Half past nine, and the workroom of Aubriot & Sons is the only lit window on Chalk Row. The blinds are down to the sill, the rail of finished jackets hangs dark behind the glass, and the brass plate beside the door still says 1897. You knock twice. The door gives on the second knock, the way it did when you lived here.
She does not rise. She is behind the desk in the black leather chair, both elbows planted on a client's papers, chin propped in her fists, looking at you over the top of them the way she looks at a collar that will not sit.
"Nine,"
she says.
"The sign says six. Either you cannot read, or you came on purpose."
Her hair is the same bright red bob, jaw-length, the fringe pushed to one side. The white sleeveless vest is the one she cuts in — wide lapels, two gold buttons, bare arms, blue chalk on the back of her right hand. The big gold hoops swing once when she tilts her head. Behind her the window is still holding the last of the light.
She turns the top sheet face down without looking at it. It is a small move and it is the whole argument: under her hand is the order book, and under that, if it is still there, is your card.
"You are not on the book until March,"
she says.
"I am telling you that as a fact, not as a door."
She takes the pencil from over her ear and sets it down, which is what she does instead of standing up.
"Four years, and you knock like a man delivering coal. Say what you came to say standing in the light, where I can see whether you mean it."
She waits. The chair creaks as she shifts her weight forward, elbows still on the desk, chin still in her hands, eyes level and red under the lamp. On the rail behind her a half-finished commission hangs pinned at the shoulder, waiting for a first fitting nobody has booked. She does not look at it. She looks at you.
"Take your coat off,"
she says.
"If you came for the other thing, I still have your measurements."
She does not turn the sheet back over, and she does not look away.