‘What, you mean do the decent thing and get married for the sake of the children? I’d have thought you’d seen enough of that sort of thing in your working life.’

Christine sighs. ‘You’re right. I just don’t want Ben to be hurt. And I want the best for Felix.’

‘I expect they’ll muddle through somehow. We all do, don’t we?’

Christine takes her daughter’s hand. ‘We do.’

The taxi is stuck behind a bus at Camden Town.

‘So,’ says Christine, ‘will I do?’

‘You’ll do very nicely indeed. You look fantastic. I’m very proud of you, Mum.’

Christine opens her mouth to say something, stops, does a double take. In the end, all she can say is ‘Well.’

‘Well what?’

‘Nothing.’ She doesn’t want to antagonise her daughter, not now they’re getting on so well. ‘I’m just . . . Pleased. Thank you.’

‘I suppose this is where I should say that I’m sorry, isn’t it?’

‘We’ve all had our moments,’ says Christine. ‘Let’s not dwell on it. Now is not the time for tearful scenes. I’ve just got my make-up right.’

The cab breaks through the traffic and hits a run of green lights through Bloomsbury and Holborn and down to the river. Big Ben is glinting in the spring sunshine.

‘This is it, then,’ says Christine, as the taxi pulls up outside the Palace of Westminster. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘You don’t need it, Mum. You’re fantastic.’

They are standing on the pavement, surrounded by the crowds in their suits and dresses, the hustle and bustle of kissing and embracing, cameras beeping and clicking, cars coming and going.

‘Well, you’re the best-dressed one here, that’s for sure.’

‘Thanks, darling, but look at the competition.’ Christine picks a thread off the bodice of the gown, smooths the satin over her hips. ‘What a shame I have to go and hide it all under a black gown and a dirty great horsehair wig.’

She unzips the long plastic carrier and slips the black silk off its hanger. It rustles softly. Isabelle catches it in her hands, feels the familiar slither of the fabric over her fingers.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s quite a look. Forensic chic. Leave it to me, Mum. In a year’s time, they’ll all be wearing it.’

But it is time for Christine and Isabelle to go their separate ways, one to the gallery, the other to secret places known only to initiates. They grasp each other quickly in a hectic hug, and then Christine is gone. Isabelle watches as her mother disappears into the crowd, one black gown among the many.

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2012 by Rupert James.