Conscious of her own jobless state, Bella protested at the extravagance. But her friend was adamant. ‘These shoes are meant for dancing, not pounding the London Underground,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ll thank me later. Besides, it’s cold out there.’ That was undoubtedly true. Reluctant to spend her remaining cash on a stellar outfit, Bella had in the end found a pretty dress in an Oxfam shop, one of the better ones in Soho that sold nearly perfect vintage clothes, rather than size 20 tee-shirts from George. It was vaguely Ossie Clarke in a heavy, midnight blue crepe. The neckline plunged into a deep V, a bit risqué she had thought, but it also had long sleeves that gathered at the wrist with a row of tiny buttons and it swirled nicely when she walked. But it was almost certainly a retiree from the summer. It was not warm. ‘Odd but stylish. You look like Greta Garbo,’ said Lottie, deciding it would do. She insisted on dusting Bella’s skin with gold glitter. ‘You’ve got the perfect tan.
