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Normally, I shop with Lori, and it’s usually such a wordy affair, the pair of us having to give a running commentary on whether something is nice or not, or having to figure out a gentle way of saying something doesn’t look quite right or is too tight or too young.

Owen said he can’t lie, but then I recall how sharply he’s dressed and how important his image is to him and feel safe in the knowledge that he’ll be invested in me looking good next to him, so I must trust his judgment. He is, after all, a perfectionist.

“Do you have sisters?” I ask, the click of hangers accompanying my question.

“No. Only child.” Owen is still focused on the dresses.

“Where’d you get your eye for fashion from?” I ask.

He pauses and looks at me. “Are you suggesting a man can’t have a good eye for clothes without there being a female influence somewhere?”

“No… oh, wait, yes. Yes, I am. Sorry. It’s just not known for men to have a good eye for fashion,” I begin to explain, although I know this is making things worse.

“Really? So, Tom Ford, Giorgio Armani, Ralph Lauren, Gianni Versace, Virgil Abloh, Marc Jacobs—I could go on—they all must have had a sister or a wife in the background?”

My cheeks heat. “I stand corrected.” I return to the rails, my tail firmly between my legs.

There’s a beat where all I can hear is the scrape of the hangers over the metal rails until Owen speaks.

“I got bullied in high school,” he starts, not looking at me. “Never had the right brand or name of clothes, things didn’t match or didn’t fit me properly. My parents weren’t fashion people, so I was always dressed in whatever they bought. So, at fourteen, I got a job at the supermarket. Got paid a pittance to stock shelves, but I saved up, and the first thing I bought was a decent pair of trainers. And it was amazing, the reaction I got from the other lads when I had a named pair of trainers on, so I didn’t stop there. I bought jeans next, then a decent T-shirt, and the change was ridiculous.” He slides hangers across the rail as he speaks, his eyes scanning the dresses almost mechanically.

“Looking back, I know it was wrong… that these people weren’t my friends because all they were bothered about was image and status. But when you’re a teenager, status is everything. So clothes have become my armour, if you like, the one thing I can control—the one message I can send out before anyone tries to judge me. I know I’m not the best at talking or communicating. I find it difficult sometimes to say the right thing, so my clothes give me confidence—something I lack in social situations.”

There’s a second where I don’t know what to say, which is highly unusual for me, but this is the most Owen has ever said at one time and I want to recognise this, but I also don’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“That makes sense, and I get what you mean about the high school days,” I begin, feeling the only way to thank him for sharing without sounding soppy is to share something of my own upbringing, though mine sounds totally different from Owen’s. “I was lucky that my parents had money to buy me whatever clothes I wanted, but that just meant the girls found something else to bully me about.”

“You were bullied?” Owen glances at me.

“I wouldn’t go as far as bullying. It wasn’t all the time. It was like they would pick a certain day and decide it was going to be my turn. And I’m not going to lie—I was pretty, and this would instigate their jealousy and, in turn, would cause them to find something wrong with me. Whether it was that my lips were too big, or my hair looked greasy, or that I was a slut because I was dating. They spread some awful rumours about me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think it’s a rite of passage. I don’t think there’s a teenager on this earth who hasn’t had to endure having the piss taken out of them for something.”

Owen nods. “Strange, how it stays with you, though,” he says softly.

“Yes, yes, it does.”

Stepping back from the rail as if he’s been electrocuted, Owen suddenly announces that there’s nothing here and we need to go next door. He sets off for the exit, and I follow, wondering how much of his social battery that conversation alone has drained.

We move on to the next shop, and our search continues. Each dress—and there are plenty—Owen says no to before I’ve even tried anything on. Until he pulls one out and holds it out to me.

“This one,” he says.

“Really?” I take the dress from him, not sure why he thinks this is the one. Don’t get me wrong—I love it, but I’d never have chosen it because it’s gold and glittery. My first thought is that people won’t take me seriously in it.

“Try it on,” Owen urges as I compile a list of reasons why I’ll look ridiculous in this dress. But then I remember that I brought him here for his help, so I go with it.

We head to the changing rooms, Owen following, and I wonder why this doesn’t feel awkward.

18

Owen

Loitering outside the changing room, I can’t help the strange feeling twisting inside me at how easily I opened up to Alice when she’d asked why I cared so much about clothes. I’d initially been irritated by her stereotypical assumption that because I cared so much about my appearance, I must be gay, but then I remembered she only thought that because I told her Paul kept me awake at night.

I find it difficult to open up to anyone. There are things even Smithy doesn’t know about me, but I keep circling back to the one person who once did know everything about me. And look how that turned out.