The Feel of Steel (27 page)

By six o'clock, exhausted from the hours of suppressed anxiety – just watching has worn me out – Vanessa and I collapse in a nearby bar and call for a couple of stiff drinks.

Over the past few months, Vanessa's right arm has developed repetitive strain injury. This relatively peaceful afternoon, when nothing went wrong and nobody got a fright or threw a tantrum, has been her last fitting. But
her skills are just as much psychological as they are physical. Her personality is perfectly suited to the task. She is a very
calm
person. Haste seems foreign to her. Her voice is thoughtful, her movements quiet and smooth. She may have given up the job, but whenever things go badly at the temple of the brides-to-be, surely Vanessa will be the trouble-shooter they call.

I imagine her swinging on to a tram and gliding serenely along the silver rails. She alights near the salon, pauses in a coffee bar for a fortifying espresso, and strolls through the portals into the high, hushed space. From her leather bag she draws a yellow tape measure and slings it round her neck. She pushes aside the long calico curtains and steps into the fitting room.

A semi-circle of angry, panicking women stands facing the mirror in which they see reflected the big white problem, in all its minutely puckered, infinitesimally lopsided dismay. The unflappable fitter in black – patient, elegant, mature – takes her place beside them. They shuffle along to make room for her. She stands quite still, not speaking, barely smiling, her eyebrows up, her head on one side.

And something about her presence alters the temper of the air. Hysteria breathes out. The mother unclenches her fists. The bride wipes away her tears with the back of her hand.

An expectant, hopeful silence grows, in the curtained enclosure.

Perhaps, after all, everything is going to be all right.