How to Fall by Jane Casey

appearances.
    ‘I’m just not very organized, I’m afraid. I haven’t had any help in the shop for months. No one seems to want to work any more.’
    And most of the young people in Port Sentinel had more than enough money without having to spend their time in a dark, filthy junk shop, unlike me. According to Tilly, Sylvia was exceptionally wealthy and could easily afford to pay me, so I didn’t have to feel guilty about taking her money. But if I was going to take it, I was determined to earn it.
    I squared my shoulders and smiled. ‘Well, I’m here now. Let’s see how much I can get done this morning. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know. Where do you want to start?’ Sylvia’s hands were fluttering. I’d already noted that was a sign she was stressing out.
    ‘I was thinking I might unpack the bags first – just to make some room – and then I could do a bit of tidying, maybe?’ And give the place a good clean while I was at it.
    ‘That sounds perfect.’ More fluttering. ‘I could make us a cup of tea.’
    ‘Yes please,’ I said, resolving to find some way to throw mine away. I wasn’t going to consume anything in Fine Feathers until I’d made sure to bleach every mug, and I’d be bringing my own milk. Maybe my own tea bags too, I reflected. You couldn’t be too careful. I was willing to bet Sylvia’s were antiques.
    Unaware of what I was thinking, she twittered off to the back room to find the kettle and I picked up the bag nearest me. As I hefted it by the knot, the plastic gave way and the contents fell to the floor.
    ‘Oh, perfect.’
    I bent down to pick everything up, starting with a shoe that had slid under the nearest rack of clothes. Nude patent leather, slightly scuffed sole, very high heel. It looked as if it had only been worn once. I turned it over to check the label inside, more from habit than anything else, and stopped dead.
    Louis Vuitton.
    ‘You’re kidding.’ I scrabbled in the heap of clothes at my feet, looking for the other shoe. It would be too cruel if the one I’d found was a singleton, but it would make more sense than someone voluntarily giving away expensive designer footwear that was practically new.
    The other shoe turned up in the middle of a tangle of jumpers that proved to be cashmere and incredibly soft. One had a tiny hole in the sleeve; the rest looked unworn. And there was another pair of heels in red leather – very strappy sandals made by Salvatore Ferragamo.
    Sylvia crept back, carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits on it. ‘Is everything all right?’
    I was sitting on the floor surrounded by designer clothes. My mind was officially broken. ‘It’s just the stuff – the stuff people give you—’
    ‘What’s wrong with it?’ She slid the tray onto the cash desk. ‘I do worry about it, but beggars can’t be choosers.’
    ‘No, it’s not that. It’s amazing. It’s all such high quality. And there’s nothing wrong with any of it, really.’
    ‘Oh. That’s good.’
    ‘Didn’t you realize?’ I held up a top. ‘This is a Marc Jacobs. That dress is from Whistles – which, OK, it
is
a high street shop but still, expensive. Those trousers are Stella McCartney. Paul McCartney’s daughter,’ I added, not seeing even a hint of name-recognition and trying to come up with a cultural reference old enough for her. ‘You know. The Beatles.’
    ‘I don’t pay much attention to fashion, dear. But people are very generous. And it’s all in a very good cause, you see.’ She held up a spoon. ‘Sugar?’
    ‘No, thanks.’ I was unpicking the knot on the next bag, half expecting to find it full of unwearable dross. The first one had to be beginner’s luck. I took out a crumpled white blazer with a lipstick stain on the lapel – much more like the usual charity-shop thing. Except for the Ralph Lauren label inside it.
    Before I could delve any further, the bell above the door jangled and I