April waited, then made a ‘come on’ gesture with her hands. ‘Could you expand on that?’
‘Not really. There isn’t much else to say.’
‘Let’s try it a different way. This morning you got up and at some point changed out of your PJs into your clothes.’
‘Actually, I don’t wear pyjamas.’
April closed her eyes, a tantalising hint of pink climbing her cheekbones, and Marcus couldn’t help himself.
‘Not even so much as a pair of tightie-whities. The technical term I think is “commando”. In other words stark boll—’
Her eyes sprang open. ‘I get it. Thank you. Vividly. I’m sure my readers will appreciate the detail,’ she added.
Damn. That victory had been short-lived—the idea of Lycander’s population imagining the Prince’s Chief Advisor going commando did not fill him with joy.
‘Touché,’ he acknowledged.
‘So you dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Why?’
‘Comfort. We decided a couple of years ago to drop the need for suits or formal clothing during council meetings. We knew the meetings could be time-consuming and sometimes stressful. Comfort seemed a priority.’
‘Was it your idea?’
‘Yes.’
April surveyed him for a moment, her head tilted to one side. ‘But there was another reason, wasn’t there?’
Damn, she was good at reading people. ‘Of course not.’
With a sigh, she put down her pen. ‘Off the record?’
‘OK. Fine. I suggested it because I thought it would give Frederick more authority rather than less. I thought it would make him more human and indicate to the council that he was open to new ideas and not an autocrat like his father.’
‘So you believe that clothes can be useful?’
‘Yes.’
In his childhood, clothes had been a sorry affair—unwashed, ill-fitting and scruffy. Until that magical day when his parents had inadvertently let him see a stash of goods ‘off the back of a lorry’ and he had taken a pair of designer trainers. They had been livid, but he hadn’t cared. Those trainers had shown him the power that could be wielded by clothes—the kudos he’d gained from street kids who wouldn’t usually look at him had been an eye-opener.
‘People judge you by your clothes, and you can use that to your own advantage. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but most people do.’
‘That can be a monumental mistake.’
‘It’s still a fact. Clothes send a message, and as such they are a tool to be used.’
‘Is that what you do? You personally? Do you dress for other people?’
‘No. I dress for myself. But if an expensive suit will prove a point to whoever I am sitting across a negotiating table from then I may choose to wear it. The image you project can matter in some situations.’
Before she could respond, there was a knock on the door and Gabrielle entered with three dresses draped over her arm. In a deft movement she hung two up on a rail by the door and held up the remaining one.
‘I think this is the one.’
Marcus glanced at the dress. His knowledge of fashion wasn’t up to much, but he registered an impression of red, stripes and lace. Turning to see April’s reaction, he clocked her panic before she shook her head in a firm rejection.
‘It’s beautiful, Gabrielle, but it isn’t me. It’s too obvious. I’m a writer—an observer. I don’t want to be noticed.’
The words made a level of sense—indeed, they echoed the view he had just put forward about the importance of clothes—so perhaps he had misinterpreted the panic. And yet...