She pulls her new powder compact from the handbag under her desk and checks her appearance in the tiny mirror. A strand of hair has fallen out of her comb. She hooks it back behind the teeth of the comb with a frustrated sigh, knowing that it will work its way loose again before the end of the day.

Perhaps it is time to do something about it.

31

31

Saturday afternoon

Harriet catches her reflection in every window she passes. In every pane of glass, she is smiling. The thrill of what she has done washes through her in waves. Excitement. Joy. Anxiety. Mostly excitement. Her mother will be furious. Wave after wave. She is dancing over waves.

She would rather like to cast her hat into the street so that everyone can admire her new hairstyle, but this might draw too much unwanted attention. Even so, she would like to show it off. Instead, she pulls off a glove and touches the edge of the cropped hair. It is not even two inches below her earlobe. Another ripple of joy.

This is the single most daring thing she has ever done. Even more daring than visiting the gaol. She had left the office and walked for what seemed like miles into Chelsea, along the King’s Road, until she found exactly the sort of hairdressing salon she was looking for. The type of place where people understood her need to cut her hair, where the walls were lined with photographs of film stars, where the man who wielded the scissors fussed her, complimented her and spoke with the hint of a French accent.

An hour and a half later, she had gazed at herself in the mirror: a modern woman with a waved cut. It was everything she had wanted.

Ruby Mills had been right; it does suit her short.

But now the hat feels wrong. Too large and wide and old-fashioned for the hair underneath.

There is nothing to do but find a new one. At least, by trying on hats, she can study her reflection as much as she pleases.

‘No, don’t wrap it,’ she says to the assistant. ‘I’d like to wear it now.’

The shop assistant takes the money, and Harriet angles the new hat low over her brows. It is small and neat. A pleasing shade of blue – something a little different, a little bolder.

‘I don’t want that one,’ she nods to the old brown hat, lying discarded on the counter. ‘You may do with it as you wish. You keep it.’

The assistant raises her eyebrows only a fraction. She has already noticed and complimented the hairstyle and appears unsurprised that the brown hat has been abandoned.

‘Thank you, miss, if you’re certain.’

Harriet does not hear the girl’s response. She is too taken with her new purchase and is already several feet away.