‘Yes, it does.’
‘Always worth it if you can.’
I was grateful to WPC Vernon for her ability to make small talk, a verbal bridge between two people in the most unlikely of situations.
‘Let’s go with that one then,’ she said and tactfully turned away while I took off my uncomfortable tailored suit.
‘So do you look like Tess?’ she asked.
‘No, not any more.’
‘You used to?’
Again I appreciated her small talk, but suspected it would get bigger.
‘Superficially I did.’
‘Oh?’
‘My mother always tried to dress us the same.’
Despite the difference in age, we’d be in kilts and Fair Isle sweaters, or striped cotton dresses depending on the season. Nothing fussy or frilly remember? Nothing nylon.
‘And we had our hair the same, too.’
‘A decent trim,’ Mum would command and our hair would fall to the floor.
‘People said Tess would look just like me when she was older. But they were being kind.’
I was startled that I had said that out loud. It wasn’t a path I had gone down with anyone else before, but it’s well worn with my footsteps. I’ve always known that you would grow up to be far more beautiful than me. I’ve never told you that, have I?
‘That must have been hard on her,’ said WPC Vernon. I hesitated before correcting her, and by then she had moved on, ‘Is her hair the same colour as yours?’
‘No.’
‘Not fair the way some people get to stay blonde.’
‘Actually, this isn’t natural.’
‘You’d never guess.’
This time there was a point bedded down in the small talk that spiked through. ‘Probably best if you wear a wig then.’
I flinched, but tried to hide it. ‘Yes.’
As she got out a box of wigs, I put your dress over my head and felt the much-washed, soft cotton slip down over my body. Then suddenly you were hugging me. A fraction of a moment later I realised it was just the smell of you; a smell I hadn’t noticed before: a mix of your shampoo and your soap and something else that has no label. I must have only smelt you like that when we hugged. I drew in my breath, unprepared for the emotional vertigo of you being close and not there.