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“Mm. No, you know, it still needs something. What do you think?”
“A broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses, I think. And a scarf.”
Lady Penelope has opened the dressing room door precisely one inch, just enough for Gordon to peek inside. This isn’t Bond Street.This isn’t the salon of her her usual modiste, she hasn’t seen even one label she recognizes. It’s a thrift store in the East End of London and if she’s caught shopping here, there’ll be a scandal. She’s not entirely certain why, but at the very least she’ll be on the receiving end of some very irritated phone calls from the world’s major fashion houses.
Gordon leans against the outside of the dressing room and grins through the gap at her and gives her a thumbs up. “C’mon, Penelope. Cheer up! Nobody likes a sore loser!”
It had been a bet. Her father had always told her that ladies didn’t gamble, but Parker had been the one to tell her it wasn’t unladylike to gamble, but only to lose. She should have known better than to bet against anyone who grinned that wide, and proposed the bet himself. But how was she supposed to know that Gordon could, in fact, eat half a dozen sausage rolls in under two minutes. With a rather unladylike groan, Penelope shakes her head. “I think this is polyester. Gordon. This is beginning to cross into the territory of cruelty.”
His grin only broadens and he proudly snaps the pair of bright yellow argyle suspenders he’s found for himself in answer. “Be right back!” And then, cheekily, “Don’t go anywhere!”
This is absurd.
He’s only gone for a few minutes before he returns with a white panama hat and a pair of aviator sunglasses, brassy gold around the rims and his tawny brown eyes shaded behind blue lenses, gradating to green. He’s retrieved the scarf she requested, but it’s emphatically not her colour. None of what she’s wearing is. But she’s getting bored of being shut up in a particle board changing room underneath a buzzing fluorescent light and FAB1 with its tinted windows is waiting just outside. She snatches the scarf through the doorway, and knots and ties it in an expertly classic Parisian style, covering her hair and tucking it around her neck. Penelope holds out her hand for the sunglasses. “Give.”
Gordon crams the hat on his head and looks at her over the rims of the sunglasses. “Nuh uh, these are mine. You want to go incognito, Lady P, you’re gonna have to get your own accessories. I did, however, bring you the perfect accent to the whole ensemble. C'mon out.”
Reluctant, in a dress that seems like it’s probably seared itself onto her retinas–she’s never going to be able to unsee the pattern of toucans and pineapples–Penelope steps outside and sighs. “Really, Gordon?” she asks, as tragically and pathetically as she can manage.
He pushes his sunglasses back up his nose and grins, gently tweaking the knot of the scarf below her throat. Carefully, calloused fingers delicate, he adds a rhinestoned squid pin and then steps back and looks her over. “Yup. Lookin’ fab, Lady P. Let’s go!”
And, finally giving in at this last little touch, Lady Penelope breaks into helpless laughter and takes Gordon’s arm as they proceed grandly to the register. All told, it’s only five pounds worth of clothing. But against all odds, as the pair of them step out into the summer sunlight, it’s money well spent.