Rosamunde Pilcher - September

"That's got rid of them," said Pandora, sounding like a wicked child who, having disposed of the grown-ups, was ripe and ready for mischief. "Now, where are all the dress shops?"

"Pandora, I haven't quite made up my mind…"

"We're going to get you a dress for the dance, and that's it. And stop looking agonized because it's going to be my present to you. I owe it. I'm paying a debt."

"But… shouldn't we do all the important shopping first? The food for Friday, and…"

"What could be more important than a new dress? We can leave all the boring stuff until the afternoon. Now, stop standing around and dithering, or we'll waste the day away. Head us in the right direction…"

"Well… there's McKay's…" said Isobel doubtfully.

"Not a dreary department store. Isn't there somewhere exclusive and expensive?"

"Yes, there is, but I've never been into it."

"Well, now is the time to start. Come on."

And Isobel, feeling all at once carefree and pleasantly sinful, abandoned her Calvinistic tendencies and followed.

The shop was narrow and deep, thickly carpeted, lined with mirrors, and sweetly scented like a glamorous woman. They were the only customers, and as they came through the plate-glass door, a woman rose from behind an enviable little marquetry desk and came to meet them. Dressed for work, she wore the sort of outfit that Isobel would have happily gone out to dinner in.

"Good morning."

She was told what they searched for.

"What size are you, madam?"

"Oh." Isobel, already, was flustered. "1 think a twelve. Or maybe a fourteen."

"Oh, no." A professional eye was cast over Isobel, gauging. Isobel hoped that her tights hadn't laddered. "I'm sure a twelve. The ball gowns are through here, if you'd like to come."

They followed her into the back of the shop. She swept aside a curtain and revealed open wardrobes bulging with racks of evening dresses. Some short, some long; silk and velvet, glimmering satin, chiffon, and voile; and every beautiful colour under the sun. She rattled the hangers along the rail.

"These are twelves, here. But of course, if you find something you like in another size, I could always get it altered for you."

"We haven't time," Isobel told her. Her eyes moved to the darker gowns. Dark colours didn't date, and you could always add bits to them to make them look different. There was a brown satin. Or a navy-blue ribbed silk. Or maybe black. She took down a black crepe with jet buttons, and moved to the mirror to hold it in front of her… a bit governessy perhaps, but she saw it standing her in good stead for years… She tried squinting at the price ticket but was not wearing her glasses.

"This is nice."

Pandora scarcely gave it a glance. "Not black, Isobel. And not red." She pushed more hangers aside, and then pounced. "Now, this."

Isobel, still listlessly holding the black crepe, looked-at the most beautiful dress she had ever imagined. Sapphire-blue Thai silk shot with black, so that as the light moved over the material, it shimmered like the wings of some exotic insect. The skirt was huge, puffed out with petticoats, and it had a low neck. The sleeves were finished at the elbow with narrow ruffles of the same silk, and an identical ruffle bordered the hem.

Scarcely daring to imagine herself owning such a garment, Isobel eyed the tiny waist. "I'll never get into that."

"Try."

It was as though she had lost all will of her own. Bundled into a curtained changing-room, stripped, like some votive sacrifice, of all her outer clothes. "Now." She stood in her bra and tights, and the profusion of whispering silk was lowered cautiously over her head; sleeves pulled up over her arms; the zip…

She sucked in her breath, but there was no problem. The waistline hugged her snugly, but she could breathe. The saleslady settled the shoulders, bouffed out the skirt, stepped back to admire.

Isobel saw herself full-length in the mirror, and it was like seeing another person. A woman from another age, stepped down from the frame of an eighteenth-century portrait. The hem of the dress swept the floor, the stiff silk arranging itself in gleaming folds. The sleeves were infinitely flattering, and the deep neckline revealed Isobel's best points, which were her pretty plump shoulders and the swelling curve of her breasts.

Overwhelmed with desire, she tried to remain practical. "It's too long."

"It won't be with high heels," Pandora pointed out. "And the colour makes your eyes as blue as ink."

Isobel looked and saw that this was true. But she put her hands to her tanned and weathered cheeks. "My face is all wrong."

"Darling, you're wearing no make-up."

"And my hair."

"I'll do your hair for you." Pandora narrowed her eyes. "You need jewellery."

"I could wear the Balmerino earrings. The diamond drops with the pearls and sapphires."

"Of course. Perfection. And Mamma's pearl choker? Have you got that as well?"

"It's in the bank."

"We'll get it out this afternoon. You're beautiful in it, Isobel. Every man in the room will be in love with you. We couldn't have found anything more becoming." She turned to smile at the silent but satisfied saleslady. "We'll have it."

The dress was unzipped, gently removed, and taken away to be parcelled up.

"Pandora!" Isobel whispered urgently, reaching for her Marks and Spencer's petticoat. "You never even asked the price."

"If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it," Pandora whispered back and disappeared. Isobel, torn between excitement and guilt, was left to put on her blouse and skirt, button up her jacket and lace up her shoes. By the time she had done this, the cheque had been written, the price-tag removed, and the ravishing dress packed into a huge box.

The saleslady went to open the door for them.

"Thank you so much," said Isobel.

"I'm glad you found something you liked."

The whole transaction had taken no more than ten minutes. Pandora and Isobel stood on the pavement in the sunshine.

"I can't thank you…"

"Don't thank me…"

"I've never in my life owned such a dress…"

"Then it's about time you did. You deserve it…"

"Pandora…"

But Pandora did not want to hear any more. She looked at her watch. "It's only a quarter to twelve. What shall we go and buy now?"

"But haven't you spent enough money?"

"Heavens no, I've only just started. What's Archie going to wear to the party? His kilt?"

They began slowly to walk down the pavement.

"No. He hasn't worn his kilt since his leg was shot off. He says a horrible tin knee sticking out is an obscenity. He'll just wear his dinner jacket."

Pandora stopped dead. "But Lord Balmerino can't go to a Highland dance in his dinner jacket."

"Well, he's been doing it for years."

A fat lady with a basket, annoyed by the obstruction they were causing, said "Excuse me," and pushed her way between them. Pandora ignored her.

"Why doesn't he wear tartan trews?"

"He hasn't got any."

"Why ever not?"

Isobel tried to think why this obvious solution had not solved the problem years ago, and realized that, along with his leg, Archie had lost all pride and pleasure in his appearance. It was as though it didn't matter any longer. As well, luxury clothes cost money, and there always seemed- to be something else more essential to spend it on.

"I don't know."

"But he always used to look so yummy at dances. And what's more, knew he did. In a boring old dinner jacket, he'll look like an undertaker, or a part-time waiter. Or worse, a Sassenach. Come on, let's go and buy him something brilliant. Do you know what size he is?"

"Not offhand. But his tailor will."

"Where's his tailor?"

"In the next street."