Rosamunde Pilcher - September

"Would he have tartan trews? Off the peg?"

"I should think so."

"Then what are we waiting for?"'And Pandora was off again, striding away with her mink coat open and flying. Isobel, lugging her parcel, had to run to keep up with her.

"But even if we find some trews, what's he going to wear with them? He can't wear a dinner jacket."

"Papa had a very handsome velvet smoking jacket. Faded bottle green. What's happened to that?"

"It's up in the attic."

"Well, we'll go and find it. Oh, how exciting. Just imagine how majestic the dear man is going to look."

They found the old tailor working away at his table in the back regions of the shop, a Gentleman's Outfitters Specializing in Highland Dress for All Occasions. Disturbed, he raised his head from an unrolled bolt of tweed, saw Isobel, laid down his scissors and favoured her with a beaming smile.

"Lady Balmerino."

"Good morning, Mr. Pittendriech. Mr. Pittendriech, do you remember my sister-in-law, Pandora Blair?"

The old man looked at Pandora over the top of his spectacles. "Yes, I remember. But it's a long time ago. You couldn't have been more than a wee girl." Across the table, he and Pandora shook hands. "Very pleased to see you again. And how is His Lordship, Lady Balmerino?"

"He's very well."

"Is he able to get up the hill?"

"Not very far, but…"

Pandora, impatient, interrupted. "We've come to buy him a present, Mr. Pittendriech. A pair of tartan trews. You know his measurements. Would you come and help us choose a pair?"

"Most certainly. It would be a pleasure." He abandoned his cutting and emerged from behind his table to lead them back to the main shop, where a plethora of tartans, leather sporrans, skean dhus, diced hose, lace jabots, silver-buckled shoes, and cairngorm brooches fairly dazzled the eye.

Mr. Pittendriech obviously felt that all this was a little beneath his dignity.

"Would it not be better if I were to tailor His Lordship a pair of trews? He's never been a gentleman to buy his clothes off-the-peg."

"We haven't time," Isobel said for the second time that morning.

"In that case, would it be regimental tartan, or family tartan?"

"Oh, family tartan," said Pandora firmly. "Anyway, it's such a pretty one."

It took a little time to find the right tartan, and then more time fiddling with a tape measure to ensure that the inside leg was the correct length. Finally, Mr. Pittendriech made his choice.

"This pair should do His Lordship very nicely."

Isobel considered them. "They aren't going to be too narrow, are they? Otherwise he won't be able to get them over his tin leg."

"No, I think they should be amply comfortable."

"In that case," said Pandora, "we'll have them."

"And how about a cummerbund, Miss Blair?"

"He can wear his father's, Mr. Pittendriech." She turned her dazzling smile upon him. "But perhaps a really lovely new white cotton shirt?"

More parcels, more cheques. Out on the pavement again. "Time for lunch," said Pandora, and they headed, mutually delighted with themselves, in the direction of the Wine Bar. Propelled into this popular rendezvous by the revolving door, they came up against the first obstacle of the day. There was no sign of Lucilla and Jeff, most of the tables were occupied, and those that weren't had "Reserved" notices placed upon them.

"We want a table for four," Pandora told the superior-looking woman behind the high desk.

"Have you resairved?"

"No, but we still want a table for four."

"I'm afraid if you haven't resairved, then you will have to await your turn."

Pandora opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything the telephone on the desk began fortuitously to ring and the woman turned aside to pick up the receiver. "This is the Waine Bar."

Behind her back, Pandora dug Isobel in the ribs, and then, looking unconcerned, stalked over to where an empty and reserved table stood by the window. Reaching it, she unobtrusively whisked the "Reserved" sign up and pushed this deep into the pocket of her coat. A brilliant and professional piece of sleight of hand. She then settled herself gracefully, disposed of her bag and parcels, spread the mink over the back of the chair, and reached for the menu.

Isobel, horrified, hovered. "Pandora, you can't…"

"I have. Bloody woman. Sit down."

"But someone's reserved it."

"But we've got it. Possession is nine-tenths of the law." Isobel, who dreaded any sort of a scene, continued to hesitate, but Pandora took no notice of her waffling, and after a bit, with no alternative, she sat down as well, facing her blatantly criminal sister-in-law. "Oh, look, we can have a cocktail. And we can eat quiche and salad, or an omelette aux fines herbes."

"That woman's going to be livid."

"I hate cocktails, don't you? Do you suppose they have any champagne? Let's ask when she comes gunning for us."

Which she did, almost immediately.

"Excuse me, madam, but this table is resairved."

"Oh, is it?" Pandora's eyes were bland and innocent orbs. "But there's no sign."

"This table is resairved, and there was a sign upon it."

"Where can it be?" Pandora craned her neck to look under the table. "It's not on the floor."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you will have to move and await your turn."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we're not going to. Will you take our order, or would you rather send one of the waitresses?"

The woman's neck was growing red, like turkey wattles. Her mouth worked. Isobel felt rather sorry for her.

"You know perfectly well that there was a resairved notice upon this table. The manager put it there himself this morning."

Pandora raised her eyebrows. "Oh, there's a manager, is there? Then perhaps you would like to go and find him, and tell him that Lady Balmerino is here and wishes to order lunch."

Isobel, hot with embarrassment, felt her cheeks bum. Pandora's adversary by now looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Humiliation stared her in the face. "The manager is not in this afternoon," she admitted.

"In that case, you are obviously in charge, and you have done all you can. Now, perhaps you will send a waitress over and we can order."

The poor woman, reduced to pulp by such nerveless authority, dithered for a moment, but finally collapsed, her ire deflating like a pricked balloon. In silence, gathering her tattered dignity about her, and with lips pressed together, she turned to go. But Pandora was remorseless. "Just one more thing. Would you be very kind and tell the barman that we'd like a bottle of his best champagne." Her smile dazzled. "Iced."

No more objections, no more argument. It was over. Isobel stopped blushing. She said, "Pandora, you are shameless."

"I know, darling."

"Poor female. She's practically in blubs."

"Silly old cow."

"And the Lady Balmerino bit…"

"That's what did the trick. These sort of people are the most appalling snobs."

It wasn't any good trying to scold her. She was Pandora, generous, loving, laughing… and ruthless if she didn't get her own way. Isobel shook her head. "I despair of you."

"Oh, darling, don't be cross. We've had such a heavenly morning, and I'll be good for the rest of the day and hump all your grocery boxes. Oh, look, there are Lucilla and Jeff. Laden with rather tatty carrier bags. What could they have been buying?" She waved, flapping a red-nailed hand. "Here we are!" They saw her, and came over. "We've ordered champagne, Jeff, so you're not to be boring and say you'd rather have a can of Foster's."

Over the champagne, Lucilla and Jeff were told, in lowered tones and with a certain amount of muffled mirth, the saga of the resairved table.

Lucilla was amused, but at the same time almost as shocked as her mother, and Isobel was glad to see this. "Pandora, that's dreadful. What's going to happen to the poor people who did reserve the table?'