Page 27 of Exquisite Things

“Thanks.” I sit. Taste. The porridge is so hot it burns the roof of my mouth. I don’t show or even feel displeasure. I’m too

happy. She seems to have spiced the porridge with turmeric. The flavor reminds me of being a child in Persia. That smell always

traveled from the kitchens of my homeland. “What are you making?”

“A dress for some rich girl’s sixteenth birthday party, which will be held on some polo ground somewhere in the countryside,

where the attendees would be horrified to find out whose hands made the birthday girl’s dress.” She continues sewing as she

speaks. “Just what I dreamed of when I graduated fashion school.”

“They can’t be so horrified if they hire you.” I’m trying to raise her spirits.

She throws me a quick side-eye. Doesn’t stop sewing. “They don’t hire me, silly. You think the earls and dukes of the world

are going to do business with me?”

“I’m sorry—I thought...” I put some food in my mouth to stop myself from putting my foot in it again.

“There’s a posh girl I went to school with who takes the orders. Cordelia Biddlecombe, but her friends call her Biddie.” She threads the sewing machine.

“What do you call her?”

“I call her Lady Cordelia.” She giggles. “Her family owns this place. Rent comes out of my pay.”

“So she doesn’t pay you?”

“She does. A tiny fraction of her price to do the work.”

“Oh.” I put a banana fritter into my mouth. Enjoy the fried sweetness.

“Beats working in a garment factory. I get to play my music. Use the leftover fabric to create beauty.”

“Still doesn’t seem fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. Sooner you realize that the better off you’ll be. But...” She stops sewing. Looks at me with a funny

sort of pride in her eyes. She pulls the collar of my blazer up. Brushes my shaggy hair off my face with her long fingernails.

“You know what, my menswear isn’t as bad as I remember.”

“Bad? I’ve never felt sharper.”

She shrugs. “Maybe I just hate men.” A beat. “No, no, I don’t hate men. Sadly, I love them. But why do they have to be such

bloody twats so much of the time?”

“Did you want me to answer that, on behalf of all men?”

She laughs. “You’re not even a man yet. You’re a boy.”

She’s right. I’m still just a boy. Still full of the same angst. Same longing. Perhaps it wasn’t just my body that was frozen

in time by those burning pages. Perhaps it was my mind too. My soul. My spirit. “You said life isn’t fair, but ... What’s the but ?”

She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. In the background, Donna sings. Queen for a day. Queen for a night. Dressed head to toe. So you’d never know it’s me. Lily takes my hand in hers. “But it’s still life , and isn’t life the greatest gift God can give us?”

“I—” I don’t know how to answer that.

“Yes, it’s unfair that I’m the best damn designer in London and I have to make these dumb party dresses for the daughters

of Tories, but it’s not all I do. I make dresses for the real queens of England. I help them transform into the creatures

they always dreamed themselves to be.” She squints. “Boy, do you know your eyes glow like neon?”

“Oh.” I feel self-conscious. “Only sometimes. It’s strange. Some people think it’s frightening. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for being unique.” She looks at my empty bowl. “You done?”

I nod. She picks up the bowl.

“I can clean it.” I’m not just being polite. I’m trying to find a reason to stay longer. “I can clean all of this. Help you

organize. I’m good at that, and this place is a...”

“I know what it is.” She laughs. “I know it looks like a tornado passed through here just last night.”

“I could use a job. I could be your assistant.”

“Boy, I can’t afford no assistant.” She cackles. “Besides, you should be in school.”

“I finished school early.” Not really a lie. I am done with school.

“University, then.”

“I’m a tutor. I swear I am. Before you found me on the street, I tutored kids. Wealthy kids just like the ones you make dresses

for. Maybe your posh friend could find me kids to tutor. I’ll give her a cut. I’ll give you a cut too.”

“Honey, you’re getting way ahead of yourself. I’m a busy bitch, and I’ve done my good deed for the day. This is goodbye...”

I know she’s waiting for my name. I feel suddenly sick. I’ve assumed over thirty names since going by Shams. I’ve pretended

to be so many people. I don’t want to pretend with her. To my surprise, I tell the truth. “My name... Well, the name I

was born with... It’s Shahriar... But I hate that name. I don’t want to be... I’m not his son anymore.”

She places a hand on each of my cheeks. Her fingers are strong and soft at the same time. “You don’t need to be anyone you

don’t want to be. You think the name I was born with was Lily? No, I named myself after my favorite flower while staring at

a lily pond.”

“And your last name? You named yourself after Donna Summer?”

She laughs as Donna’s silky voice continues to fill the room. Singing about finding a sweet romance. “No, no, no. I really

am a Summers. Of the Kingston Summers, darling. That’s just a lovely coincidence. Of course, her name is one singular summer.

And mine is plural. I’m all the sunshine.” She sings to the tune of Chaka Khan. “ I’m every summer. It’s all in me. ”

“Will you give me a name?” I’m tired of birthing new versions of me. All I want—finally—is for someone to create me not from

duty or from ambition. But from love.

“Honey, that’s a big responsibility. I don’t know enough about you. What do you love?”

“Poetry.” I close my eyes. “Poetry and words, and nature and spring, and love. I love love. And this horrible city that makes God cry. I love it, too, for all its flaws, because the streets here seem to rise above their memories. I came to London when I was younger, and it was horrible.” I open my eyes.

“But now here I am with you, in a new London.”

“It’s still the same city. Horrible. Wonderful.”

I pull a piece of fabric from the hard chair. “What about Polyester?”

“As your name? Have you lost your mind?”

“It can be Polly for short.”

“Are you a woman?”

“No.”

“Do you plan on pursuing drag?”

The question brings me back to the masquerade ball. All those decades ago. It still feels like yesterday sometimes. And like

three dozen lifetimes ago at other times. “No. I did do drag once. I don’t think it was my calling.”

“All right then. You’re not Polly.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I have nothing in mind, you wild thing. Now go. I have to work.” She makes her way back to the sewing machine.

“How about this? Once you get to know me a little better, you can name me. It’ll be fun. Like a game.” I try to catch her

gaze. She ignores me. “All right, I’ll go. But thank you for saving me from the police, and for the clothes and the shower

and the food and—”

She looks up at me in exasperation. “Honey, come to the Blitz next Tuesday. I’m there every week with my friend Archie. Now

go.”

“Yes, ma’am.” My smile feels like it takes over my face. I leave satisfied that this isn’t the end of us.

The two drunk punks are still out on the stoop when I leave. One of them whistles at me in my new outfit. I’m pretty certain it’s an insult. But I take it as a compliment. I twirl around to show off the flow of those baggy pants. I feel free.

On Tuesday, I make my way to the Blitz Club on Great Queen Street. Still in the clothes Lily made. I stand in line outside.

The dramatically dressed people ahead of me are all desperate to be let in. They tap their sharp heels. Smoke cigarettes as

they lean against the dilapidated wall. Partially exposed brick. Torn posters. A sign reads: Keep gates in locked position when premises are open . I feel nervous as I inch closer to the entrance. I’ve now heard the creature at the door turn multiple people away with

stinging judgment.

To a man in slacks and a cashmere sweater: Would you let yourself in?

To a pair of girls in Audrey Hepburn–inspired black dresses: Try harder next time, luvs .

To an androgynous figure in a fuzzy leopard overcoat and thigh-high boots: You wore that last time, Bertie .

To a rugby-built boy: This is the Blitz, not your local pub.

The man at the door wears a suede cape. Huge geometric collar. No shirt. Short shorts. Knee-high suede boots. He flings his

cape back every time he lets someone in. He eyes me up and down when my turn comes. Turns me around. Hums curiously. “So how

do you know Lily?”

“Oh, uh, she’s... a new friend.”

“I’m surprised she let someone wear her abandoned menswear collection. You must be special to her.” He leans closer to me.

Gazes curiously at my eyes. “Your orange contact lenses are fabulous. Where did you get them?”

“Oh, I— Well, they’re not—”

“Oh, fine. Don’t reveal your secrets. I wouldn’t either. Have fun.” He waves his cape to let me in. I can’t believe my luck as I take in the extravaganza. I feel a sense of wonder again. For the first time since leaving Oliver.

I enter to the sound of Petula Clark singing “Don’t Sleep in the Subway.” I approach the cloakroom near the DJ booth. An androgynous

stunner asks if I want to check my jacket.

“Be careful. George is famous for stealing from coats.” I turn to see who’s speaking. Another androgynous beauty. Hair like

a punk Veronica Lake.

“Blow me, Marilyn.” That’s the coat check creature. His voice is velvety.

“You wish, George.” They both laugh. Their ribbing of each other seems grounded in affection.

There’s a gleam in my eye as I hand my jacket to George. “It’s all right, I’ve stolen from my share of coat pockets in my

day.” Stealing is stealing. No matter the century.

“A fellow thief.” George flashes me a charismatic smile. “Rest assured someday I’ll be famous for more than theft.”

That’s when I hear Lily’s voice behind me. “That’s right. Someday George will be famous for stealing Jamaican music.” Lily

kisses George’s cheek to let him know she’s joking.

Lily gives me a nod. I feel my face open up into a smile. “I came!”