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Dear Sylvia,

I’ve spoken to Rupert, and he insists that we make arrangements to have supper with you and Hugo. Will Saturday suit?

It will be such fun to see our men!

Yours faithfully,

Claire

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Nickelson please?” Sylvia asked, cradling the telephone receiver against her ear.

“Speaking,” said a woman with a soft Scottish accent.

Sylvia straightened. “Mrs. Nickelson, my name is Mrs. Pearsall. I’m one of proprietresses of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions in Maida Vale. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time to discuss a business proposition with you.”

“Yes?” the other woman dragged out the word.

“I’m also a member of a committee that does charitable work to support soldiers’ widows in need,” she said, speaking more rapidly for fear of losing Mrs. Nickelson’s attention. “We are holding a fashion show that would feature a number of London’s best dressmakers to promote the wonderful, skilled work of local dress shops. Given your considerable reputation when it comes to constructing”—she glanced down at her notes—“coats, I felt that our list of participating dressmakers wouldn’t be complete without you.”

There was a pause on the other end of the telephone. “What did you say your name was, Mrs….?”

“Pearsall,” she supplied.

“If you are the owner of a dress shop, then I’m certain you are aware that this is a challenging time,” said Mrs. Nickelson. “I’ve started taking in officers’ uniforms to mend. Male officers.”

“I understand, it’s difficult for all of us right now. However, that’s precisely what we’re trying to address with this fashion show. We wish to make a virtue out of the Board of Trade’s austerity measures, show women that it is possible to enjoy fashion in a time of war, and remind them that their neighborhood dressmaker is the best person to help them do that.”

There was a pause on the other end of the telephone, and then Mrs. Nickelson said, “All right then. What could it hurt?”

Sylvia waggled her pencil in a silent little cheer. “Very good. I will be in touch with further details by letter, or you can telephone Cunningham 4930.”

After they said their goodbyes, Sylvia replaced the receiver and then placed a tick next to Mrs. Nickelson’s name. It had not been easy putting together her list of dressmakers to contact, and not everyone had received her invitation as swiftly or as warmly as Mrs. Nickelson. Since she’d begun making her calls, a few had scoffed at the idea that a fashion show of unknown dressmakers would receive any attention, while switchboard operators had been unable to connect to the exchanges of two, leaving Sylvia wondering whether they had fallen victim to the bombs that had rained down on London at intervals for the past year and a half.

However, she kept ringing friends, making discreet inquiries as to where they had their clothes made, and pulling on the surprising fountain of knowledge that was Miss Reid, who seemed to be an encyclopedia of who specialized in what sort of garment. The additional work kept her occupied, for which she was eternally grateful, because it gave her another reason to avoid Hugo.

When Claire’s invitation to supper had come in the post, Sylvia had thought at first to quietly decline it and save herself the indignity of dressing up and pretending she didn’t know about the letters in Hugo’s desk. However, Rupert was Hugo’s very good friend from school and a member of the same club, so she couldn’t be certain that Rupert wouldn’t also extend the invitation in person.

That morning, she’d caught Hugo at home changing into his dress uniform.

“Claire and Rupert have invited us to supper on Saturday,” she said from the bedroom doorway.

Hugo glanced at her as he adjusted the collar of his jacket. “Really?”

“Apparently Rupert is home on leave, and Claire thinks it would be fun to go dancing afterward. ‘Like old times,’ I think she put it.”

Hugo’s gaze fixed on his reflection in the long bedroom mirror again. “You should say yes.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t we?” he replied, as though he hadn’t spent a fortnight avoiding her.

That morning, before going into the shop, she wrote Claire a reply saying that she and Hugo would be delighted.

The office telephone rang, and Sylvia answered with her usual greeting, “Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions, this is Mrs. Pearsall speaking.”

“Hello, I wanted to inquire about having a new dress made. My daughter is to be married, you see,” said the woman on the other end.