The woman in the green dress wasn't crying until somebody told her not to.
“It's all right, Mrs Rowan,” the receptionist said. “Please don't upset yourself.”
“I wasn't,” the woman said, and burst into tears.
Mara, passing with a box of unbleached cotton, stopped beside the lift. She didn't need to ask what had happened. Mrs Rowan held the left side of her dress closed under her arm. A little ladder of pale stitches showed where the seam had given way.
“Come with me,” Mara said. “Bring your handbag.”
The woman looked from her to the receptionist.
“She's working on the exhibition,” the receptionist said.
“At the moment I'm looking for somewhere with a door.” Mara led Mrs Rowan toward the ballroom. “Are you going far?”
“My grandson's graduation. My daughter's picking me up in forty minutes. I told her I'd be ready.”
“You will be.”
Behind the ballroom screen, Mara put her cotton box on the worktable and moved the wedding dress's cover so Mrs Rowan wouldn't have to look at it while undressing. She found a clean sheet, wrapped it around the older woman's shoulders and gave her the chair by the heater.
The green dress was old and lovely: a heavy crepe, sleeves to the elbow, a neck just wide enough to show a favourite necklace. The seam allowance was generous. Someone had taken it in years ago and left the cloth inside.
“My husband liked this one,” Mrs Rowan said.
Mara turned it inside out. “Good colour.”
“He's not dead.”
“I wasn't assuming.”
“He's in a home. He wouldn't have known why we were there, and then he'd have wanted to leave. I thought about taking him.”
Mara put the pins between two fingers instead of her teeth. “Sounds difficult.”
“It is. Mostly I'm cross. I've driven off without my lipstick.”
“There'll be a pharmacy near the college.”
“There'll be my daughter's handbag. She has enough for three faces.”
Mara smiled and took out the old stitching. Mrs Rowan watched her hands, the sheet clutched under her arms. At the gap in the screen Elias appeared, then halted.
“Occupied,” Mara said.
“I see. I came to ask about lunch.”
“Two people for lunch now.”
“I'm leaving,” Mrs Rowan said.
“In thirty minutes. You could have something first.”
Elias nodded. “What would you like?”
“Something that doesn't drip,” Mara said.
“A sandwich, then.” He turned to Mrs Rowan. “Any preference?”
“Ham, if you have it.”
“We do.”
After he went, Mrs Rowan leaned forward. “Is he the one who owns it?”
“Yes.”
“He ought to get that lift sorted.”
Mara made the repair by machine at the worktable, matching the old thread as nearly as she could. Mrs Rowan talked about the grandson, who had never really liked school and was now apparently going to stay in it forever. She was pleased and baffled. When she stepped back into the dress, she reached around for the zip herself.
“Will you check?”
Mara held up the mirror. Mrs Rowan turned, then lifted both arms. The dress stayed where it ought to.
“That's better.”
They were finishing the sandwiches when Elias returned to say the daughter had arrived. Mrs Rowan wiped a crumb from her mouth and handed him the empty plate.
“You want to see to the lift. It stopped level with my knees last night.”
“I'll ask maintenance.”
“Don't ask. Tell.” She gave Mara a folded note. “That's for you.”
Mara tried to hand it back, but the woman had already put on her coat.
“I can afford a dress repair,” she said. “Don't spoil my morning.”
Once she'd gone, Mara unfolded twenty pounds.
“She's right about the lift,” Elias said.
“Then it's been an educational lunch.”
He looked at the half sandwich on Mara's plate. “Have you finished?”
“No. I was talking.”
He sat on the other chair, the one without the heater. It was odd having him at her table with no documents between them. She took an excessively large bite so she wouldn't have to decide what to say.
“You were good with her.”
“I let out a seam.”
“I meant before that.”
Mara chewed, swallowed. “She'd missed her breakfast. It was probably half of it.”
He nodded. She found herself wanting to ask what kind of morning he was having, then stopped. She didn't want to become another person at the hotel waiting to be useful to him.
“Where do you work when you're not here?” he asked.
She told him about the room behind the florist's: the low ceiling, the sink that gurgled, the little bell on the door which rang when a heavy lorry went past. She described the window display she'd intended to make but never quite had time for.
“There are empty units on the ground floor here,” he said. “We could put you into one. Street entrance. More space than—”
“I have a workroom.”
He sat back. “You just told me it was too small.”
“I told you about it. That wasn't an application.”
His face closed a little. She recognised that look from customers who believed paying made them incapable of offering offence.
“It was a suggestion.”
“And now you've heard my answer.”
He looked at the dress behind the screen. The moment lengthened. Mara reached for her sandwich and found she had lost her appetite, which was annoying because she'd liked it.
“Would you rather I didn't make suggestions?”
“You could ask how much the rent is before you start moving me.”
“How much is it?”
She told him. He looked genuinely startled. “That's very little.”
“Yes. That's how I pay it.”
He looked at the empty unit across the passage, then back at her sandwich. “Right.”
She finished eating. He stayed. When she got up to return to work, she took out a long padded roll she needed to place beneath the skirt.
“Can you hold the other end?”
He did. They manoeuvred around the form, him on one side, her on the other. The roll caught on his belt buckle.
“Wait,” she said.
He looked down. She reached across to release the cotton. Her knuckles brushed his stomach through the shirt; it tightened under her touch. He made no joke and neither did she.
“There.”
He stepped back only when the support was in place.
“Is that all?” he asked.
She looked at his hands on the cloth, then at his face. “For the dress, yes.”
His mouth moved at one corner. He had heard the unnecessary qualification. Mara went to wash her hands, leaving him to decide whether he wanted to follow it.