‘What? Are you suggesting I borrow one of these creations to knock the commander’s eye out?’
‘I think we could manage that. Nothing off the peg, of course — this isn’t Marshall and Snelgrove.’ Phyl sniffed. ‘All made to measure here. And it would take my best seamstress a week to make up a frock for you. But — listen. We mostly sell dresses by showing them off on models. That row of dinky chairs, on a Wednesday, is occupied by rich women and the occasional husband. They don’t mind being dragged along to a parade because they get a chance to ogle the mannequins without getting ticked off. The flesh and blood ones, I mean. I’ve got four on the books. Two French, two English. And I have a constantly changing set of dresses for them to show off. I’ve got a dozen demonstration gowns on hangers in the dressing room at the back. You can have your pick of them. Problem is, my girls are all nearly six foot tall and thin as a whistle.’ She eyed Lily critically. ‘You’re slim enough. You’ve got the Wentworth figure like me and your pa. Greyhound rather than fat spaniel like your mother. But I’ll need to do a bit of shortening. That’s where we’ll need the scissors.’ She took them from her pocket and brandished them. ‘Come on! Evening dresses on the left. Let’s pick something out!’
Lily was lost for words in front of the rows of dresses. They ranged from pure white satin to darkest mulberry grosgrain, some a daring four inches below the knee for flappers, some ankle-length for dowagers, all intimidating and out of her reach.
‘Anything but white,’ Lily said, making a start. ‘I don’t want to look as though I’m being presented at court.’
‘And I rule out anything dark. Not for a balmy evening.’
Half the exhibits were whisked aside.
‘Some of these are very décolleté,’ Lily murmured dubiously, passing the remainder in review. ‘And I haven’t got the bust for them. Let’s remember this isn’t a date. I’m going to be working undercover so I ought to have some cover to work under. Something discreet that won’t let me down if I have to run or pick a fight or defend my virtue.’
‘The shoestring straps are out then,’ Phyl said sliding them to the end of the rail. ‘Fusspot! Cinderella’s fairy godmother never had these problems.’
An apricot georgette and a raspberry crêpe de Chine followed them into the rejected section. ‘No bonbons.’
‘That leaves us with a choice of two. Well, that was quick. Some women take three hours. Anyway, either of these models will cut down six inches without ruining the proportions and, in their different ways, they’re both stunners.’