Only, the designer lingerie store isn’t exactly the bulk-pack-of-panties kind of place I expected. In here, even the matching sets are individually displayed as though each flimsy shred of material is a work of art. The seasonal colours of gold, peach, and lilac are splashed across each wall, all of them clashing horribly with one another.
“You’re on your own in here,” Sylvie warns. “My sister always said what a‘woman wears against her skin is her own concern.’ I agree with her on that, although there are some really cute ensembles that I can see at the back that would suit you.” With a goal in her line of vision, she beelines for the back of the store. I absently wonder if Sylvie’s sister was anything like my grandmother.
Even though the choice of colours is restricted, the cut and styles available are mind-boggling for a girl who only ever wore the underpants her mother stole from the factory. In my entire life, I’ve only paid for underwear twice. Once when I was thirteen and needed to buy a training bra after my gym teacher caught the girls laughing at my newly formed breasts and last year, when I could no longer get away with hiding my fully formed chest behind layers of baggy sweaters and t-shirts. Both times were humiliating. I had no idea what I was doing. Much like now.
I dig around the displays, pretending to look at the sizes as though I know what size I am. I have a rough idea. The bra I’m wearing holds me up even if it’s a little looser in the back than it used to be.
“Can I help you?” a voice purrs beside me. Are shop assistants taught how to sneak attack their clientele? Dubiously in her late thirties, the woman stares at me with an emotionless mien painted across her face in luxury cosmetics. She rivals the mannequins in lack of expression.
“I…um…”
“What size are you?” she asks, cutting through my nerves.
“Um.”
“Have you ever been measured?”
“For a bra?”Did people do that? How?
“Follow me.”
“I don’t have the time. I…thank you, but—” The woman gives me a wry smile and pulls the blouse I’m wearing tight across my chest. Before I even realise what she’s doing, she spins me around and yanks at the band of my bra.
“The one you are wearing is two sizes too big around the back and one cup size too small. Start there and let me know if I’m wrong.” She hands me a pretty lilac bra with scalloped lace edges and pushes me into the changing cubby.
The item she chose is exactly two sizes smaller and one cup size larger than the bra I currently wear.Go figure. I tug the blouse over my head then wrench off my dirty once-was-white-now-is-grey bra, before carefully trying the new one—all the while, secretly hoping she’s got it wrong.
She hasn’t. It’s perfect. “Exactly right,” I whisper.
Her flat toneless voice seeps through the curtain. “Wonderful.”
I take off the new one and hang it back on the padded silk hanger. Dressing, I exit the booth and snatch a matching pair of boy short panties off the wall display. Sylvie waits for me at the till, forehead furrowed, and a frown etched into her pouty lips.
“One set? That isn’t going to get you far.”
“What is the budget today, Miss Trevainne?” the assistant asks, clearly recognising Sylvie.
“Let’s go to three thousand, Marie. Can you provide an array of your most popular sellers and mix up the styles a little? She needs a little spice in her wardrobe.” The assistant nods and takes off around the store, lifting items from the rails and handing them to three other girls who collect, wrap, and charge each item to the accumulating bill on Sylvie’s card.
“The red set at the back too!” Sylvie yells as Marie nears the outfit in question. “And the same in the black, but in my size, if you will?”
“Of course, Miss Trevainne.”
“I can’t let you have all the fun,” Sylvie beams. I’m watching with my mouth so wide I can taste the cloying perfume that the shop assistants are doused in.
I’m half-expecting Sylvie’s card to be declined or her bank to call through and accuse her of being a fraud just from the sheer amount of money wasted on lingerie, but the bill rings through and the card accepts the transaction.
On the way to the exit, a call comes in. I freeze. The tinkling bell rings exactly as I walk through the discrete security pillars by the doors. I glance back, thinking I’ve set them off, but no one is looking at me. Sylvie reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone.
“Hello?...What?...Are you serious? Really?…Oh my God! We’re on our way!”
My stomach turns somersaults. Has something happened?Oh God, are the kids okay? Aiden? Dax? As Sylvie continues to nod and shout exclamations down the line, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and there, blinking ominously, is a message from Dax.
Tom’s awake.
“You could have left it in the car you know?” Sylvie nods to the bag of lingerie whose handle I have double looped in my hand.
“A bag like this is robbery-bait.”
