Zelda’s Cut. Philippa Gregory

are beautiful,’ Troy said. His face was beside hers, looking over her shoulder into the mirror.

      ‘She is,’ Isobel reminded him.

      ‘Well, you are her now. So you are,’ he said. ‘I feel like a magician. I made you. I painted you like a doll and here you are. Coppella.’

      The two of them gazed and gazed at the image they had made for long moments.

      ‘Now,’ said Troy. ‘To work. We’ll go into the sitting room.’

      Isobel reached for her glass and got to her feet.

      ‘No! No!’ Troy exclaimed. ‘Don’t rush. And Zelda never picks up her own glass. Someone will carry that for you. You move slowly, and elegantly, as if you were paid by the minute.’

      Isobel walked slowly to the door.

      ‘More hips,’ Troy said.

      ‘I’d look ridiculous,’ Isobel argued, pausing at the door.

      ‘Of course. All rich women look ridiculous. But who would ever dare to tell them? Sway your hips. Think Marilyn Monroe.’

      Isobel set off down the corridor towards the sitting room, conscientiously swaying her hips. Her high heels snagged slightly in the thick pile carpet. She did not feel glamorous any more, she felt incompetent. She turned at the doorway and met Troy’s encouraging smile.

      ‘Nearly,’ he said. ‘Look. Watch me.’ With both glasses held steadily in each hand he walked towards her, his weight well forward, his hips tilted, each step a little dance movement as he flicked his hips to one side and then the other. ‘The hips go sideways, the legs go straight on,’ he said, announcing a discovery. ‘And it’s a narrow path, the feet go along a line. Try again.’

      Isobel walked back to the bedroom.

      ‘Brilliant. Once more for luck?’

      She walked the length of the corridor and then returned, moving like a model on a catwalk before his judging eyes.

      ‘Perfect,’ he concluded. ‘Now. Go in and sit down.’

      Isobel was gaining confidence, she swayed across the sitting-room floor, chose to sit on the sofa and spread herself along it, long legs outstretched, leaning diagonally back against the cushions. She crossed her legs at the knee, stroking the pink skirt downwards. She allowed one mule to drop slightly, showing the arch of her foot.

      ‘That is very sexy,’ Troy said with deep approval. ‘I knew you had it buried in you, Isobel. God help us all when it comes seething out.’

      She giggled. ‘I don’t seethe.’

      He clapped his hand over his mouth. ‘My fault. I shouldn’t have said Isobel. Zelda, I should have said – Zelda, you look wonderful. You are a woman full of seething sensuality. Here’s your champagne.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Isobel drawled. She put her hand out but did not stretch towards him. She made him walk to her and give her the glass.

      ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now tell me about your early life.’

      ‘I was brought up in France,’ Isobel started, telling the story she had devised on the train. ‘My mother was a cook to a family of ex-pats in the South of France. I don’t want to release their name. I was educated at home, so there’s no record of me at any French school. At eighteen I became a secretary in the family’s wine business. At twenty-four I made a brief, unhappy marriage to a Frenchman and when I left my husband I did a number of jobs, all of them clerical, temporary. I’ve always written, I’ve always kept a diary and written short stories but this is the first novel I have ever completed. It took me ten months to write. I got the idea from a newspaper cutting, I can’t remember quite where, and from the stories that the French maids used to tell me about strange goings-on in the neighbouring chateaux.’

      ‘Excellent,’ Troy said, pouring them both some more champagne. ‘And your parents?’

      ‘Both died in a car crash twelve years ago, leaving me very well off. With my inheritance I have travelled all round the world.’

      ‘Any other family?’

      ‘I was an only child. Books were my only friends,’ Isobel added. A wink from Troy commended the addition.

      ‘And where d’you live now?’

      ‘I was travelling. But now I am going to buy myself a flat beside the Thames in London. I have a great affinity for ports, being such a traveller.’

      ‘Romantic interest?’

      ‘I feel I must preserve my privacy.’

      ‘But your passionate love scenes, are they all imaginary?’

      ‘I have known deep desire. I am a woman of passion.’

      ‘Age?’

      ‘Forty-six?’ Isobel hazarded.

      ‘Go for forty-two,’ Troy commended. ‘D’you drink or do drugs at all?’

      She shook her head. ‘I have a horror of drugs, but I drink champagne and mineral water. Never coffee, only herbal tea.’

      ‘Beauty routine? Writing routine? Lifestyle?’

      ‘Cleanse, tone, moisturise,’ Isobel recited. ‘I write every day in a fountain pen in special French exercise books. I read in the afternoon in either French or English. I am very disciplined. I prefer to travel by train so that I can comfortably work and watch the scenery.’

      ‘Lonely?’ Troy asked.

      For a moment, surprised by the question, her face came up and she met his eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, in her real voice. ‘Oh yes.’

      Troy flicked his gaze away, determined not to hear the note of true desolation. Isobel looked away as well. She had not meant him to know. She had not meant ever to know it herself.

      ‘I mean, despite all this foreign travelling, d’you have no friends?’

      Isobel slid back behind the mask of Zelda Vere. ‘I meet people and talk to them, perhaps intimately. But then they go on their journey and I go on mine. From now on I shall live for my writing.’

      ‘Do you think you are a good writer?’

      Zelda Vere leaned forward. ‘What the world needs is storytellers,’ she breathed. ‘People make so much fuss about these so-called literary novels which are read by maybe one or two thousand people. My stories will reach millions of people. People need stories and magic and hope in their dreary day-to-day lives. I happen to have the wonderful talent of being a great storyteller. I may not know about semi-colons, but I do know about life.’

      ‘Brava!’ Troy cried, applauding. ‘Brava.’

      They practised a few more questions and answers before Troy ruled that they should eat before they were drunk on champagne. He would not allow Isobel to keep on the wig or the clothes while they ate. ‘What if you dropped food on her skirt?’ he asked. ‘I want her to wear the pink tomorrow.’

      Isobel went and stripped off Zelda Vere’s clothes, and wiped Zelda Vere’s makeup from her face. She came into the kitchen-diner wearing the despised skirt and a baggy jumper, her face plain and slightly shiny from the makeup remover.

      ‘Hello, Isobel,’ Troy said encouragingly. ‘Here, have a nibble.’ He pushed a dish of olives and nuts towards her and peered under the grill where two dishes in silver foil were starting to bubble.

      ‘Are you cooking?’ Isobel asked in surprise.

      ‘I sent out. I’m just warming it up,’ he said. ‘Chicken breasts in pesto and beetroot, with wild rice. Hope you like it.’

      ‘Sounds lovely,’ Isobel replied, thinking of her usual supper at home: plain dishes like cottage pie or grilled trout, lamb cutlets or steak. Philip preferred simple food