Dressed in a borrowed, floor-length, gold satin frock, with every visible inch of skin on her face, hands and arms covered with gold greasepaint and her black hair hidden beneath a crocheted gold elastic cap threaded with glass beads, she positively shimmered. She turned sideways and checked her profile. The idea for the costume had been her friend and employer Edyth Slater’s. But they had expended so much time and effort in putting together her outfit, and those of all the other members of the Bute Street Blues Band, it would be a waste to wear them just this once. They would certainly turn a few heads if they played their next engagement in one of the dockland pubs dressed like this – even without the greasepaint. ‘Why is it you look like a glittering angel while I resemble a tarnished brass effigy on a cathedral tombstone?’ Judy turned her head. Edyth was standing in the open doorway. ‘You look nothing of the sort.’ ‘Gold greasepaint highlights dark skin and makes it glow, but it’s rusted mine.
