It was all I could do to stay behind the curtain. The dowdy duchess she was referring to had to be Elizabeth of York, who was delightful, amusing, a fellow Scot whom I absolutely adored, and the queen was—well, she was the queen. Enough said.

“I’ll tell you what I want, honey,” the American woman went on. “I want an outfit suitable to be worn for cocktails at a smart nightclub—maybe for dancing afterward. Something avant-garde that will make all heads turn in my direction.”

“I have the very thing,” Belinda said. “One moment while I get my girl to model it for you.”

She darted behind the curtain. “Quick. Out of the purple and into that black and white.” She almost flung it at me, and disappeared again. I wriggled out of the purple, then tried to put on the black and white creation. In that confined darkness it was hard to see which way to attack it. Tentatively I stepped into it and started to wriggle it upward.

“Hurry up in there. We can’t keep the customer waiting,” Belinda called.

I struggled manfully. It was black satin with a long, very tight skirt, so tight I could hardly pull it over my thighs and hips. The upper part of the dress had something resembling a white waiter’s dicky in the front that buttoned around the throat, and a low back.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Belinda called.

I left one button at the neck undone, hoping that wisps of hair would cover it, and came out. I could hardly walk and had to take teeny, tottering steps. Surely this wouldn’t be practical for dancing and nightclubs. She’d never make it down the steps, for one thing. As I walked I noticed something flapping beside me, like a train, but at the side, not behind. Really, it was the strangest garment I had ever seen. The customer obviously thought so too.

“What in heaven’s name?” she declared. “Honey, I have more derriere than she does. I’d never fit into something like that. And she looks as if she’s about to fall over any second.” This as I made a grab for the curtain and almost knocked over the potted palm.

Belinda had leaped up. “Wait, that’s not right,” she said. Then she shrieked. “It’s supposed to be trousers, Georgie. You’ve got two legs crammed into one.”

The American woman gave a shrill laugh. “What a dope,” she said. “What you need is a new model, preferably French.”

She had risen to her feet. Belinda leaped to her side. “You see, I didn’t warn her. She’d never seen—”

The woman cut her off. “If you can’t even get good help, honey, I don’t hold out much hope for the end product.” And she swept out, slamming the door behind her.