Zelda’s Cut. Philippa Gregory

I’m told,’ Troy added hastily.

      ‘And who does this? Do you do it to yourself?’

      ‘Oh no! You go to a body-piercing studio.’

      ‘A studio?’

      ‘Not like an artist’s studio. Like a beauty salon.’

      ‘And why would a man do this?’

      Troy hesitated. He had known Isobel for six years but he had never had a conversation like this with her before. He had a sense of exquisite discomfort. ‘Partly it’s fashion,’ he said cautiously. ‘And some people take pleasure from the experience of inserting the ring. I’m told that it enhances sexual pleasure once it is, er, fully operational.’

      He was afraid that he had shocked her, perhaps even offended her.

      ‘D’you know anyone who has done this? Would he show me?’

      Troy could not repress the giggle. ‘I know one guy who’s very proud of it. He would probably show you. But – ’

      ‘I’ll come up tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Let’s have lunch. I’ll buy him lunch. Tell him that Zelda Vere would like to meet him.’

      Zelda Vere turned out to look and dress exactly like Isobel Latimer, except that she wore her hair down around her shoulders and had dark glasses hiding her eyes.

      ‘Would you have recognised me?’ she asked Troy hopefully.

      ‘Instantly,’ he said. ‘As would all of literary London. You’re going to have to transform if we’re really going to do this.’

      ‘I thought wearing my hair down – ’

      ‘Zelda Vere would have big hair,’ he said certainly. ‘I mean huge bouffant blonde hair. And loads of makeup, and ostentatious jewellery, and a suit in acid green with enormous gold buttons.’

      Isobel blinked. ‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ she said. ‘And I don’t have anything at all like that in my wardrobe.’

      ‘We’ll start with the suit,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’ He strode out of the office, calling to the assistant: ‘Cancel Freddie for lunch, would you, darling? Say I’ll catch him later.’ And then ran down the steps and summoned a cab.

      ‘Are we serious about this?’ he asked her as they slammed the cab door. ‘The book’s going to be finished? You really intend to be Zelda Vere?’

      ‘Are you sure Zelda Vere can earn a quarter of a million?’ she countered.

      He thought for a moment. ‘Yes. If the book’s as good as you say.’

      She nodded. ‘I’m sure it’s that good.’

      ‘And you’re sure you want to do it? It’s going to cost us some serious money to get you dressed. Worse than that, it will have to be my serious money. And it’s my reputation on the line when we start approaching publishers. You really want to go through with this?’

      ‘I have to,’ she said flatly. ‘I can’t provide for Philip any other way.’

      He leaned forward. ‘Harrods,’ he said shortly to the driver.

      Isobel touched his arm. ‘Did you say your money?’

      He gleamed at her. ‘I’m trying to think of it as venture capital.’

      ‘You are lending me money?’

      Troy nodded briskly. ‘Have to,’ he said. ‘You have to be styled and buffed and polished and that’s going to cost serious money. You haven’t got it – not till we sell the book. So I’ll lend it to you.’

      She hesitated. ‘What if nobody wants the novel? Or what if they don’t pay that much for it?’

      He laughed shortly. ‘Then I shall share your disappointment.’

      Isobel didn’t speak for a moment and he saw she was trying to control a rush of tears.

      ‘You are putting your own money in to help me?’ she confirmed.

      He nodded.

      To his surprise she gently touched the back of his hand with her fingertip, a gesture as soft as a kiss. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘That means a lot to me.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because no-one has helped me with anything since Philip became ill. I’ve been completely alone. You make me feel as if this is a shared project.’

      Troy nodded. ‘We’re in it together,’ he promised her.

      They did not trouble themselves to look for the clothes they needed. Troy said a few words to the chief sales assistant on the designer floor and they were ushered into a room which looked like an ornate sitting room in a private house.

      ‘A glass of champagne, madam, sir?’ a sales assistant offered.

      ‘Yes please,’ Troy said calmly, and nodded to Isobel to conceal her awe.

      The mirrored doors opened and another assistant came in, pushing a rack of hanging outfits.

      ‘We’ll also need an appointment for makeup, and hairdressing,’ Troy murmured.

      ‘Of course, sir,’ she whispered back. ‘And first, the outfits.’

      One suit after another was whipped off the rack, stripped from its protective plastic coating and swung like a matador’s cloak before Isobel’s gaze.

      ‘Try the pink,’ Troy advised. ‘And also the yellow.’

      Isobel flinched back from the garish colours. ‘What about the grey?’ she asked.

      ‘Will madam be colouring her hair?’ the sales assistant asked.

      Isobel glanced at Troy.

      ‘Bright blonde,’ he confirmed.

      ‘Then the pink will be wonderful,’ she said. ‘A pity not to maintain a high presence. The pink and the yellow both have a very high presence.’

      They hung the suit inside the curtained changing room. Isobel went reluctantly inside and the curtain was dropped behind her. A pair of high-heeled gold sandals and a pair of high-heeled pink mules were inserted discretely underneath the curtain. Isobel regarded them with suspicion.

      She took off her cream linen dress and flinched slightly at the sight of herself in the mirror. She was wearing a bra and a pair of pants which had been machine-washed so often that they were a creased grey, and a thread of elastic was fraying from the seam. Her hips were rounded, her thighs a little slack, her belly was podgy. Under the uncompromising lights of the fitting room there was no concealing the fact that she was a middle-aged woman who had not taken care of herself.

      She shrugged and slipped on the pink jacket. It fitted perfectly. At once the upper half of her body looked tailored, constructed, somehow ordered. The skirt glided up over her hips and she fastened the zip at the waist without difficulty. It looked startlingly slim but it was generously cut. The hem of the skirt skimmed her knee. Isobel had not worn anything shorter than mid-calf length for the last ten years. She stepped into the pink mules. At once her legs looked longer. The pink of the jacket gave a brightness and a colour to her face. She tossed back her hair and tried to imagine herself blonde.

      ‘Come out,’ Troy begged. ‘Let’s see.’

      Cautiously she drew the curtain to one side, almost apologetically she stepped out. Troy, glass of champagne in hand, regarded her with sudden, flattering attention.

      ‘Good God, Isobel,’ he said. ‘You are a knockout.’

      She flushed, and teetered slightly on the high heels. ‘It’s so unlike what I usually …’

      ‘It’s very easy to get set in our ways …’ the sales assistant remarked