‘Oh, I just copy what I see in magazines,’ I said, a little flattered, a little embarrassed.
‘Which is a skill in itself,’ Margaret said. ‘Darling, I don’t offer praise lightly. I’ve taken a very close look at your work, to the point where I’ve almost picked the bloody things apart looking for faults, much to my daughter’s annoyance. But your standard is quite exceptional. Obviously your choice of fabrics is – how can I put this without causing offence – a tad “high street”. But you clearly have an instinct for what suits a woman. And watching you wandering around my boutique like a child in a sweet shop tells me you have greater aspirations than making school uniforms and trendy frocks for mini-Madonnas.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, neither used to, nor entirely comfortable with, compliments. I followed her like a puppy on a lead as she walked the shop floor with a purposeful stride, sifting through rails and draping clothes over my arm.
‘You’re not perfect, but none of us are, darling,’ she continued. ‘A few of your clothes have room for improvement, but that’s something we can work on. I want you take a few pieces away with you and examine them closely. Look at how they’re pieced together – the use of appliqués, grosgrain and shirring. The devil is in the detail. These are the intricacies that separate clothes you’ll find on my rails from those you’ll see in a Littlewoods catalogue. Then come back to me in, let’s say a month, with three of your own creations. My customers don’t settle for anything less than the best, and neither do I.’
Top-quality clothes were Margaret’s main income, but small, independent, affordable labels were fast becoming popular – limited-edition ranges aimed at the over-forties. However, Margaret’s clientele was growing older and she needed to appeal to an equally lucrative younger market with a disposable income. And I got the feeling that what Margaret wanted, Margaret got.
‘If you can prove to me you’re the untapped talent I think you are, then we can do business,’ she added, smiling.
One nervous handshake later and I was sitting on the top deck of the number five bus, holding on to a thousand pounds’ worth of dresses for dear life.
5 January
Making clothes for children who didn’t care about fashion trends and teens that wanted designer rips in their jeans was entirely different from working to meet Margaret’s expectations.
For the first time in my life, I had the chance to turn my talent into something really profitable. But I was scared. What if she laughed my ideas out of the boutique? What if it wasn’t in me to be original and I could only stretch to copying clothes that already existed?
I could have gone around in theoretical circles for days, but the only way to find out was to stop dithering and get on with it. The day after meeting Margaret, I sat down at the dining room table with a mug of tea, and surrounded myself with Robbie’s coloured pencils, a blank sketchpad and a mental image of her breathing down my neck. Then I drew. And drew. And drew.
But nothing came close to matching what she’d asked for. My designs were, at best, bland. They lacked oomph, and if I knew it, Margaret would too.
If ever I needed a glass of wine for inspiration, it was then. But when the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times, I retired to bed, defeated but sober.
The following three nights were exactly the same. I’d already buckled under pressure. On day five, I tossed and turned in bed and reluctantly admitted it had all been pie in the sky. My mum was right: I’d never be as good as her. Her work was so much better than mine, yet she’d known her place, and it wasn’t creating something for someone else’s approval. I wondered if she was still making clothes. It had been years since my parents had moved out of the village and down to the south coast. We’d send each other Christmas cards, but that’s where our contact started and finished. They’d visited once, a couple of months after I had James, but that was it. My children were bang out of luck when it came to having grandparents who wanted to play an active role in their lives.
I thought about the clothes in Mum’s wardrobe – timeless pieces that would still have looked fantastic on rails now, twenty years later. Well, maybe with a raised hem here or a belt there. Or an extra couple of buttons and a zip. Actually, there were a lot of her designs that could work as they were, I told myself. Then I had an idea.
I padded down the stairs in my dressing gown and slippers, spread out the silk fabric I’d been keeping for something special, and began to work from memory, borrowing some of my mum’s designs for inspiration.
And I continued like that for the next four weeks with different materials until I finished my three original pieces. Then I thanked my mum and went to bed, knackered but smiling.
4 February
Silence. Fifteen long, gut-wrenching minutes of it. I was so nervous my palms were sweating.
After presenting Margaret with a business suit, a pair of stirrup pants and a silk dress, my heart was in my throat as I watched her prod them, tug at their seams, hold them up to the light and shake them like she was trying to get the last drop of ketchup out of a bottle. Finally, she was done.
‘How quickly can you make another three?’ she asked. I wanted to grab her and squeeze her until her bun burst or her shoulder pads split.
With a couple of minor alterations, my outfits were on Fabien’s clothes rails by the end of the week. Every time I thought about what I’d accomplished, I broke into a huge, beaming smile. I crossed my fingers and hoped at least one of them might find a buyer.
I needn’t have worried. By the time I returned with more, the first three had already been snapped up. Margaret handed me a cheque for one hundred and forty pounds – the equivalent of two weeks’ supermarket work. If I hadn’t needed the money so badly, I’d have framed it and stuck it on the wall for the entire world to see.
28 March
Dividing my life between three jobs and three kids had worn me out.
I knew I could make so many more clothes if I had full days and not just a few snatched hours here and there. When I fell asleep at the sewing machine for the second time, I was ready to admit I wasn’t Wonder Woman.
Something had to give, so I took the plunge and handed my notice in at the supermarket, but as I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, I kept ironing my neighbours’ clothes. And I saved a little money from each of Margaret’s payments to start refurnishing my home.