Zelda’s Cut. Philippa Gregory
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stood and moved as she told him, stepping into the dress, feeling her pull it up over his shoulders, zip the back, feeling the sensuality of the silk against his bare body, the way it warmed to his skin, the way the dress fell so easily against him, unlike a suit, unlike trousers, the way it fitted and yet did not constrain.
He stretched out his arms behind him and she slid the little jacket on.
‘Now wait a minute, wait for me,’ she said urgently.
He stood, his eyes still closed, hearing the fall of her clothes as she undressed, and the rustle of the tissue paper as she took the new dress from the bag. In a few moments she said: ‘Turn around,’ and he knew that she had placed them side by side before the mirror. Then she said: ‘Open your eyes.’
Before him were two beautiful women, in identical blue dresses. It looked like an illusion, a magic illusion, created by mirrors in which one woman was reflected back to look as if there were two. But then his gaze picked up the differences. Isobel’s face beneath the blonde wig was rounder than his, her eyes grey while his were blue. His shift dress hung from his shoulders, while hers fitted snugly over her breasts. But the illusion was what drew him, the two women, side by side, as alike as twins.
Isobel turned to him. ‘We’re both Zelda,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve made two of her.’
This time he did not kiss her. He looked from her beautiful painted face to the reflection of his own, and then back again.
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