by Fiona Gibson
I step into the ‘thing’ and try to pull it up over my body. Jesus. I look like an unconvincing transvestite. In a sweat, I yank it off, shutting my ears to the sound of a seam ripping and a button popping off. After hastily pulling on my jeans and top, I hurry out of the changing room where the Penelope look-alike is twirling in front of the mirror. She is skinny and angular, like a foal – and is wearing the thing. The romper. It’s several sizes smaller than mine – it would fit a Bratz doll, actually – but is clearly the same style. ‘Hi,’ she says, catching me staring. ‘It’s so hard to decide, isn’t it?’
‘Um, yes,’ I say, conscious of a faint throbbing in my temples. God, it’s hot in here. Penelope doesn’t look hot, though. At least not in a flushed, sweaty way. Her abundant dark hair cascades around her bronzed shoulders. It’s not natural to be tanned in April in Yorkshire. She must have been sprayed like a car.
‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’ says her equally dainty, redheaded friend, emerging from a cubicle.
‘Yes, she does.’ My back teeth clamp together.
‘You’ve got to buy it,’ the redhead urges. ‘It’s so you.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure . . .’ Penelope leans forward, studying her cleavage in the mirror. She has perky, young-person’s breasts. It’s a fair bet that they haven’t been gnawed by three ravenous infants or leaked milk in the supermarket checkout queue.
‘I, er, hope you don’t mind me asking,’ I say, fuelled by sudden curiosity, ‘but what would you call that thing you’re wearing?’
‘It’s a playsuit,’ Penelope says, twisting round to admire her minuscule derrière. Isn’t it obvious, Granny? she adds silently.
‘A playsuit?’ I repeat. ‘Like little children wear?’
She laughs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. They’re back again. Meant to be the big thing for summer.’ The redhead throws me a curt look as if to say: ‘No, she’s the big thing for summer.’
‘Oh, you’ve got one too!’ Penelope exclaims, registering the garment scrunched up in my clammy hand. ‘Are you treating yourself?’
‘Um, I don’t think so. It’s not really my thing.’
She flares her nostrils. ‘Hmmm. Guess you’ve got to go with what suits you.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I force a grin, which I hope suggests that I’m on the hunt for some foxy little cocktail dress, and not support hose or a girdle.
Back in the sanctuary of the mall, I wonder where to go next. I must buy something sexy and completely impractical. I can’t face going home empty-handed after being awarded a day off from domestic duties by my beloved. Ignoring a burning desire to check out drum accessories for Finn, or toys for Grace and Toby, I fish out my mobile, deciding to cheer myself up by telling Jed about the playsuit incident. Our answerphone clicks on, and when I try his mobile it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘Just thought I’d let you know I’ve bought a playsuit. It looks great, really foxy – thought I’d wear it to your next work do. Hope you’re all having a fun day. Missing you. Bye, honey.’
I glare at my phone, as if it’s responsible for my husband’s unavailability. It’s not that I’m worried that Jed is incapable of looking after our children. He works with kids, after all, in the toughest primary school in the area. He’s even had a feature in the local newspaper about him. Jed Swan, it said, has scooped a well-deserved Local Hero award for his unfailing commitment to children’s artistic and sporting endeavours in the borough. He’s not the kind of dad who needs a map of the kitchen to indicate where milk is kept. Beth told me that, on the rare occasions when she’s going away overnight, she still feels compelled to leave Pete, her husband, a list of child-related instructions which can run to five pages. What guidance could a father possibly need in order to care for his two children, I wondered? ‘Take kids to park . . . you’ll do this by first ensuring that they are adequately clothed according to climatic conditions . . . Leave house via front door remembering to take key . . . In the park you will find a large circular object. This is called a roundabout. No, not the traffic kind. The other kind. Let Jack go on it, and Kira if she wants to, then proceed to spin them as fast as humanly possible for several weeks . . .’
As I head for Starbucks, I figure that at least Jed does his fair share. In fact, he could probably survive perfectly well without me. He certainly doesn’t seem to need me. Sometimes I suspect he wouldn’t notice if, instead of sleeping beside him, I replaced myself with a cushion. I have come up with possible reasons for this:
1. Severe exhaustion (although toning down his sporting activities might help).
2. He is suffering from some kind of sexual dysfunction and is too embarrassed to talk about it, even though we have been together for fourteen years. Regarding this option, I have delved about on our computer for evidence of him trying to buy Viagra or some kind of pumper-upper penis device. So far, nothing.
3. He no longer fancies me due to my ample fleshage.
4. He is shagging Celeste, a possibility which is too horrific to contemplate seriously and makes me barge into Starbucks in a rather aggressive manner, nearly sending a man flying in the doorway.
‘Whoa, after you!’ he says, staggering back dramatically.
‘God, I’m so sorry,’ I bluster. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘That’s okay. You’re obviously more desperate for a caffeine fix than I am.’ He grins, and his cheeks dimple in a distinctly fetching way.
‘Guess I am. It’s just been one of those mornings.’ I smile back, pushing dishevelled hair out of my eyes, and realise I’m still clutching the playsuit. ‘Oh, hell . . .’ I shake it out and gawp at it.
‘Not your colour?’ the man asks with a smirk.
‘It’s not . . . I mean . . . it’s not even mine.’ Blushing furiously, I meet the stranger’s blue-eyed gaze.
‘So whose is it?’
‘It’s the shop’s,’ I murmur. ‘I . . . I stole it.’
Chapter Five
‘Really?’ He makes his way towards the small queue at the counter. ‘You mean you shoplifted it? That was very bold of you.’
‘I mean accidentally,’ I say quickly. ‘I tried it on in a shop and it was awful, some kind of playsuit thing that came up to here’ – I indicate thigh-length – ‘and it was so hot and stifling in there, and I was so desperate to get out I just walked off with it . . .’ My entire body tenses in preparation for a hand landing heavily on my shoulder and being named and shamed in the Collinton Gazette. Mother of Three, Wife of Local Hero, steals playsuit from city centre store . . . I glance around nervously.
‘What did you say it was?’ the man asks.
‘A playsuit. They’re the big thing for summer, apparently. I’ll have to take it straight back.’
‘Why not have a coffee first?’ He narrows his eyes and glances through the window. ‘Can’t hear any sirens out there. You should be safe for a few minutes.’
‘Think so?’ There’s a faint throbbing in my neck. Not even the sight of all the muffins and pastries can soothe me.
‘I’d say you could risk it. I’ll keep an eye out if you like.’ His blue eyes crinkle appealingly, and I notice how long and luscious his dark eyelashes are. Clients have theirs tinted at the salon to achieve a similar effect. ‘After you,’ he adds, beckoning me to join the queue.
‘Thanks,’ I say, relaxing slightly. I order my coffee, choosing a shortbread biscuit for nerve-calming purposes, and buy three giant chocolate coins for the kids. The stranger joins me at a vacant table. ‘I’m Danny,’ he says. ‘Okay if I sit with you?’
‘Laura.’ I smile. ‘Sure, no problem, as long as you don’t mind associating with a master criminal.’
He grins. ‘Think I can handle it. So, what’s the plan with the playsuit?’
‘I don’t know. How would you go about un-shoplifting something?’
Danny shrugs. ‘I might run past and throw it in through the door . . .’
I laugh. ‘I’m not running anywhere. You know t
he parents’ races they have at school sports days?’
‘Well, I can imagine,’ he says with a shudder.
‘Didn’t even make it to the finishing line,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a wonder my family hasn’t disowned me.’
He chuckles. ‘Well, don’t they say it’s not the winning . . .’
‘. . . but the taking part that counts. Not at my kids’ school. It’s a deadly serious business.’
He sips from his mug and wipes a little coffee froth from his upper lip. ‘So, how many mini-athletes do you have?’
‘Just the three.’
‘Whoa. Quite a handful.’
‘You could say that,’ I laugh, appraising this cute, friendly man with a cheeky smile who has lifted me from changing room despair to a far more agreeable state of mind. Danny has dark brown, slightly unkempt wavy hair, and a hint of stubble. He is chunky, like me, but it lends him an endearing quality and rather suits him. Anyway, men can get away with it. A little extra weight makes them look cuddly and cute. As they don’t have the babies, they’re not subjected to a barrage of pressure to lose their pregnancy weight in ten minutes. I nearly vomited when Naomi bragged that her body had ‘snapped back’ to pre-pregnancy tautness within ten days of giving birth to Phoebe. There was a distinct lack of snapping with mine. On particularly fat days I still wear my vast preggie knickers, and fear that they’ll still be surgically attached to my rear when Toby leaves for college.
‘Laura,’ Danny says thoughtfully, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘Uh-huh?’ I lick a spoonful of cappuccino froth. I should have ordered a skinny latte – or, better still, a bottle of joyless calorie-free water. What the hell.
‘You could post it back anonymously . . .’
‘Great idea. I could include a note telling them that it didn’t have a security tag on, so they’d realise there’s a fault in their system . . .’
‘. . . Which means you’d be doing them a favour,’ Danny says triumphantly. ‘Or I could take it back for you and tell them I’ve decided I don’t have the legs for it.’
We are giggling like children as we finish our coffees and step out into the bustling street. The grey April sky has brightened to a clear baby blue, and York looks sparkly and alive. ‘Think I’ll just take it back and explain what happened,’ I say, smiling.
‘Very sensible.’ We pause, then he adds, ‘Well, it was nice meeting you, Laura. You really brightened up my day.’
‘You too. And I’m sorry I barged into you like that. I’m not usually so rude.’
He grins. ‘I’m sure you’re not.’
‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye, Laura.’ As we head in opposite directions I turn, briefly, to see if he’s merged with the crowd. Danny turns too, catching my eye and giving me a little wave and a cheek-dimpling grin before disappearing around the corner. I stand for a moment, thinking, what a sweet man, and tasting sugary shortbread on my lips. I feel giddily alert, as if every cell in my body has just woken from a long hibernation and sizzled back into life.
It’s been so long, I realise with a jolt to my heart, since anyone has made me feel like that.
Chapter Six
I return the playsuit, for which I am thanked profusely (although I omit to point out the ripped seam and missing button) and saunter into my next port of call with renewed optimism. Result: they do not cater solely for shaved Twiglets, and actually stock size 16s. Grabbing a handful of dresses, I pull on the first one in the changing room. I don’t know if they have trick mirrors or lighting but I look kind of . . . radiant. As if I might have been whisked off to a spa, given a thorough all-over scrubbing and hourly shots of wheatgrass. My long, wavy dark hair looks shinier and somehow more nourished, and my normally pale cheeks have acquired a healthy glow. I no longer look like a woman who breakfasted on her children’s fried egg whites as all three decided that, from now on, they will only tolerate yolks.
The dress is a gorgeous emerald green and has obviously been designed by someone who recognises that real women have bums and hips and boobs, and knows how to make them look rather yummy. ‘Oh, yes, that’s perfect,’ the salesgirl exclaims when I step out of the cubicle. ‘It really brings out your lovely green eyes.’
‘Think so?’ I ask. ‘It’s quite bright for me. It’s not my usual shade at all . . .’
‘Oh, it’s definitely the one for you. Are you tempted?’ She smiles encouragingly.
I nod. ‘Sorely tempted.’
‘Well, I hope you’re going somewhere special to wear it.’
‘Yes,’ I fib, ‘I am.’ Back in the cubicle, I change back into my own clothes at top speed, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. Jed was right: today has done me a world of good. I no longer feel all chewed up about Celeste and all that pathetic picking-at-my-husband’s-clothes at sports day. All I’d needed was a little time on my own to put things in perspective (oh, and to have coffee with a cute, friendly man; maybe I’ve just been starved of male company lately). Trying to tame a rogue grin, I decide not to mention the coffee part to Jed. Or the accidental shoplifting, him being Local Hero, pillar of the community and all that.
As I head for the till, a small thrill ripples through me as I wonder what the kids have been up to today. I know I’m supposed to be grateful to be let off the leash, but I’m not used to being without at least Toby, when I’m not working. God knows how I’ll feel when he starts school after the summer holidays. Naomi keeps asking what I ‘have planned’, which suggests that I should have everything sorted – a PhD to get started, maybe – in readiness for this forthcoming development.
A display of stockings and tights catches my eye in a display cabinet by the till. As I’m not up to flashing my sun-starved legs, I pause to choose a pair. ‘Slender Deluxe’, one packet reads. ‘Impregnated with skin-smoothing extracts. Counters cellulite and offers a silken tone.’ Hmm. The word ‘impregnated’ is a little off-putting, but I’m intrigued by the promise of ‘visibly slimmer legs, thighs and bottom after just one wearing’. Can tights really do this? If so, why does anyone bother going to the gym?
Next to the tights are things called Body Reducers which promise to ‘squeeze away inches’. I grab one of those too. In the picture on the packet, the model is wearing a curious undergarment which goes all the way from her knees right up to her boobs. It’s the colour of a digestive biscuit and quite hideous, like a sort of gigantic support bandage. Surely, though, being all bound up like that is a small price to pay to have inches squeezed away, and less hassle than being lipo-sucked. I pay up and head out, breathing in the fresh, blue-skied morning.
Even without my new fat-melting underwear on, I feel unusually carefree and light. Maybe that Body Reducer starts working in the packet. As I walk, I glimpse a woman’s reflection in a shop window, and it’s a moment before I realise it’s me. I’m striding along like someone who knows where she’s going and feels good to be alive. A besuited man heading towards me flashes a wide grin. I smile back. It’s as if a switch has been flicked and I am visible again. As I pass Starbucks, where I banged into Danny, I feel a flurry of pleasure.
After a leisurely lunch, and perusing posh make-up which I can’t afford (and which Toby would probably destroy anyway), I drive home with the windows open and music blaring. The posh paper carrier bag containing my new dress, tights and corset thingie sits perkily on the passenger seat.
Back home, Toby hurtles towards our front door to greet me. ‘Mummy’s back!’ he cries, wrapping himself tightly around me.
‘Hi, darling. Had a fun day with Dad?’ I crouch down and bury my face in his messy fair curls.
‘Yuh. Where you been?’ he asks, swinging Ted by a leg.
‘Just to York, shopping.’ He pulls away and bites his full bottom lip, as if fearing that I might desert him again very soon (unlikely). Even when he’s older, lying on the sofa in a fizzle of hormones like Finn, I can’t imagine him trying to disown me.
Jed is standing a little behind him, looking rather aim
less with hands thrust into his jeans pockets. ‘Had a good day?’ he asks.
‘Yes, great, thanks. Just what I needed.’ I meet his gaze. He is sexily unshaven and horribly, irresistibly handsome. I love a grazing of dark, swarthy stubble, until it becomes needle-prickly by which point I usually ask him to shave. Correction: used to ask. Jed hasn’t bristle-grazed me in a long time. We don’t seem to kiss these days. I’m not sure at what point we stopped.
‘What did you buy, Mummy?’ Grace asks, clattering downstairs. Her caramel hair is loose and wild, and she’s wearing a huge black T-shirt with a shark on the front, baring its teeth.
‘Just a dress, love, and some tights and, er, an underwear thingie.’ I try for a hug, but she wriggles from my grasp.
‘Aw, that’s boring.’
‘Oh, and these.’ I tease her by fishing about in my bag for ages. With a flourish, I pull out the giant chocolate coins.
‘Yummy!’ she squeals. ‘Can I have one?’
‘Of course you can. They’re not for me.’ Perish the thought . . .
