Made to Order

‘What’s your name?’

The woman shivered at the question, barely able to contain her excitement.

’Maggie. Mrs Margaret Droit’.

The man nodded, his expression serious as he made notes.

‘Friday then Mrs Droit. Your curtains will be prepared and ready.’

Maggie hesitated.

‘Don’t you deliver?’

Solomon Pincett looked at the woman standing before him. The pale blue of her sensible suit a stark contrast to the slapped red of her cheeks. She must be twenty-five maybe. She looked fifty. What a waste. He had no sympathy and charged an extra five percent for the inconvenience.


Maggie was ready. The room was ready. She paced up and down, staring at the phone, daring it to ring and for someone to tell her they weren’t coming. At 3pm precisely Pincett’s van trundled up the driveway.


He wasn’t pleased.

‘Are you telling me you want me to hang them too?’

‘If I recall, Pincett, I made that quite clear.’

Solomon draped the heavy fibres until they fell in perfect folds, ruched in waves. When he left, with a few shillings for his trouble, Maggie locked all the doors and windows. She unplugged the phone and stood at the window. She stroked her purchase, sheets of cream tripe hung in thick curtains, trembling at her touch. She fell on them, dug her fingers into the honeycomb, rammed her tongue into the cold lace. She sucked.

Maggie wrapped herself in the swathes of offal, relishing the cold embrace. Blanketed in congealed innards she lay down to wait. Oliver would be home from the city in a few hours. She was pregnant, he’d be so proud. He’d ignore her cravings.