The Suit Fitting – Part 1: Measuring Up

"Arms out," said Rahul.

Oliver held out his arms. He felt ridiculous. He was thirty-one, an accountant, standing in the middle of a hushed Savile Row shop in his socks while a tall man in a waistcoat ran a yellow tape round his chest. Wood panelling, bolts of cloth, a brass lamp. The air smelled of wool and beeswax.

"Breathe normally."

"I am."

"You are holding it."

He let out a breath. Rahul, the cutter, was thirty-four, dark-haired, with quiet brown eyes, a pencil behind his ear and an expression of unhurried concentration. His hands were warm and steady. He murmured numbers to a young assistant who wrote them in a leather book.

"Shoulder," said Rahul.

"Is it bad?"

"It is honest."

"What does that mean?"

"Some are perfect. Those are boring." He smiled faintly. "Yours has a lean. A character. We'll make the coat follow it."

Oliver, to his surprise, laughed. Nobody had ever called anything about him a character.

Over the next three weeks he came to the shop for fittings: a chalked jacket, a basted coat, a final trial. Each time, Rahul stood behind him in the long mirror, adjusting a collar, smoothing a lapel, his hands light on the cloth. Oliver found himself making excuses to come.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, at the third fitting.

"Yes."

"Why do you do this?"

"Because a suit is a kind of promise," said Rahul. "You put it on and become the person you meant to be."

Oliver looked at his reflection: tall, upright, a navy suit that fitted like a second skin. "Who did I mean to be?"

"I think," said Rahul, quietly, "someone who stands like that."

"Green?" said Oliver, a thread colour.

"Green," said Rahul, with a startled, shy smile. "Very green. One more fitting."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Final Fitting.