and into place.
She was striking.
Her eyes were dark ebony pits that shone like coal against her olive-toned skin. She was almost bald, her perfect oval of a head covered with just a millimetre of grey hair. Long chandelier
earrings dangled from her earlobes.
I was so taken by her features that I forgot my errand and my manners, and just stood frozen and silent on the spot as though I had been struck dumb.
‘Come on in.’ She offered me her hand, and led the way into the large open space she used as a studio. Daylight streamed in through the wide open windows and the glass roof divided
into even square panes, stained slightly green by the past onslaught of the wet London weather.
The surroundings of her studio did nothing to make me feel more at home.
Her imperiousness. The sheer size of the space in which she worked, which must have been four times the size of our bedsit. The fragrant, aggressive, almost animalistic notes of the perfume she
was wearing – banishing the earlier smell of curry away by a technical knock-out.
‘So you’re Clarabelle’s new girl?’
I nodded, confused by the nickname but presuming she was referring to Clarissa.
‘You can call me Patch.’ She said it as though she was bestowing a gift.
‘I’m Moana,’ I told her.
She smiled, revealing a wide mouth and a set of perfectly straight teeth. A dimple puckered just below her right cheek. She didn’t have one on the left to match, which gave her grin a
lopsided look that was at once endearing and mischievous.
‘I can see why Clara chose you,’ she replied. ‘You can come closer, I won’t bite.’
I stepped forward. The original wooden floor of the cavernous room had been waxed and shone like a skating rink.
‘Very pretty,’ she said, her gaze still locked on me. She cast her eyes over me from the tip of my head to my toes. ‘Maybe a bit butch, but there’s no harm to that, is
there?’ she added. ‘You could dress better, but we could fix that and happily turn you into a butterfly, couldn’t we? First, though, we need to work out what sort of butterfly you
want to be.’
Her words broke through the spell that she had cast over me like a tennis ball shattering a window. Who did I want to be? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t even worked out who I was, never
mind who I wanted to be. Looking around at the racks of clothes that lined the walls of her studio and the mountains of fabric that covered two trestle tables set up alongside a large,
industrial-looking sewing machine, it occurred to me that my identity didn’t need to be fixed. I could change the way others saw me, maybe even change myself, with just a new outer layer. I
briefly took hold of a heavy pair of satin, tuxedo-style trousers hanging on a rack near me, my mind overflowing with possibilities. A thick white tag dangled from the bottom of one leg.
‘Patricia McLaughlin designs,’ it read, without a corresponding price tag. I set the garment back on the rack as I realised I would never be able to afford such an item. I probably
couldn’t even afford a length of the cotton that stitched them together. I put my hands behind my back and twisted my fingers together, suddenly worried that Patricia – Patch –
would think me impertinent.
‘You would look wonderful in those. Try them on if you like,’ she said.
‘Oh no, I shouldn’t have. Sorry,’ I muttered, feeling a flush of red rush up my cheeks in embarrassment.
‘Yes, you should. It won’t take long,’ she said. ‘You’ll still be back in plenty of time, and you can tell the theatre that I kept you waiting. Anyway, Clarissa
will be arriving soon.’
‘She’s coming here?’
‘Yes – she didn’t mention it? She’s very particular, you know, wants the final say over every last detail. Oh, she won’t be giving you or me carte blanche over the
costumes any time soon, believe me . . .’
I swallowed, my mind turning back into a tangle, thoughts darting here and there like a flock
She was striking.
Her eyes were dark ebony pits that shone like coal against her olive-toned skin. She was almost bald, her perfect oval of a head covered with just a millimetre of grey hair. Long chandelier
earrings dangled from her earlobes.
I was so taken by her features that I forgot my errand and my manners, and just stood frozen and silent on the spot as though I had been struck dumb.
‘Come on in.’ She offered me her hand, and led the way into the large open space she used as a studio. Daylight streamed in through the wide open windows and the glass roof divided
into even square panes, stained slightly green by the past onslaught of the wet London weather.
The surroundings of her studio did nothing to make me feel more at home.
Her imperiousness. The sheer size of the space in which she worked, which must have been four times the size of our bedsit. The fragrant, aggressive, almost animalistic notes of the perfume she
was wearing – banishing the earlier smell of curry away by a technical knock-out.
‘So you’re Clarabelle’s new girl?’
I nodded, confused by the nickname but presuming she was referring to Clarissa.
‘You can call me Patch.’ She said it as though she was bestowing a gift.
‘I’m Moana,’ I told her.
She smiled, revealing a wide mouth and a set of perfectly straight teeth. A dimple puckered just below her right cheek. She didn’t have one on the left to match, which gave her grin a
lopsided look that was at once endearing and mischievous.
‘I can see why Clara chose you,’ she replied. ‘You can come closer, I won’t bite.’
I stepped forward. The original wooden floor of the cavernous room had been waxed and shone like a skating rink.
‘Very pretty,’ she said, her gaze still locked on me. She cast her eyes over me from the tip of my head to my toes. ‘Maybe a bit butch, but there’s no harm to that, is
there?’ she added. ‘You could dress better, but we could fix that and happily turn you into a butterfly, couldn’t we? First, though, we need to work out what sort of butterfly you
want to be.’
Her words broke through the spell that she had cast over me like a tennis ball shattering a window. Who did I want to be? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t even worked out who I was, never
mind who I wanted to be. Looking around at the racks of clothes that lined the walls of her studio and the mountains of fabric that covered two trestle tables set up alongside a large,
industrial-looking sewing machine, it occurred to me that my identity didn’t need to be fixed. I could change the way others saw me, maybe even change myself, with just a new outer layer. I
briefly took hold of a heavy pair of satin, tuxedo-style trousers hanging on a rack near me, my mind overflowing with possibilities. A thick white tag dangled from the bottom of one leg.
‘Patricia McLaughlin designs,’ it read, without a corresponding price tag. I set the garment back on the rack as I realised I would never be able to afford such an item. I probably
couldn’t even afford a length of the cotton that stitched them together. I put my hands behind my back and twisted my fingers together, suddenly worried that Patricia – Patch –
would think me impertinent.
‘You would look wonderful in those. Try them on if you like,’ she said.
‘Oh no, I shouldn’t have. Sorry,’ I muttered, feeling a flush of red rush up my cheeks in embarrassment.
‘Yes, you should. It won’t take long,’ she said. ‘You’ll still be back in plenty of time, and you can tell the theatre that I kept you waiting. Anyway, Clarissa
will be arriving soon.’
‘She’s coming here?’
‘Yes – she didn’t mention it? She’s very particular, you know, wants the final say over every last detail. Oh, she won’t be giving you or me carte blanche over the
costumes any time soon, believe me . . .’
I swallowed, my mind turning back into a tangle, thoughts darting here and there like a flock
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