Windows

Windows

B ELLA IS IN

the shop window, arranging the faceless mannequin into a black beret, tilted jauntily to the side, but because the mannequin’s bald head is so plasticky, the thing keeps sliding off.

A stern-faced woman is at the till to pay for a First Holy Communion greetings card.

‘Balls!’ Bella says loudly from inside the bay window.

The woman gives me a look. It wasn’t me who said it, but she’s glaring at me like it was. I give her a conciliatory smile, but she continues to glare.

‘Jesus!’ Bella shouts as the beret slides off again.

‘Could have been worse,’ I say warmly to the stern woman, as I scan her card. ‘She might have said—’

‘FUCK!’ The mannequin tips over and crashes into the display of board games and tchotchkes behind it with a cacophony of breaking things.

Once the window is reorganized and the mannequin’s beret is sellotaped on to her head, we go out on to the street to

appreciate Bella’s work. It is stunning. Our usually bland mannequin is wearing a black-and-white striped midi skirt, a black blouse and the beret, with a black bag hanging from her shoulder. She has a black neckerchief tied around her long, grey, alien neck.

‘You’ve got such a good eye for style,’ Marjie says, and Bella waves her comment away. ‘I would have thought it was too much black, but it is so

chic.’

‘One can never wear too much black,’ Bella replies.

‘Is that Coco Chanel?’ Marjie asks.

‘What? No. Just a rule I live by.’

‘What do you think, Eddie?’ Marjie asks, clearly enjoying building Bella up and cueing me in to say something nice. But I do not need to be cued: the monochromatic mannequin looks very stylish indeed.

‘She is exquisite,’ I reply. ‘Madame Spider.’

Marjie gives me a you’re so silly, Eddie

look while Bella grins.

A man about to enter the shop pauses when he sees the three of us staring up at the window.

‘Er,’ he says, ‘am I all right to go in?’

‘Right with you,’ I tell him and follow in behind. As we head into the shop, I overhear Marjie saying to Bella, ‘Would you mind giving me a hand with an outfit for next weekend? I’m going …’

My interest is piqued, but the shop door closes on their conversation and I am engaged in assisting the man to find a shirt to wear to his boarding-school reunion that ‘implies wealth’. Good job I bought my cheetah shirt before he came in.