‘In for your elevenses? Don’t look what I’ve bought but I was that fed up with being fair, fat and forty I bought mesel’ a vanilla slice to cheer myself up. You look like you lost a bob and found a tanner. Was Madam Maudie mad I never bought that dress? You were right, I looked like a jelly mould – all of a wobble.’

‘I’ve had my cards, if you must know.’ Netta smiled weakly.

‘For speaking up about them suits… I’ve a good mind to give the old skinflint a piece of my mind! Poor love, what’ll you do?’

‘What I should have done months ago. Set up on my own and give Maison Dorelle a run for its money.’

‘You do right, love. And let me be yer first customer. It’s not too late to run me something up, is it?’ Elsie rummaged in her bag for a pencil. ‘Here’s my address. Come and see me, bring some patterns. If I’m going to spend an arm and a leg, I’d rather be suited by you, eh?’ She smiled at her little joke, shoving a note into Netta’s hand and the paper bag. ‘If you’re going to run a tape measure round me, I’d better give this cake to you as a downpayment. Next week, then?’

Netta walked up the hill from Griseley in the pouring rain, her mind racing with all the possibilities. How would she manage, working from home on her own? A new stitch overlocking machine would be necessary to see to the hemming but everything else would have to do. Then she remembered there was no electricity to power any machine. She would need to rent a small workshop somewhere plus a little showroom for her samples and stock. There would have to be a bank loan and an order book, working capital to set up the venture… so much to think about.

On the mat was a letter from Dixie asking if she would run up a cocktail dress for Christmas, something spectacular, a surprise for Arnie. She was sending the fabric through the post for Netta to look at and would come for a fitting as soon as she could. Another order! What she needed was printed cards and an advertisement in the local Echo. What should she call herself?

Fear stalked Netta through the night; fear of failure, fear of not paying the rent, fear of not being up to the job, running out of ideas, making a hash of precious cloth. Fear drove her to the sketch pad to sketch out a shape that would suit Elsie’s figure.