Wonder Women (11 page)

‘Shall we look for something else, maybe?' Holly ventured.

‘I don't like anything else,' said the woman, like a petulant child. ‘I like this dress. Can't you fix it?'

‘Before tonight?' said Holly disbelievingly, but the woman just looked at her, as if the request was not at all unreasonable. They sent their alterations out to a woman who worked nearby, and the turnaround time was usually about a week. However, the dress was one of the most expensive in the shop, and Holly knew if she sold it, the commission would
make a sizeable difference in her pay-cheque at the end of the month.

The manager was out, and luckily things were quiet, so Holly ducked behind the counter and collected a box of pins and some tailor's chalk. She pinned up the hem and made two tiny darts in the bust. The asymmetrical neckline made this even trickier, but she did it well. Carefully, she helped the woman to slip out of it and sent her off to finish her shopping and get a coffee.

There was no sewing machine in the shop, and Holly wouldn't have trusted a machine anyway, as the fabric was so sheer and had a slight stretch to it. There was a haberdashery shop two doors down, so she put a ‘Back in five minutes' note on the door and dashed along the mall to grab some thread. She was lucky to find a pretty close match to the tangerine of the dress, and she sprinted back to the shop and set about taking up the hem with tiny, neat invisible stitches. She was just stitching the second dart when the woman came back.

‘Are you finished?' she said shortly, as if she expected nothing less.

‘One more stitch,' said Holly, and the woman sighed rather impatiently. But when Holly lifted the dress and slid it over her head and it fitted as if it had been made for her, she smiled radiantly.

As luck would have it, the manager, Susanna, came back just as the woman was admiring herself in the mirror. Susanna went into full-scale obsequious mode and fussed over the customer extravagantly.

‘Oh, madam!' she said smoothly. ‘It's such a privilege to
have you in my shop. You look absolutely stunning! That dress is perfect on you.'

‘Well, that's thanks to this girl here,' said the woman, waving her hand in Holly's direction, although without taking her eyes off her own reflection. ‘Very good alterations.'

‘Alterations?' said Susanna faintly. ‘But Holly can't do …' She caught herself and looked over at Holly, who mouthed that she would explain later.

The woman drew a black credit card from her tiny, expensive handbag, and Susanna didn't ask any more questions. As she put through the transaction, Holly went into the changing room and helped the woman out of the garment. She folded it carefully in tissue and packed it into a box. When she carried it out and put it on the counter, Susanna, pretending that the dress needed refolding, took it out of the box and cast an eagle eye over the alterations Holly had done, before repacking it and handing it over to the woman with more fawning smiles and compliments.

‘I'll be back,' said the woman. ‘And I'll let some people know about you.' And she swept off in a cloud of expensive perfume.

‘Do you know who that was?' breathed Susanna. ‘Oh my God, Holly, do you have any idea at all who that was in our shop?'

Holly couldn't help noticing that Susanna had called it ‘our shop', not something she'd ever said before. ‘No, who was she?'

‘That's Zini Kekana. She's a TV presenter. She's a HUGE star. What did you do?'

‘She wanted the dress for an event tonight but it was too
long. I went and got some thread and took the hem up by hand and took in the top a tiny bit.'

‘But it looked perfect.'

‘I did study dressmaking,' said Holly defensively.

‘Oh … I think I remember that from your CV,' said Susanna, her eyes gleaming. ‘Well, well done! What a great sale! And if we can offer alterations while people wait, we'll have something totally unique here!'

Holly was rather taken aback, and not at all sure she wanted to spend her days doing rapid alterations under pressure without the proper equipment, but she needed the job and didn't want to say no. Zini was as good as her word, and one by one the great and the good of the South African entertainment industry started to come through the doors of their little boutique. Susanna grudgingly bought a sewing machine for Holly to use. She worked her fingers raw pinning and stitching, often with Susanna standing tensely over her, telling her to hurry up. It was no fun at all, and as Holly hadn't thought to charge Zini extra for the first set of alterations, word got around that she would do alterations for free, so she wasn't even making more money doing them.

She was a bit miffed, to be honest, but she couldn't afford to leave the job. She'd dug into the small amount of money she'd saved for travelling to pay the deposit and rent on a room in a rather nice shared house with a pool and a big garden, and she needed to earn some more before she could begin her great big African adventure.

One long weekend, she'd taken the shop's sewing machine home to alter some white linen trousers for a customer. It
was a Friday afternoon, and by two o'clock, she found she had finished and had nothing to do. There was only sport (and that was mainly rugby) on TV. She hadn't a book to read. The weather wasn't great, so even sitting by the pool was out. Her housemate, Pierre, was a sweet Afrikaans boy, very camp and fey, who worked in advertising. He found Holly sitting at the counter in the kitchen grumpily swinging her legs and staring out of the window at the rain.

‘Shame,
skattie
,' he said, patting her shoulder. ‘You look so sad.'

‘Not sad. Just bored. Nothing to do, not much money, hating the job. You know, the usual.'

‘Well, come with me, I'm going to the Plaza. I want a new hat.'

‘The Plaza? Is that a hotel?'

‘No, man, the Oriental Plaza. Clothes, fabrics, cool stuff. All very cheap. And fantastic curry. I'll treat you.'

It sounded like a good offer, so she got into Pierre's bright blue Mini and they headed for Fordsburg. The Plaza was just amazing … packed with tiny fabric shops run by Indian traders who encouraged you to haggle for their wares. For a very small amount of money she got a few metres of gorgeous cherry-red satin and some gold tulle. Then she and Pierre shared a fabulously hot and fragrant lamb curry. It was the most fun she'd had since she'd got to Jo'burg.

They headed home in the late afternoon, and Pierre went to his room for a nap. Holly found an old newspaper in the kitchen, taped a few sheets together and began sketching out a pattern. She cut out the pattern pieces and pinned them together, then set about cutting and stitching the
pretty fabrics she had bought. She worked until late that night, snatched a few hours' sleep and then carried on early in the morning. By the time Pierre emerged from his room at about ten, she was standing in the living room, admiring her new dress in the full-length mirror. It was a cheeky take on a 1950s cocktail dress, with a fitted bodice and flared skirt. She'd lined the skirt with layers and layers of the tulle, and then hooked up the hem on one side so you could see the gold froth beneath.

‘Oh my heavens!' said Pierre. ‘It's stunning! Totally, totally stunning! I can't believe you made that!'

‘You like?'

‘I love it. I LOVE it! It needs a hat though, and shoes. The perfect shoes. Black patent leather stilettos, I think. Or gold! And the hat needs to be a little pillbox number with a veil. Let's go shopping.'

‘Stop!' laughed Holly. I haven't got any more money. And I've got shoes.'

‘Well, at the very least, that dress needs to go out on the town. My friend Tertius is doing a drag show in Norwood tonight. You have to come.'

Holly agreed happily. She was proud of the dress and keen to show it off. However, she was not at all prepared for the response she got. The dress caused a stir from the moment she walked through the door, when a friend of Pierre's came rushing up. He had a cloud of curly blond hair and thick glasses. ‘Oh, darling!' he breathed reverently. ‘You look like Jane Russell and Marilyn and Cyd Charisse all rolled into one!' he fingered the fabric of the skirt. ‘Where did you get this? It's DIVINE!'

‘She made it,' Pierre said proudly, as if he'd made her. ‘This is Holly, my housemate. She comes from London. Holly, this is my friend Wouter.'

‘I lived in London for a few years,' said Wouter. ‘Willesden Green. Where are you from?' He took her hand and drew her into the restaurant towards the bar. Pierre followed.

‘Ealing.'

‘Oh, I LOVE Ealing!' Wouter waved a hand at the barman, who put three cocktails on the bar in front of them. Two tall blond guys floated over. They looked so similar they might have been twins, but Holly noticed they were holding hands. ‘This is Holly!' said Wouter proudly, as if they'd known each other forever. ‘Look at her dress!'

The twins admired it and made her stand up and twirl so they could scrutinise every detail. Then Wouter's boyfriend Andile joined them and soon Holly was in the middle of an admiring crowd of handsome men. Admittedly, none of these handsome men was ever going to fancy her, but it was still fun. The cocktails flowed, and soon the club was full of women too. Some older and clearly very moneyed, some very young and glamorous, and Holly, four cocktails down, had made ten new best friends. The drag show was hilarious, and at 3 a.m. she found herself sitting on the bar with her legs elegantly crossed, singing ‘Happy birthday, Mr President' to the assembled company. She felt like the most popular girl in the world.

One of the younger women sidled over and sat on the bar stool beside her. ‘So would you make me a dress like that? A blue one. Like a peacock blue?' Her friend, a buxom and glamorous redhead, elbowed her aside. ‘I want one too. But
longer, I think, and maybe strapless? Could you do it? I've got a work party next month and I want something stunning to wear.'

‘I could, I suppose …' said Holly doubtfully. Where would she find the time to make two dresses from scratch?

‘I'm happy to pay …' said the first girl, and named a figure that made Holly gasp. It was a week's wages in the shop.

Wouter had been listening in, and he said firmly, ‘You're going to have to go into business, Holly, my treasure. You need a stall at the Rosebank Market, and you'll make a fortune!'

‘The Rosebank Market?'

‘We'll take you tomorrow.' He looked at his watch. ‘Today.'

What with the late night and the hangover, Holly, Pierre and Wouter didn't get going until lunchtime. The market was a large, busy affair held on the rooftop of a shopping centre. There were stalls selling African crafts and gourmet foods, but also many selling handmade clothes of all types: kids' and babies' outfits, T-shirts and funky summer frocks. Holly didn't see a stall selling evening wear, but she could see people weren't shy to spend.

They went for a cappuccino when they left the market, and as Wouter and Pierre chatted, Holly stared wistfully into the middle distance. Her own clothing line … It could work. It really could. If only she had the money and time to get the whole thing going. Then Pierre reached over and touched her hand. ‘So here's our offer.'

‘What offer?'

‘Wouter and me have been talking. If you think you could make enough clothes to get a stall going, we'll lend you the money to get material and stuff. And Wouter knows the manager of the market, so he can probably get you a stand when you're ready.'

It was so crazy, so generous and so sweet Holly didn't know what to say. If the boys had faith in her, she'd just have to find the time. Evenings, weekends, early mornings … she'd make it happen.

‘We also have a name for the clothing line, if you like,' said Wouter proudly. ‘Doradolla.'

‘What?'

‘It means “fag hag” in Afrikaans.'

‘Perfect,' said Holly. ‘Doradolla – high-camp fashion.'

She spent evenings and late into the night that week sketching dresses, blouses and skirts, and drawing up patterns. Early on Saturday morning, she and Pierre headed for the Oriental Plaza and trawled through every fabric shop. Upstairs, down an obscure little alleyway, they found a tiny shop full of satins, velvets and brocades, and Holly chose six or seven fabrics that seemed right for her designs. As luck would have it, they found a Shantung faux silk in a gorgeous peacock blue, perfect for her first two commissions.

It took her six weeks of sewing every night and all weekend to make enough stock so that her stall wouldn't be look too sad and empty. She found a shop-fitting warehouse in an industrial area and bought two clothing rails cheap, and hunting around a junk yard was thrilled to find a pair of 1950s shop mannequins. One evening, Pierre excitedly presented her with a box of labels that he had had made, with
the Doradolla logo sewn on to them and space to add the size of the garment in permanent ink. She stitched them in, steamed and pressed each item and hung them up. Her room looked like some kind of mad rainbow and sequin explosion, but Holly had to admit she was rather proud of what she'd created.

Early the next morning, Pierre drove her to Rosebank, his car piled high with her stock and the rails. The two mannequins sat in the back seat like a pair of sentinels. It didn't take her long to set up, but once she was done, Holly felt a lot less confident. There were so many clothing stalls, and what had looked like a lot of clothing in her room looked pitifully sparse in this enormous space. Pierre brought her a cup of coffee, and she stood shivering in the unseasonably cold morning. She wanted to go home and crawl into her bed. This was a crazy idea. It would never work. She'd sewn her fingers raw, and now she owed Pierre and Wouter thousands of rand.

Her gloom was justified. She didn't sell a thing all morning. People walked past her stall and glanced in, and a few people came in and fingered the dresses, asked the prices and moved on. Holly was glad Pierre had had to leave to go to lunch with his parents … she wouldn't have wanted him to stand there, hour after hour, and see her fail. She would have packed up and gone home if she could, but she had no car; she'd have to wait for her lift when Pierre came back.