Page 16 of Sleep

I got it, though. I learned the trade, worked the crowds, and became as much a part of this place as the furniture during my misguided university years. Then Miss Adeline discovered my hidden talents with a needle and thread and there was no going back. She’d had a major wardrobe malfunction as she was due on stage, which was a normal catastrophe around here, and who was I to let a queen cry in the back alley? Nope, I’d pretty much frogmarched her back into the dressing rooms, where I was normally not allowed, but this was a crisis. I’d demanded she take the dress off and then I’d sat at the resident sewing machine, which had seen better days and was still missing some essential parts, but anyway.

Mabel had skills, and my studies briefly took a back seat as I masqueraded as an emergency dressmaker to the queens. I still made the odd dress for select clients. Very select clients. I even had it on my business card. A royal crest with a fake embossed logo announcing me as By Royal appointment. The Queen’s favourite. No dress too loud. Invitation only.

I made huge, wonderful, flamboyant dresses. I also dabbled in tailoring, and with my father’s expert help, I had produced some snazzy menswear too. Well, Dad and I had. Mum had once been part of that team, and I still brought any piece I worked on back to my mother’s bedside, talked through the stitching, fabrics and plans. Just in case. If she was still there, she would have marvelled and pointed and suggested. Now her eyes flickered at my voice and remained closed. I still talked.

Dad did the same, which was another reason why we got on so well, despite the petty arguing. If I brought home a roll of silk and a box of sequins, he’d have his sticky fingers in that stuff before I had a chance to demand he wash his hands and put on gloves.

My dad was the superior tailor. I just messed around with pins, boning strips and pretty threads. Not that it put off my clients, as Miss Adeline appeared, smothering me in air kisses and gentle pats on my shoulders.

“My darling, come in, come in. Haven’t seen your pretty face for ages, well overdue coming to see me. Well, not only have I missed you, but I am desperate for this frock to be done!”

“No complaining, Miss Adeline. Greatness cannot be rushed!”

Miss Adeline. She was almost seventy, if you looked carefully at the numerous awards lining her dressing room. Perfect skin. Bald as a coot, if you removed her permanent wig.

Underneath all of that was a man named Bruce, who I absolutely adored. Bruce lived on top of the club with a pooch called Ted. Ted was actually Ted the third, but nobody paid any attention to that. And here Ted was, right on cue, lazily tottering around my feet for a sniff before retreating to his basket in the corner.

“Darling,” Bruce drawled and promptly swapped to a thick London accent. “You need a cuppa? Or shall we just get on with this?”

“Got work, sweetie,” I replied, unfolding the sparkling folds of fabric in my arms. I gestured for Bruce to strip down so I could get him dressed and then get on with adjusting the fit around his hips.

Dressmaking for women was one thing. For humans with zero curves to build a boned outline around, or like with Bruce, curves in all those unexpected places, getting the fit right was absolutely essential. I also needed to fit padded hips and make space for Bruce’s ample fake bosom, which always made these fittings exciting. I loved a challenge, and Bruce always delivered on that part.

“Which boobs are we using with this?”

“The Betty’s,” he responded, standing naked before me. Nothing I hadn’t seen before, and Bruce was all about being comfortable in his old skin. He traced his fingertips along the shelf that displayed his chest plates—an almost grotesque display of female forms made from the finest latex.

“The Dolly’s are my favourite, but for this, I think you should consider the Lottie’s,” I suggested, knowing he would disagree with me.

“Not the Kate’s?” He turned to me, pointing at another pair of boobs.

“Hate the Kate’s. They’re really not you. You need a higher fit, with proper side lift. The Lottie’s,” I insisted, getting a little frustrated with the lack of progress here.

“The Naomi’s it is, then.” Bruce sighed, giving me a resigned eye roll, back in his drawling voice.

“Good stuff, mate,” I teased as his laughter rang through the air.

I grabbed his shoulders and adjusted the Naomi’s over his chest, positioning his arms like a mannequin, and he finally got in the game, did exactly as he was told, standing perfectly still as I lowered layers of chiffon fabric and silk over his head.

“I love it already,” he gushed. “The colour is great.”

“Isn’t it just?” I mumbled around the pins between my lips.

“No ring on your finger yet?” Bruce always did this. Asked all the questions. Starting with the one that left me cold.

“You know it. Not doing that again. Ever.”

“That’s ridiculous, Mabs. You were made to be someone’s princess. There’s a lonely man out there just waiting to find you and make you the happiest girl alive.”

“Happiest human alive,” I corrected. But I smiled.

“Princess,” Bruce scolded. “I don’t care what you call yourself, you were a princess-twink the minute you stepped over my threshold. I dreamed of making you a queen, but instead, I got the modiste of my dreams. I wouldn’t swap you for the world, but within these walls, you’re a princess. Deal with it.”

I did. Bruce always made me happy, despite his nonsense. Continuing my methodical pinning of fabric, I worked my way around his waist, making voice notes on my phone as I went along to remind myself the next time I got the chance to sit down in front of a machine.

“There’s no rush with this one,” he said.

No stress,” I agreed.

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