500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(36)

Kim-Ange found him ironing in the laundry room. She narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Some house?”

“Somebody’s house?”

“No,” said Cormac, wrinkling his face. “It’s called a house but it’s not a house. But I don’t know what it is. I have to give my name at the door.”

“Soho House?”

“No. But like that.”

“Stockton House?”

“Yes!”

“Oh my God!” said Kim-Ange. “That’s, like, a totally cool private members club. You can’t just walk in there.”

“Why not?” said Cormac. “Is everything free?”

Kim-Ange snorted. “No! Very expensive.”

“So why?”

“Exclusive, darling. For the glamorous people!”

They both looked down at the shirt he was ironing.

“No,” said Kim-Ange. “You want to stand out.”

“I really, really don’t,” said Cormac.

“This is London, not Buttington McFuckington! You’re not going to a sheepdog-shagger trial!”

Cormac gave her a look. “You’re being quite rude.”

“Come with me,” she ordered.

KIM-ANGE’S ROOM WAS as different from Alyssa’s as could be, despite being the identical size and shape. Somehow she’d squeezed a double mattress in there, which took over the entire corner of the room next to the window. Purple-and-red cloth with tiny mirrors was draped over the walls and the ceiling, and there were large red-shaded lamps that gave the room a pink glow (“More flattering,” said Kim-Ange). Purple cushions were scattered everywhere, and scented candles cluttered up the surfaces, their scent lingering even though they weren’t lit. Fairy lights lined the old, faded curtain rails.

“Welcome to my boudoir!” said Kim-Ange, and Cormac had to admit, it was undeniably a boudoir.

“Now,” said Kim-Ange. She disappeared into the cupboard, rummaging among tightly stacked boxes, as Cormac looked at a collection of fabulously high-heeled shoes.

Eventually, Kim-Ange brought out an old cardboard box. She smiled at it ruefully.

“Sentimental reasons,” she said.

She opened up the box. It was full of carefully saved and beautifully folded men’s clothes wrapped in tissue. Designer labels, high-end stuff, all of it. Some of it was garish—bright colors and the occasional rhinestone. Plenty of it was just perfectly normal, but beautifully cut and made.

Cormac blinked as she pulled out a snow-white shirt made of a heavy, billowing material, then shook her head and expertly folded it up again.

“Was this . . . was this yours?” he asked tentatively. Kim-Ange looked at him to check he wasn’t being facetious, but he was clearly just interested.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s like keeping an old photo album.”

She grabbed an exquisite black cashmere jumper.

“Oof,” she said. “Dries van Noten. I bought it in Antwerp.” She smiled to herself. “What a weekend that was.”

She offered it to him.

“It would fit you,” she said. “He cuts Dutch.”

Cormac didn’t know what that meant, but there was no denying it was an exquisitely beautiful piece of clothing, even to him, and he had stopped letting his mum buy his M&S undies only when he joined the army.

“Wow,” he said.

“Have it,” said Kim-Ange. “Seriously. It’s no use to me.”

She was wearing a lemon-yellow half scarf, half top, with a pink waistcoat fringed in fake fur over the top of it. Her hair was festooned with pink barrettes.

“I’ll . . . I’ll bring it straight back.”

Kim-Ange waved her hand as Cormac pulled it over his head. It fitted in a way most people would have said was perfect, but Cormac found extremely tight.

“Oh yes,” said Kim-Ange. “Have you got a white T-shirt? Brand new, nothing faded or grungy in the wash.”

He had a pack of three undershirts, in fact, and Kim-Ange announced that as absolutely fine. The trousers were still a horror story, but there wasn’t much to be done about that, and his black desert boots were passable, if disappointing.

She sent him off for a shower and shave and demanded to see him at the end.

“I’m just going to do your eyebrows,” she said. “Sit down.”

“You’re going to do my what?!”

“Just remove the spare hairs. Tidy you up, nothing dramatic.”

“My eyebrows? What’s wrong with my eyebrows?”

“You just have to be . . . a little groomed, that’s all.”

Kim-Ange’s eyebrows looked like they’d been painted on with Dulux. She caught him staring at hers.

“No, I promise. Just a quick shaping. Let me!”

She didn’t say “let me” in a way that sounded like a choice, and he allowed himself to sit down in her dressing room chair.

It hurt like absolute buggery, and it was all he could do to stop himself from swearing aloud. She smiled at this.

“Oh, so much for the big tough farm boy!”

“Ow!” And then an indignant scream. “What the hell are you doing?!”