‘Oh, well, have fun! Don’t worry, I’ll handle things here,’ Ann said. She was, as usual, dressed neatly in a fitted blouse and skinny black jeans. Her hair, tied up in its habitual ponytail, hung elegantly against her neck. Ann was only younger than Clare by a few years, but sometimes she made her feel ancient.
Three hours later, Clare was wandering in the local department store, so overwhelmed with choice and crippled by her fear of changing rooms with their bum-revealing mirrors, she wasn’t sure she was going to find anything at all. She picked up a floral top thoughtfully and held it against her torso – could she get away with it? Was it too young, too old? In style or out?
Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to try it on, but with her self-esteem at an all-time low she was loath to venture into the cubicles. For one thing, the white, bright lights always drew her attention to new wrinkles, stray hairs or the fact that her skin was never without at least two pimples. Worse, the mirrors in this particular shop’s changing rooms were helpfully arranged with so many different angles that she couldn’t avoid a glimpse of her white and wobbly thighs even when she averted her gaze.
Across the store, she could see that she’d been noticed by an assistant who was trying to make eye contact. Clare pretended to be completely preoccupied with sorting through a rail of clothes in the hope that she’d avoid being singled out for help.
Bad luck. ‘Can I help you?’ asked the woman, sidling up to Clare as she regarded herself in the mirror, yet another blouse held up for inspection.
Usually Clare hated offers of help in department stores. It made her feel so awkward that she’d rather spend hours traipsing around to find the right bra or hunting in piles of jumpers to find a medium than accept any help.
But looking at herself in the mirror holding up a blouse so similar to the one she was already wearing that it almost blended in, she realised that for once she was going to have to swallow her pride.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, watching the woman’s face light up. ‘I … well, I think I need a new look.’
Actually, it hadn’t been too bad, she thought later. None of that standing in your knickers in front of the mirror to analyse your body type and work out what bits you needed to hide, like on the TV shows. Just a few questions about the kind of thing she wanted, and a series of outfits to try on for inspection.
She’d been stuck in a rut, she’d realised, standing in front of the changing room mirror in colourful tops and nipped-in jackets, careful to avoid the rear-view mirror as much as possible. She’d forgotten, somehow, that underneath her clothes was a figure – despite it having been battered and bruised by two pregnancies and the self-neglect that followed. Somewhere, when she’d slipped into the right dress or the neatly cut tailored top, she’d discovered a waist, a bottom that didn’t sag as much as she’d feared and even a pair of passable breasts.
I am woman, she thought, inspecting herself in the mirror, wearing an emerald blouse. Hear me roar, bitches. She looked a few years younger and several years fresher. Something about the colours brought out her eyes – as the assistant had suggested. And she wasn’t too past it to wear clothes bordering on the fashionable.
‘You look fab!’ the assistant had enthused as she’d tried on outfit after outfit. ‘I hope I look as great as you when I’m forty!’
‘I’m thirty-six.’
‘Oh.’
An hour later, buoyed by her successful shopping, and weighed down by bags full of blouses and trousers and skirts as well as a whole carrier full of silky matching underwear, she’d called local hairdressers until she’d found one that could fit her in and, gliding on a wave of unexpected post-changing room euphoria, had booked herself in for a restyle with a junior stylist called Kevin.
Sitting in front of the hairdresser’s mirror, her newly washed hair combed back, exposing every aspect of her less than fresh complexion, she didn’t feel quite as confident. What was it with shops and hair salons and ultra-bright lighting? People go to these places to feel better about themselves, not to discover previously unnoticed crinkles, a developing unibrow or that the shadow on their top lip is actually a tash.
She avoided the mirror as best she could by reading one of the women’s mags that were scattered around and learned more than she wanted to know about how to completely cut carbs from her diet.
When she’d been completely restyled, she did indeed look like a different woman. It was going to take a while to recognise this stranger in the mirror she thought, as the hairdresser held up yet another mirror so she could inspect the back (did anyone ever say anything negative in these moments? she wondered. All she ever managed was a ‘that’s lovely’). She looked a little bit like a newsreader – a mixture of glamorous volume and rock-hard hairspray. Perhaps this would finally make Toby listen to her. If all else failed, she could sit at the dining table with a sheaf of papers and read out the highlights of her day in received pronunciation.
Moments later, stepping out of the hairdressers and feeling her hair move slightly in the light breeze, she suddenly felt euphoric – as if she were the star of a rom-com or cheesy musical. She imagined herself breaking into song, while the passers-by who streamed past suddenly stopped and became a backing group.
‘Cab for Clare Bailey,’ said a voice as a beaten-up Ford drew up, breaking her reverie.
‘That’s me,’ she said, in what she hoped was a glamorous, sexy tone. Flicking what was left of her hair, she eased herself into the back seat like a movie star climbing into the back of a limo. Sure, it was just a haircut, a couple of pairs of shoes and some clothes, but she felt more positive than she had for weeks.
This is it! she thought to herself. This is the day my life is going to change!
Chapter Four
If her life had really been a rom-com, Clare would have woken to the sound of birds cheeping. She’d have stretched, leaped out of bed – in perfectly unrumpled pink PJs – her hair still where she’d left it the night before, teeth sparkling. Her husband would sweep her into his arms and suggest they renewed their marriage vows. At work, they’d lay out the red carpet and recognise her as their star player.
Job done.
Of course, most people’s lives don’t resemble a rom-com, she thought as she squinted in the morning light, her hair a bird’s nest on the pillow. There was no fanfare, no moment of realisation – her life was more blah blah than La La Land.
That said, it had been a while since she’d altered her look – and a few smiles and compliments would get the day off to a good start, she thought once dressed and recoiffed, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and grinning at the mirror. Not bad, Mrs Bailey, she said to her reflection. Not bad at all.
She paused outside the kitchen door, gave her hair – which didn’t have quite the volume the hairstylist had managed to inject into it last night – one last cautious pat and pushed her way into the kitchen. She’d spent about half an hour trying to style it this morning with the help of a round brush and hairdryer combination, and although she’d achieved a sort of Emma Willis slicked-back-yet-voluminous look, she hadn’t quite managed to keep the on-head quiff straight; it leaned slightly to the right like an uncertain politician.
Last night, Toby had come home late from a conference of some sort, and she’d been asleep in the dark by the time he’d come to bed. And as she’d showered when she’d arrived home – still itching from the haircut – any changes had been tucked under a towel when she’d seen the kids in the kitchen yesterday evening. This was the first time any of them would see her new look, and she was both excited and nervous about the reaction she might provoke.
She’d chosen one of the more modest of her new outfits, but it was still a complete change from her usual office garb – black, fitted trousers; a silk blouse and a jacket that cinched in her waist in just the right place. It was harder to breathe than usual, but otherwise she felt if not a
million dollars then at least a couple of hundred quid.
She entered and clipped casually over to the kettle. ‘Anyone want a tea?’ she said, as if nothing was different about her at all, waiting for the flood of amazed and reverent compliments.
‘No, just had one,’ Toby said, holding up his empty mug as evidence, eyes still fixed on the politics section of the paper.
‘Coffee?’ she said. ‘Croissant?’ Surely, if she kept talking he’d have to take his eyes off the paper for a moment and LOOK AT HER?
‘Better not.’
‘Weetabix?’ she said, a little desperately. ‘Shredded Wheat? Last night’s pizza?’
‘No, thanks,’ he murmured.
‘How about a dead cat’s eyeball?’ she said, not changing her tone. ‘Or, if you like, I could whip you up a dog-shit sandwich?’ She felt a small tear well up in the corner of her eye and flicked it away. As usual, he wasn’t listening.
‘No, thanks, gotta run,’ Toby said, getting up from the table and somehow giving her a crumb-laced post-toast kiss on the cheek without making proper eye contact. ‘See you later.’
The kids, intent on their phones, hadn’t even looked up.
Sod the lot of them, she thought.
She set off in plenty of time for the bus and managed to put her foot firmly inside the vehicle as she waited to board. The same driver looked at her briefly as she paid for her ticket and she gave him what she hoped was a withering look. ‘You know you left me at the stop yesterday morning?’
‘Pardon, luv?’ He pulled one seemingly sticky earpiece from his left ear and leaned closer.
‘Yesterday. You left me at the stop. I banged on the glass.’
He shrugged. ‘Youz not meant to bang on it, you nah,’ he added. ‘Regulations, innit?’
‘But really, that isn’t the point. I was …’
‘You nah, I should really report ya.’
‘What? You, report me?!’ She could feel virtual steam ready to billow from her ears. ‘You …’
But his attention had been taken by the man in the mac who today was at least wearing trousers under his grubby coat, albeit ones that looked to be three inches too short. ‘Awight mate,’ the driver said to him, and Clare was forgotten.
When she arrived at the office she nipped into the loos to make sure her hair and clothes were arranged just so, then strode into the open-plan area where the PAs and juniors sat together.
‘Hello, sir,’ she said pointedly to Nigel as she passed him at Will’s desk.
He looked at her briefly. ‘Good morning, Clare,’ he said. ‘I mean, Carol.’
Ann, at least, noticed that something was different. ‘Ooh, love the new look – very Emma Willis!’ she said. ‘And your trousers look great!’
‘Thanks, you’re the first person who’s actually noticed.’ Clare resisted the urge to give her friend a massive squeeze. It was just a haircut, after all. But she’d begun to think that nobody paid any attention to her at all.
She slipped behind her desk and soon forgot about hairstyles and nipped-in waists (she’d opened the top button on her trousers for breathing purposes). Instead she began to deal with the initial morning admin – the letters and emails and phone calls that came her way each day – and felt herself unwind. Immersing herself in the everyday always relaxed her. Sure it was boring, but it was predictable; it had a shape to it. Subsidence, surveyors’ reports, fixtures and fittings lists, rights of way – however big the problem, she could handle it. If only real life was as simple.
Between files, she thought back to her euphoria yesterday, about her new look. Rather than making her feel better it had brought home to her just how little she seemed to matter to everyone else. Nobody had to like it. She didn’t expect to be scouted by a modelling agency or swept up by a Hollywood film star. But she had thought she might at least get a grunt of acknowledgement from Toby. As it was, he had glanced at her briefly, his eyes glazed, looking through her rather than at her. As if she was a ghost, not a living, breathing wife with pretty frickin’ amazing hair!
She thought again of the mythical Hayley – the PA with all the answers. I bet he notices her, she thought despondently.
In spite of herself, she felt slightly teary. Leaning back in her chair, she dialled the number of the person she knew would make her feel better.
‘So basically you’re fed up that you cut your hair and no one noticed, right?’ Her sister’s voice on the phone was slightly incredulous. In the background, Clare could hear her six-month-old nephew, Wilbur, snuffling against his mum’s shoulders.
‘No, it’s not that, Steph. Not really. I mean, that’s part of it …’ Clare squeezed the point at the top of her nose to hopefully avoid what felt like an impending headache. ‘It’s everyone. No one seems to see me. Toby’s so preoccupied with whether he’ll get his face on TV he never notices me. He disappears at the crack of dawn – or sometimes before – and the minute he’s in bed he’s fast asleep. It’s not that he doesn’t find me attractive, I don’t think. It’s worse. He doesn’t seem to find me interesting. And the kids have their own things going on. I’m basically just a skivvy who rushes around and tidies up after everyone.’ Having to let the cleaner go after Toby’s last self-indulgent spend had been the icing on the cake.
‘OK,’ Clare’s sister spoke slowly as if trying to rationalise with a mad person. ‘But I don’t get it – remind me how this relates to sprinkles on a cappuccino again?’
‘It doesn’t. It’s just, well, it would be nice if for once someone noticed I was alive. You know. Even the barista at the coffee house couldn’t be bothered to shake a bit of chocolate on my coffee. Until he practically threw the whole lot at me, that is.’
‘Oh Clare!’
‘And I just secured this really lucrative retainer with some sort of property mogul, but all Nigel can do is spend his time sucking up to Will.’
‘Will?’
‘Yeah, you know. That kid at work who Nigel seems to worship.’
‘Ok …’ There was a pause while Steph shushed Wilbur who had begun to grizzle. ‘I have to say, I still don’t get it.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Yeah … I mean, I get that you’re feeling a bit flat, a bit “meh”; I get that life isn’t exactly a laugh a minute at the moment. But I think you’re overrating the whole idea of being noticed. All I do is get noticed since Wilbur was born. I don’t get a moment to myself. John’s talking about trying for another one already and I just feel like a human milking machine.’
‘Oh, Steph.’
‘And the idea of being able to go somewhere and just be … well ignored for half an hour sounds absolutely blissful!’
‘I suppose …’ Clare looked at herself in the reflection on her computer screen. Her hair did look good – just one compliment wouldn’t have hurt, would it?
‘And, you know your car didn’t break down on purpose – that was completely random?’ added Steph.
‘Well, yes, obviously.’ Although to be honest, Clare wouldn’t put it past the old banger. That car had had it in for her for years.
‘And – don’t take this the wrong way – but don’t you think maybe we ought to be beyond all that now?’
‘What?’
‘Beyond needing validation from others. What is it you used to say? We’re strong, independent women – that kind of thing.’
‘Yeah, I did say that.’ And she was strong, really. But just because you’re a feminist, it doesn’t mean you don’t want someone to throw their cloak down over a puddle for you – or whatever the modern equivalent of that is: saying your bum looks toned in your bikini, or logging off Tinder during a date.
#ModernChivalry.
‘So?’
‘But it doesn’t mean I want to feel completely surplus to requirements. Especially when I’m pretty much holding up the firm when I�
��m at work and holding the family together when I’m at home. It just wouldn’t hurt to hear somebody say thanks, or pay me a bit of attention once in a while.’
‘Try looking at it a different way,’ Steph said, her voice softer now. ‘You’ve just told me that you’ve dyed your hair and it looks great, you’ve bought yourself a couple of new outfits. Your work is going well, and Toby seems to be making a success of things …’
‘Except for his marriage, of course.’
‘Well, yes. But give him a chance. He’s a good bloke … normally. It’s the job, I reckon. Pretty full on.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘And you know, fringes can be tricky …’ Steph quipped, mischievously.
Clare snorted. ‘True, it must be very challenging for him!’
‘And believe me, most women in your position would be heaving a sigh of relief,’ her sister added.
‘Relief?’
‘Yes, a sex break. Do you know how rare it is to get one of those?’
‘Really?’
‘Seriously, make the most of it. John’s always trying it on, and I feel awful when I reject him. But I just … I’m so tired, you know?’
‘Oh, Steph, I’m sure he understands.’
‘He does, but it still makes me feel shit.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Clare said, as if it was she who was responsible for her brother-in-law’s insatiable sex drive.
‘Honestly, make the most of it,’ her sister continued. ‘It probably won’t last and you can always buy a vibrator, or a new washing machine.’
‘That’s true, maybe one with an ultra-fast spinning cycle,’ Clare joked. ‘Idiot!’
‘Seriously though, things are going really well for you! So what if no one’s noticed? In fact, if you find the formula for invisibility, please can you let me know. I could do with a break from greedy Wilbur at least once in a while.’
Clare remembered those days only too well. The ache of her nipples. Looking pleadingly into the eyes of a child who saw her, it seemed, as a food source first and a human second (if at all).
Perfect on Paper Page 3
