Bryony Bell Tops the Bill by Franzeska G. Ewart, Kelly Waldek Read Free Book Online

there were two big slits in its sides, you could see the trousers below had gold pleatedinserts so that, when Mrs Ashraf moved, they whirled out like gilded ballet skirts.
    â€˜I’ll have a glass of Coke, please,’ Bryony managed to say, and then: ‘I just adore your salwar kameez.’
    Mrs Ashraf smiled and wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, this old thing!’ she laughed. ‘But this is terribly old-fashioned, sweetie. Very retro! You should see the suits I’ve just stitched for my daughters in London.’
    â€˜May I?’ asked Bryony eagerly.
    â€˜Of course — they’re in the kitchen. Come on!’
    * * *
    Bryony had never imagined such dresses as the ones that hung all around Abid’s kichen could exist. There was a white one, studded with tiny pearls, with whorls of silver beads the size of pinheads; there was a black one with even wider inserts than Mrs Ashraf’s, that were embroidered with golden flowers and birds and set with thousands of bright black glass beads; and — best of all — there was a pink one with just a hint of purply-lilac shooting through it, covered with layers of paler pink net so it looked as though it had been frosted over, or lightly dusted with icing sugar.
    â€˜Oh, Mrs Ashraf!’ Bryony breathed. ‘These are died-and-gone-to-heaven dresses!’ And she held the pink one gently against her cheek andsighed in utter rapture.
    Mrs Ashraf poured out some Coke, set three chocolate biscuits and four pieces of pistachio burfee on a plate, and motioned to Bryony to sit down. As she did, a very dishevelled Abid appeared and slumped down at the table opposite. Beside his mother, he looked huger and untidier than ever.
    â€˜Hi, Abid!’ Bryony said brightly.
    â€˜Oh, hi, Bryony,’ Abid replied, giving a little cough. ‘Have you come about the you-know-what?’ He flashed Bryony a warning look and glanced at his mother.
    â€˜Eh … yes … The ‘homework problem’, Abid. Thought maybe we could discuss it while we’re both fresh.’
    Abid yawned, coughed again, and nodded.
    â€˜I must leave you both,’ Mrs Ashraf said, gathering up the dresses. She rested her chin on Abid’s head as she passed, and beamed across the table at Bryony. ‘We’re terribly grateful to you, Bryony, you know, for sticking up for Abid.
    â€˜He’s such a baby sometimes. It’s with him being the only boy, you know — spoilt rotten.’
    She nuzzled into Abid’s neck and Abid smiled long-sufferingly.
    â€˜Do you know, Bryony,’ Mrs Ashraf went on, ‘that it took Abid till he was three to get out of nappies? He just hated his little potty, didn’tyou, Abid?’
    â€˜Mum!’ Abid hissed, trying to shake himself free. ‘Bryony doesn’t want to know the details of my toilet-training.’
    â€˜Anyway, Bryony,’ Mrs Ashraf continued, ‘we know you’re a great support to him.’ She moved round the table till she was beside Bryony. The bundle of dresses glittered and glistened and winked.
    â€˜Just supposing you were to have the dress of your dreams, Bryony,’ she said softly, ‘what would it be like?’
    Bryony hardly hesitated. ‘It would be pink,’ she said decisively, ‘and it would have little mirrors round the yoke like yours, and gold embroidery like yours. And the trouser legs would have huge pleated bits in exactly the same colour as yours.’
    â€˜Kingfisher blue inserts in a pink salwar kameez?’ Mrs Ashraf said doubtfully. ‘Really?’
    â€˜Really,’ said Bryony. ‘And a top that’s got pleats too so when you spin round it spreads out … That’d be hard though, wouldn’t it?’
    â€˜Mmm’ said Mrs Ashraf. ‘Maybe.’
    Bryony bit into her third piece of pistachio burfee and thought rather sadly about Angelina’s blue sailor dress.
    â€˜Though, actually,’