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“Sorry. Can you still see anything?”
“No.” There was nothing but darkness before my eyes. “Why can’t I see where we’re going?”
“You’re not allowed to know exactly where the chronograph is kept,” said Gideon. He put one hand on my back and propelled me forward. It was an odd feeling, walking along unable to see my way, and Gideon’s hand on my back made it worse. “An unnecessary precaution, if you ask me,” he said. “This house is a labyrinth. You’d never find your way back to the room. And Mr. George thinks you’re beyond any suspicion of treachery anyway.”
That was nice of Mr. George, even if I didn’t know exactly what it meant.
My shoulder collided with some hard object. “Ow!”
“Hold her hand, Gideon, you stupid oaf,” said Mr. George, sounding rather annoyed. “She’s not a supermarket trolley.”
I felt a warm, dry hand closing round mine and jumped nervously.
“It’s okay,” said Gideon. “Only me. We go down a couple of steps now. Watch out.”
For a while we went on in silence, side by side, sometimes straight ahead, then down some stairs or around a corner, and I concentrated as hard as I could on not letting my hand shake. Or sweat. I didn’t want Gideon thinking he made me feel awkward. Did he notice how fast my pulse was pounding?
Then my right foot suddenly met nothing, and I stumbled and would have fallen over completely if Gideon hadn’t caught me with both his hands and put me back on solid ground. Now his hands were around my waist.
“Careful, there’s a step here,” he said.
“Yes, thanks. I noticed when my ankle turned over,” I said indignantly.
“For heaven’s sake, Gideon, do be careful,” said Mr. George. “Here, you carry the hat, and I’ll help Gwyneth.”
It was easier to walk along holding Mr. George’s hand. Maybe because I could concentrate more on the steps I was taking than on not letting my hand shake. Our walk lasted half an eternity. Yet again I had a feeling we were going down into the depths of the earth. When we finally stopped, I suspected they’d taken me on a couple of long detours just to confuse me.
A door was opened and closed again, and at last Mr. George took my blindfold off.
“Here we are.”
“Exquisite as a young May morning,” said Dr. White. But he was talking to Gideon.
o;Enchanting,” said Madame Rossini, pushing me over to the mirror.
“Oh!” I said, surprised. Who’d have thought a sofa cover could look so good? And me in it. My waist seemed so small, my eyes so blue. Wow! Although my low décolletage reminded me of an opera singer about to explode.
“We’ll put a leetle lace in there,” said Madame Rossini, who had followed the direction of my eyes. “After all, it is an afternoon gown. In the evening, yes. You have to show what you ’ave got. I hope to have the pleasure of making you a ball gown! And now for your ’air.”
“Am I going to wear a wig?”
“No,” said Madame Rossini. “You are a young girl, and it is afternoon. If you make your ’air pretty and wear a ’at, that will do. We need do nothing with your skin, it is pure alabaster. And that pretty crescent-shaped mark on your temple could be a beauty spot. Très chic!”
Madame Rossini used heated rollers on my hair, and then skillfully fixed the front of it to my parting with hairpins and let the rest fall in soft ringlets to my shoulders. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and admired myself.
I couldn’t help thinking of that costume party that Cynthia had thrown last year. I’d gone as a bus stop, for want of any better ideas, and at the end of the evening, I felt like getting hit by a bus wouldn’t be so bad, because people kept asking me annoying questions about the timetable and when the next bus would come along.
Ha! If I’d only known Madame Rossini then! I’d have been the star of the evening!
I turned back to the mirror once again, fascinated, but that was all over when Madame Rossini came up behind me and put “the ’at” on my head. It was a monstrous confection of straw with feathers and blue ribbons, and I thought it spoiled the whole outfit. I tried to persuade Madame Rossini that I didn’t need to wear it, but she wouldn’t give way.
“No, impossible! Zis is not a beauty competition, ma chérie. We must have authenticity.”
I looked for my mobile in the jacket of my school uniform. “Could you at least take a photo of me—without the hat?”
Madame Rossini laughed. “Bien sûr, my dear!”
I posed, and Madame Rossini took about thirty photos of me from all sides, some of them even with the hat on. At least Lesley would have a good laugh.
