The Shoestring Club

by Sarah Webb

  The original shop, Schuster’s Department Store, was set up and run by my grandpa, Derek Schuster. When he died – years ago, I never knew him – Bird took over. During the boom – the ‘Celtic Tiger’ – she leased it out to a beautician as there wasn’t much call for a Ma and Pa shop that sold thermal underwear, net curtains and knitting wool, but last year the beautician’s went bust and Bird couldn’t find another tenant. The shop was just sitting there, empty, so after a few months, with Bird’s encouragement, Pandora packed in her job at Brown Thomas’s, where she’d been running the designer rooms, and set up Shoestring, a designer swap shop. Perfect for the current recessionary times, she said. She cannily took her Brown Thomas address book with her and now many of our clients are her old BT customers. She’s smart that way, Pandora. Has a proper degree in fashion and everything. Unlike me, the college dropout.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know, Jillian Soodman?’ Another of our top clients, a Dalkey lawyer with a passion for snappy Italian suits.

  ‘Wrong again.’ She leans in towards me conspiratorially. ‘Kathleen Ireland.’

  I scrunch up my nose. ‘Hang on why does that name sound familiar?’

  Pandora tut-tuts. ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘Yeah, the cinema reviews and fashion pages, not the boring stuff.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘She’s the American Ambassador, Jules. Had a fashion show in her residence last month showcasing up-and-coming Irish and American designers, followed by a fashion ball to rival anything in London or New York. It was in all the papers. And as for her own dress. Ooh, la, la. She looked stunning, like Princess Grace.’ Pandora sighs dreamily. She’s clothes obsessed, always has been. When she was tiny she used to shuffle around the house in Mum’s high heels. There’s a photo of her standing on a kitchen chair wearing Mum’s wedding dress at the age of six, the fitted silk bodice swimming on her tiny frame, head flung back proudly like a Russian ballet dancer.

  When Mum died, she left Pandora most of her wardrobe, apart from two things I’d always loved – her fake leopard-skin box jacket, and her favourite ‘coat’, a pink tweed 70s cape with a hood attached that I used to use as a tepee when I was little, buttoning it up and sitting inside it like a wee squaw.

  I wore the leopard-skin jacket so much the lining ripped around the armpits and the ends of the sleeves frayed. The year before last, Pandora dropped it into Mrs Snips and they did a stellar job, making the sleeves three-quarter length and carefully sewing in new scarlet lining. Of course, then I went and ripped the side seam climbing over a fence at a music festival and bundled it into the back of my wardrobe before Pandora had the chance to have a go at me. It’s been sitting there ever since.

  The cape is also hidden at the back of the wardrobe in a thick plastic bag. Sometimes I take it out, press it against my face and breathe in Mum’s smell – warm and musky. I close my eyes and imagine she’s holding me tight against her chest. Then I fold it up, put it back in the bag and seal it up carefully again with thick elastic bands. I try not to take it out too often these days. After fifteen years Mum’s scent is faint, so slight I wonder if I’m imagining it, as if there’s some part of my brain that now associates pink tweed with musk. Maybe the mere sight of the cape triggers a scent memory. Tears and musk, for ever mingled.

  ‘And guess what’s in here,’ she says tantalizingly, stroking the dress carrier.

  ‘Are you actually going to unzip that thing, Pandora?’ I ask. ‘I could really use a coffee break.’

  ‘You poor doll. Run off your feet all morning from the look of things.’ Pandora sweeps her hand around the completely empty shop. ‘Eager bargain hunters throwing themselves at you, begging to be shown our secret stashes of Chanel and Versace. Mayhem was it?’

  I’m not in the mood. ‘Just get on with it. Show me the dress and then let me grab some caffeine. And please tell me it’s not another Coast number. We’re up to our eyes in safe mother-of-the-bride-dresses already.’

  ‘It’s not Coast, I can promise you that. And is it caffeine you need, or a handful of painkillers?’ Pandora raises one carefully filled-in eyebrow. She over-plucked during her teens and is still suffering. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much, Jules, it can’t be good for you. And if it puts you in such a bad mood the next day I really do think—’

  ‘Jesus, sis, stop with the lecture. I don’t need this, not today. In fact, you know something? You can stuff your stupid job. I’m not that broke.’ Total lie, I really am Stony Broke McBroke. I yank open the drawer under the computer, pull out my bag and sling it over my shoulder huffily. ‘I’m going home.’

  Pandora is strangely unmoved by my outburst. ‘Calm down, Jules, don’t be so tetchy. I’ll show you the dress and then you can take an extra long break, say twenty minutes, OK?’

  Then she quickly zips open the carrier and pulls out the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a lush dark pink, with layers of silk chiffon floating towards the floor.

  ‘Holy moly,’ I murmur, immediately transfixed. I chuck my bag back in the drawer and put my hand out to touch the delicate material. ‘You’re right, it’s extraordinary. Almost too perfect. It needs . . . something.’

  I stare at the dress for a second, then tilt my head, thinking. ‘You know those Joe Faircrux pieces?’ I say. ‘They’d look amazing with it. Wait there.’

  I fetch a jewelled belt and necklace from one of the glass covered display tables and lay them down carefully on the cash desk. Both have large, irregularly cut semi-precious stones in muted shades of pink, red and purple, set in gold plate. They’re real statement pieces, and so OTT we’ve had trouble shifting them, even to Sissy who loves a bit of bling.

  Pandora smiles. ‘You’ve a good eye, Jules. The colours are perfect together and the belt will make it a bit more edgy. Here, take it for a second while I find some heels to go with it.’

  She hands me the dress, which is as light as a feather, and while she looks for shoes, I hold it up against me. It’s a little long, hitting my leg just above the ankle bone – it would look best mid-calf. A faint smell wafts up, delicate perfume, fresh, like a summer meadow.

  Pandora walks back with a pair of gold Jimmy Choo sandals.

  ‘I don’t think it’s been cleaned, Pandora,’ I say.

  She looks around, then satisfied there’s nobody looking, sniffs under the armpits, and then down the bodice.

  ‘You really are some sort of bloodhound, Jules, I can’t smell a thing. And dry cleaning will only stiffen the material. It’s perfect.’

  ‘It is beautiful all right,’ I say, playing the material through my fingers like water.

  She smiles back; it’s so rare we agree on anything.

  ‘Will you try it on for me, Jules? So I can see how the material falls. Slip your feet into the heels so you don’t stand on the hem. Go on, humour me.’

  Normally I’d tell her where to go. I’m not some sort of human mannequin. But there’s something magical about the dress that makes me nod wordlessly and toddle off to the changing rooms, the chiffon laid out over my outstretched arms like a bale of precious material, the slim straps of the barely worn Choos hooked over my fingers.

  I untie my tassel belt, peel off my top, wiggle out of my skinny jeans and carefully lower the dress over my head. There it is again, the subtle summery scent. The chiffon drifts down over my hips and pools slightly on the wooden floor. The matching pink zip is carefully hidden to one side and I pull it up gently, making sure not to catch any of the delicate material in its teeth; Pandora would murder me. I slide my feet into the sandals; they are at least a size too small and my toes poke out over the sole but it’s only for Pandora. I take a deep breath, and turn around.

  I stare in the mirror, my mouth falling open in a wow. Then I start giggling to myself. Is that really me? The glamour puss in the drop dead gorgeous dress, the deep pink zinging colour into her pale, hung-over face – surely it can’t be me? I put one hand behind my head and wrap my long curly hair into a mess
y chignon.

  ‘Va va voom!’ I whisper, sticking my hip out and kicking up my back foot. I pout and say ‘Happy Birthday, Mr President,’ in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. ‘Like to give me one, Mr President?’ I wink at myself in the mirror and catch Pandora’s face staring back at me. I swish around.

  ‘What are you playing at, Jules?’ She’s stuck her head through the grey silk curtain and her face is a picture.

  My cheeks flame. ‘Nothing.’

  She stands beside me. ‘You forgot these.’ She fastens the necklace around my neck, hooks the heavy belt around my waist, and then rearranges the material, gliding her hands down my hips. ‘Come outside so I can get a better look at you.’

  I protest but she grasps both of my hands and guides me out towards the large gilt-framed mirror propped against the wall. Then she positions me in front of it, stands back and whistles. The belt has made the skirt the perfect length and the belt and necklace glitter in the shop lights like wet pebbles on the beach.

  ‘Where have you been hiding those curves, Julia Boolia?’ She shakes her head. ‘You look a million dollars. Grecian goddess meets Hollywood.’

  I grin. Pandora isn’t one for compliments.

  ‘Who designed it?’ I ask, unable to tear my eyes away from my own image. ‘I forgot to check the label. And how much are we selling it for?’

  ‘It’s by Faith Farenze. She’s from Chicago originally, used to work for Prada; set up on her own two years ago in New York. Jennifer Aniston wore one of her dresses at the Oscars last year. No one sells them over here – Kathleen bought it in Barney’s. It’s worth three grand, but she’s happy to sell it for twelve hundred. She’s donating the proceeds to the Red Cross; her brother works as a field doctor in Ethiopia and I’ve promised her we won’t charge any commission.’

  She stands back and looks me up and down again. ‘Could you do a window, Jules? Use this as the centrepiece. Maybe it will tempt people in.’ She sighs. ‘If we could find more dresses like this, I’m sure it would make a difference. Show-stoppers in the window always bring people in. Remember those Louboutin courts we dangled on a fishing line? The red ones? They went in a flash –’

  She breaks off and looks at me closely. ‘What is it? Are you OK? You’ve gone very pale. You’re not going to puke, are you? If you are, take the dress off first.’

  There’s a very real chance that I might do just that. Because framed in the shop’s doorway is Lainey Anderson. A ball of pain and anger careers around my stomach like a Catherine wheel. I can barely look at the girl, let alone speak to her. Luckily she doesn’t seem to have spotted me yet. She’s doing that ring twisting thing she does when she’s nervous, only this time it’s an engagement ring she’s playing with.

  ‘Cover for me,’ I say in a low voice. ‘Tell her I’m not here.’

  Pandora’s face darkens. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll happily give Miss Anderson a piece of my mind. But for God’s sake, don’t get sick on the Farenze.’

  Chapter 2

  I dash into the staffroom and close the door firmly behind me. Burnt toast lingers in the air and I wrinkle up my nose. My feet are already hurting from the sandals. I’m a size six and none of the posh secondhand shoes ever fit me. Rich women must have their feet bound to keep them under a size five, like they used to do to Chinese girls.

  I flip off the heels and they clatter onto the tiles. Then I unzip the dress, step out of it, and stand there in my knickers and bra, holding the chiffon carefully in my arms, looking around for somewhere safe to rest it. That would not be the crumb-splattered table with the knife resting across the Bon Maman pot, a blob of pink strawberry jam dripping off its blade. Which immediately strikes me as strange.

  Although she does like her toast practically cremated, Bird is anally tidy. And then I feel something, or someone behind me and I swing around. And there he is, sitting on the small sofa tucked between the fridge and the door leading to the office, looking up at me through his dark shaggy fringe, an amused look on his face. I shriek and clutch the chiffon against my practically naked body.

  ‘Jamie Clear, what the hell are you doing in here?’

  I’ve known Jamie pretty much all my life. The house where he grew up, Sorrento Lodge, is slap bang next to Bird’s, and his mum, Daphne, despite the twenty-year age gap, is Bird’s best friend.

  Jamie takes a last mouthful of what looks suspiciously like burnt toast with strawberry jam and wipes the edges of his lips with his fingers.

  ‘Long time no see, Jules,’ he says easily. ‘Actually I’m waiting for Bird. She said to make myself at home. I reset your toaster by the way, some eejit had left it on the highest setting.’

  I stare at him in confusion. ‘Bird? Why?’

  ‘I’m setting up electronic loyalty cards for your customers. And redesigning your very sad and dated-looking website.’

  ‘I thought you were living in Galway, working in that animation place.’

  He gives an exaggerated shrug, his blue Superman T-shirt lifting towards his ears, showing a good inch of surprisingly toned belly above his black jeans. In fact he’s bulked up a lot since the last time I saw him; no longer the weedy computer nerd of old.

  ‘That didn’t work out,’ he says. ‘I’m living with Mum until I can find a place in Dublin.’

  ‘I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into you yet.’

  ‘Only moved back last week. I was going to call in but, well, you know.’ He pauses for a beat. ‘Mum told me about Ed and Lainey, the engagement and everything. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You hate Ed,’ I remind him. In fact Ed is the reason Jamie and I haven’t spoken for years.

  ‘I know. And he’s just proved that he’s an even bigger dickhead than I thought.’ His eyes rest on mine. They’re gentle, sympathetic. I can feel tears welling up so I look away.

  ‘You OK, Jules?’

  ‘Fine. They’re welcome to each other.’ I quickly change the subject before I start crying. ‘Why you? To do the techie stuff I mean.’

  ‘I can design websites in my sleep and Mum promised Bird I’d help her out seeing as I’m not working at the moment. Plus I’m damn good.’

  ‘Says who?’ I say with a smile, glad the conversation’s moved away from Ed and Lainey. But Jamie’s not being big headed, he really is a computer genius. He was almost arrested when he was eleven for hacking into a bank’s computer system and trying to shift money around. He’d read about it in some book and wanted to see if it was actually possible. It was.

  He looks at me, a bemused expression on his face. ‘Are you going to stand there arguing with me, woman, or are you going to throw on some clothes? Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying the view, but your ass must be cold.’

  I blush deeply, remembering I’m wearing black knickers that I’d rescued from the depths of my underwear drawer this morning – see-through Myla ones with ribbon ties at both sides. A present from Ed. I was in a rush and they were the only clean pair I could find. I would have gone commando if I’d been wearing a skirt but with jeans, it’s never a good idea unless you’re a sadomasochist.

  ‘It’s August, Jamie. I’m fine, thanks very much.’

  I consider my options, then turn my head and spot some new stock hanging on the back of the door, waiting to be priced, so I back towards it and grab the first thing that comes to hand.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ I say firmly. We used to be like brother and sister, but even so.

  He grins, then clamps down his eyelids. I hang the chiffon dress carefully over the hook and wriggle the new one over my head and down my hips.

  ‘OK, you can open them now,’ I say.

  ‘Kickin’ outfit.’ He’s smiling at me again, his green eyes twinkling.

  I’ve chosen a red lycra number that’s at least a size too small for me and looks more like your average swimsuit than a dress. It just about covers my bum and looks exactly like something Sissy would wear and she’s all of a size zero. In fact it probably is Sissy’s
. I hope it’s bloody clean. I don’t want Sissy’s dead skin-cells anywhere near me, her idiocy might rub off.

  I grab a white shirt, throw it over the dress and knot it at the waist.

  ‘Very Pretty Woman,’ he adds.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pretty Woman. Julia Roberts borrows one of Richard Gere’s shirts to make her outfit look less, well, less hookery.’

  ‘Hookery? Is that an actual word?’

  The door swings open and Bird bustles in wearing a shell-pink Chanel jacket over skinny jeans (which look surprisingly good on her) and black ballet pumps. There’s a white silk scarf looped through the top of her jeans as a belt and tied in a jaunty bow over her left hip. I smile to myself. It’s an outfit I styled for her two weeks ago when the shop was quiet.

  Bird looks at me, Jamie, and then back at me. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she says in her distinctive clipped, cut-glass voice. Bird has lived in Ireland all her life, but retains the Anglo-Irish accent that her parents had before her. Bird scandalized her family by marrying a Roman Catholic, although her new husband wasn’t in the least bit bothered about religion – said it had caused quite enough nonsense in Ireland already – and gave her his blessing to bring Mum up as Church of Ireland, even though it wasn’t the done thing at the time.

  I can’t really remember Mum’s voice, but Pandora says she sounded like a softer, watered-down version of Bird. In fact, Pandora can sound a bit marbles in the mouth at times, but I’ve made it my business to make my voice sound as Irish as I possibly can.

  ‘Hookers,’ I admit.

  She tut-tuts. ‘I do hope you’re not being rude about our clients again, Julia.’

  I laugh. ‘No, Bird. Jamie was making charming comments about my clothes.’