Page 41 of From LA to London, With Love

She turned to smile at me. “This place has some beautiful stuff. I’ve already found a couple of dresses that I think will look amazing on you. Leave Elliot with me and try these ones on.”

Jenny casually tossed the pile of dresses at me, untroubled by the fact they were probably worth tens of thousands of pounds. I flinched as I caught them, handling them as if they were explosive devices, and gingerly carried them to a large changing room covered in mirrors, where I hung them on hooks. I didn’t want to look at the price tags.

I delicately took a gorgeous long sequined dress off its hanger. The rich purple bust gradually melted into gold at the waist. I unzipped the back and carefully stepped into it. It wouldn’t go over my hips. I’d need to try over my head.

“How is everything going in there? Do you need help with anything?” The shop assistant was clearly having a slow day because I’d been in the changing room for literally one minute.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I didn't want her help right now. I’d slept badly last night—ever since I’d heard the news that Chris and Clare were dating, I’d been having trouble falling asleep—and then Elliot had woken up early this morning. In my brain fog, I’d pulled on some worn beige underpants with holes near the saggy waist band and one of my least attractive maternity bras. I now regretted this decision. This wasn't the underwear of a woman who belonged in this store. It was even a step down from my second best jeans and flats. One glimpse of my sad-looking lingerie and the shop assistant would usher us out of the shop with her stiff smile.

I pulled the dress over my head and, with some squirming, maneuvered it over my curves. I looked in the mirror. Wow, this would look incredible…if I were six foot tall and stick-thin. At least a foot of gold sequined material trailed on the floor, and the dress was unflatteringly tight around my belly.

I bet Clare would look amazing in this.

I quickly pushed the thought out of my mind. I was generally pretty relaxed about my post-pregnancy curves and stretch marks—it had all been worth it to get Elliot—and I didn’t like the way comparing myself to Clare made me feel. I put on the ridiculously high heels the shop assistant had provided, but even they couldn’t elevate me to the height required to do the dress justice. Tucking my bra into the dress so it didn’t show, I opened the door and teetered out. I was glad I’d refused the champagne. There was no way I’d be able to walk in these heels if I was tipsy.

Jenny, halfway through her glass of champagne, and the shop assistant were standing outside, waiting for me.

“This one is lovely, but it doesn’t fit quite right, and it’s way too long.”

They nodded in unison.

“We’ve got two more dresses in there, and they are both shorter,” Jenny said encouragingly.

I inched back into the changing room, shut the door, undid the zip, and started to wriggle my way out of the dress, holding my breath. The sequins felt like they’d been hand sewn using the most delicate threads and might fall off if so much as a light breeze wafted over them. I’d made good progress and had just pulled the bottom of the dress over my head, my arms straight in the air, when it suddenly stalled. Shit. The dress was stuck over my boobs, my face covered, and it wasn’t moving any further. I tried pulling it back down again, but my arms were trapped in the fabric.

Panic rose in my chest. I wasn’t good in small, enclosed spaces, and having my head and arms trapped in fabric was about as enclosed as you could get. Sweat pricked my skin. Fuck, I also forgot to put on deodorant this morning. I hope I don’t stink out this gown. Could it even be washed? Irrational anger, directed at the dress for being so impractical, flooded through my body. At least most of the stuff at H&M and GAP were washing machine and dryer friendly.

I really wasn’t having any luck with clothes at the moment. This was bringing back memories of my date with Nicole last week. My one and only date with Nicole. As amazing as she was, by the next morning, I’d decided that even if dating was a good way to get over someone else, it didn’t feel right to pursue a relationship with Nicole while I was still hung up on Chris. I had, however, suggested we be friends and really meant it. I also intended to introduce Nicole to Rose. Josh’s initial matchmaker instinct was right—I was confident they would hit it off.

Distracted thinking about Nicole and Chris, I almost lost my balance.

Bloody hell, Sophie. Why didn’t you take the heels off before you started undressing?

I took a few deep breaths to steady myself. “What goes up must come down, so surely what goes on must come off?” I muttered a few times as a mantra, trying to remain calm as I attempted to inch the fabric over my head. I wasn’t getting anywhere. Had my boobs and shoulders somehow expanded while I was in this damn dress?

“How are you going in there, Sophie?” This time it was Jenny checking in.

“Not great,” I mumbled, hoping the shop assistant couldn’t hear. “I’m a little stuck.” The dress muffled my voice.

“Did you say you’re stuck?” Jenny asked loudly.

I winced.

“Yes,” I hissed.

“Okay, well, let me in and I’ll sort you out.” Jenny was sounding remarkably cheerful, given the circumstances.

She reminded me so much of Josh—that was exactly the sort of reaction I’d expect from him on hearing news I was stuck in a hideously expensive designer dress. I made a mental note that Josh and Jenny should never meet. I had a feeling they’d get along like a house on fire and get up to way too much mischief.

“No, I don’t need help,” I said stubbornly.

Another minute of careful wriggling passed in silence, except for the sounds of sequins rubbing together.

“Sophie, seriously, if you’re still stuck, just let me in.” Jenny’s tone had lost some of its playfulness. “The change room is big enough to fit the two of us and the stroller.”

Crap. I knew I needed help. I steeled myself. I’d been enjoying hanging out with Jenny, but this was the second time I’d met her, and we weren’t at the “I’m comfortable with you seeing me in my underwear” stage of friendship yet, especially not this underwear.

“Fine, just as long as you promise not to laugh at my underwear.” I gritted my teeth.