She stopped.
Hello, David.
He looked at her, his eyes holding something she didnt quite recognisea hint of lostness.
You look well.
Thank you.
A pause. Hands jammed in his pockets.
Where are you off to?
Home.
Live nearby?
I do.
A woman with a pram rattled past, breaking the silence.
I can we talk for a bit? He faltered. Just for a moment, please.
She studied him. He looked tirednot just called-from-work tired, but deeper, as if luck had deserted him.
Lets sit over there, she suggested.
They settled onto a bench. David stared at his clasped hands.
I dont know how to begin, he confessed.
Just as you are.
She left, he said eventually. The woman… the one I left you for. She walked out half a year ago. Told me I was dull, that I had no drive. He snorted. Can you believe it?
Emily nodded.
Im living with Mum now. The firm closed down. Feels like… like its all fallen apart. I keep thinking I made a mistakea big one, Em.
She listened. Let him speak.
I had everything. You did everything. You were kind. Real. And I I thought I was looking for something else, but didnt even know what. Called you…empty space. He grimaced. That was cruel. Unforgivable, really. I think about it. A lot.
Emily watched the birches swaying gently as the air moved. Somewhere, someone burned sausages, the sharp scent drifting over.
David, she said. It isnt a crime to stop loving. That happens.
He was silent.
But the way you said itempty space, furniture, move outthat was cruel. Not because youre a bad man, but because it hurt, and I held on to that for a long time.
I know, he whispered.
You know, though… in a way, you did me a favour.
He looked at her, bewildered.
You pushed me away. And God, I was scared, David. Leaving with two bags and less than a grand in my account, not knowing what next. I stayed with my aunt, cried myself to sleep for weeks. It was dreadful.
Emily
Wait. Let me finish. In that little room, I found an old sewing machine and remembered what I lovedthat I used to make things. Things I never did, after you said the machine took up too much space. Now I sew again. It started with one dress for me, then for others. Now I have my own studio, David. In town. People come, I work hard, and I love it.
He watched her, eyes unfamiliar.
If you hadnt made me leave, Id still be theremaking tea, wasting years. Im not saying youre my hero, but things are what they are.
So you havent forgiven?
Emily thought.
Im not angry now. But Im not going back. Not out of grudge, just… because this life is mine, David. Maybe for the first time.
He looked off down the street.
Theres no chance
No, Emily said, gently but firmly. No, David.
A soft, lengthy silence. Not heavysimply lingering between them.
Hows Ruth? he asked. He remembered her.
Well. Got her a new fridge. I visit on Sundays. We play cards.
A wry, genuine smile from David.
You always were a good person, Em.
Youre not bad, David. Just…we didnt fit. Maybe we never did.
She stood, hoisted her sample bag.
Need to go? he asked.
I do. Busy day tomorrow. Client at eight.
He stood too. Hesitated. Im glad youre doing well. Truly.
And I wish the same for you.
It was true. No bitterness, no triumph, simply honest. She wanted him to be wellno more, no less.
She strode off through the trees towards her new home. Could almost feel him watching for a few paces, then not.
The birches cast their slender shadows across the pavement. Emily walked through the shade. Her bag was heavy with moss-green wool and a folder full of trims. Tomorrow, Mrs. Grey, the retired English teacher, wanted a skirt for winter: not frilly, not tightsomething decent, for the theatre or the doctors, you see.
Emily considered how to lay it out, how to cut it to suit Mrs. Greys short, round frame. A straight skirt needed trickery to flatter the right way.
As she pondered, she noticed the scent of lilac thickening in the evening. A small boy breezed by on his scooter, belting out a tune from a cartoon. Someone in a ground-floor flat was cooking chipsthe smell was entirely domestic.
***
That night, she didnt work late. Shed promised herself, no noise from the machine after seven. She just went back for her notebook of client measurements, resting on the cutting table by the Singers side.
Emily stroked the old black metal.
Thank you, she said aloud.
It was a little ridiculous, thanking a sewing machine. But who to thankRuth, Margaret, Alice who learned so keenly? Maybe all; maybe luck itself, which had begun as injustice and landed her here, in this bright room above the city.
She gathered her things, flicked off the lights, locked the door, and descended the creaky step.
Leeds murmured as evening pressed in. People walked; cars rolled past; somewhere, kids laughed. A simple May nightnothing extraordinary.
She stopped at a bakery, bought a seeded loaf and honey from a local woman.
Lovely batch this morning, the woman said. Try some tomorrowyoull thank me.
I will. Thank you.
Emily left, carrying honey, bread, and her notebook. Over her shoulders was the same linen dress shed stitched last weekivory, belted, wide-sleeved. It suited her.
She walked hometen minutesfirst thinking of the skirt for Mrs. Grey, lists of thread and zips, then stopped thinking, just walked.
The sky was still pale rose. Swifts darted overhead. Life bustled, full of all its complications.
Happiness after divorce!as silly magazine headlines would have it. As though it were a special kind. Emily never named it so. She just thought: Im on my way home. Tomorrow, an early start. Work Im good atwork I love. Ruth, waiting for their Sunday chat. Clients who leave happy. The Singer by the window. Swifts and sky.
It was enough.
Not magical, not meagre. Simply enough. Maybe thats what everyone means by starting anew, by second youth. Not all at once, not overnight. Justone dress, then another, then the studio; new flat; a May night with bread and honey.
She dialled Ruth.
Aunt Ruth, you in?
Of course! Watching telly. Whats up?
Nothing. Just saying hi.
A pause.
Visiting on Sunday?
I will. Shall I bake something?
Apple tart, if its not a botherI do love apple.
Apple it is.
Emily pocketed her phone, let herself in, and climbed to the third floor.
Her flat still smelled faintly of linenlast night, shed been cutting on the kitchen table while the rain ran down the windows. Shed tidied up, but the scent lingered. A good smell.
She set the kettle on, sliced the bread, spooned out honey. Amber, clear, fragrant.
The swifts still circled, though slowerit was nearly dark.
She buttered her bread, tasted the honey, and agreed with the bakerit truly was wonderful.
***
Morning found her up, sunlight streaming in. Mrs. Grey arrived promptly at eight, brisk, forthright, snow-white curls styled perfectly, gaze direct behind her glasses.
Good morning, Emily, she said at the door. I brought a picture. Something just like this, but a little less full.
She produced a photo.
Emily nodded. Nice skirt. Suitable. Shed enjoy the cut.
Come, lets talk through it.
Mrs. Grey sat, hands folded.
You know, she glanced round the studio, Ive wanted a skirt like this for years. Shops never have what I want, this was recommendedmy neighbour swears she felt herself again in your dress. A high compliment, in my view.
The highest, Emily smiled.
She reached for her tape measure and notebook.
If youd stand here, please…
Mrs. Grey straightened. Caught her reflection in the big studio mirror.
You know, Id given up caring how I look, being retired and all. Then I thought, why should I? I hope Ive a good number of years aheadwhy not look fine?
Quite right, Emily replied.
She set about taking measurements, plotting lines in her head as the sunlight pooled in from the sash window. The Singer waited by the wall, gold scrolls shining faintly. Alice was due at ten, another client at eleven. And life rustled along, ordinary and beautiful.
