She opened up the box. It was full of carefully saved and beautifully folded men’s clothes wrapped in tissue. Designer labels, high-end stuff, all of it. Some of it was garish—bright colors and the occasional rhinestone. Plenty of it was just perfectly normal, but beautifully cut and made.

Cormac blinked as she pulled out a snow-white shirt made of a heavy, billowing material, then shook her head and expertly folded it up again.

“Was this . . . was this yours?” he asked tentatively. Kim-Ange looked at him to check he wasn’t being facetious, but he was clearly just interested.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s like keeping an old photo album.”

She grabbed an exquisite black cashmere jumper.

“Oof,” she said. “Dries van Noten. I bought it in Antwerp.” She smiled to herself. “What a weekend that was.”

She offered it to him.

“It would fit you,” she said. “He cuts Dutch.”

Cormac didn’t know what that meant, but there was no denying it was an exquisitely beautiful piece of clothing, even to him, and he had stopped letting his mum buy his M&S undies only when he joined the army.

“Wow,” he said.

“Have it,” said Kim-Ange. “Seriously. It’s no use to me.”

She was wearing a lemon-yellow half scarf, half top, with a pink waistcoat fringed in fake fur over the top of it. Her hair was festooned with pink barrettes.

“I’ll . . . I’ll bring it straight back.”

Kim-Ange waved her hand as Cormac pulled it over his head. It fitted in a way most people would have said was perfect, but Cormac found extremely tight.

“Oh yes,” said Kim-Ange. “Have you got a white T-shirt? Brand new, nothing faded or grungy in the wash.”

He had a pack of three undershirts, in fact, and Kim-Ange announced that as absolutely fine. The trousers were still a horror story, but there wasn’t much to be done about that, and his black desert boots were passable, if disappointing.

She sent him off for a shower and shave and demanded to see him at the end.

“I’m just going to do your eyebrows,” she said. “Sit down.”

“You’re going to do my what?!”

“Just remove the spare hairs. Tidy you up, nothing dramatic.”

“My eyebrows? What’s wrong with my eyebrows?”

“You just have to be . . . a little groomed, that’s all.”

Kim-Ange’s eyebrows looked like they’d been painted on with Dulux. She caught him staring at hers.

“No, I promise. Just a quick shaping. Let me!”

She didn’t say “let me” in a way that sounded like a choice, and he allowed himself to sit down in her dressing room chair.

It hurt like absolute buggery, and it was all he could do to stop himself from swearing aloud. She smiled at this.

“Oh, so much for the big tough farm boy!”

“Ow!” And then an indignant scream. “What the hell are you doing?!”