A promising novel I am told...

"Darling, come in" he said - soft voiced through soft lips in the soft light of the lead-light windows. I though we would be meeting at his studio in a big warehouse somewhere in the middle of town and noisy, thriving, buzzing. This was not that place. This was a narrow fronted, solid cream coloured, weatherboard house at the end of a dead-end, treelined street with a whitish-gray tomcat keeping guard.
The door didn't so much as whisper a creak and the quiet made me somewhat uneasy. I was there for a meeting after all. I had told him on the phone that I needed an outfit for the spring board meeting with the head honcho Creative Director. I was thinking something slick but slightly flowing, pastel but not too soft and a streak of brightness so I couldn't be missed and wouldn't be forgotten. I'd been told he was one of the best - if not the best, so there I was. Full of expectations, excitement and a twittering nervousness that was too big for this little street and small-fronted house.
He wore small, round glasses resting on a soft-pointed nose and eyes so green he must have been wearing contacts. Balding, slightly grey and preened as a peacock, not a feather out of place. "Excuse me darling, do come in, just down the hall and to the left" he broke through my contemplative twitter turning bitter in my brain. Broke through with a large sweep of his arm and a deep bow, seemingly reeling me into his abode like a fish on a hook.