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God, I have some ugly clothes. I’ve never really thought much about it before, but in these plush surroundings some of my stuff looks incredibly tired and dilapidated. Shapeless tops, baggy jeans, tired sports bras, and the less said about some of my knickers the better. I hold a pair up to the light. I remember them being a rather pretty shade of pink when I bought them. Now they’re more grey, and they’re fraying where the elastic meets the fabric. The contrast between these and the ones I found under the bed couldn’t be more marked. I bet Scarlett wouldn’t be seen dead in knickers like these. The fabric itself is so worn it’s practically translucent. I tug it between my fingers and it tears easily. I decide to make two piles. One pile for clothes that still have life in them, and another for those that have definitely passed their use-by date.
By the time I’ve emptied the bin bags the ‘throw away’ pile is significantly larger than the ‘keep’ pile. I bundle the ‘throw away’ pile back into the black bags to take to the recycling and put away the rest. Thankfully, I don’t actually need that many clothes. I wear scrubs at work, and it’s not as if my diary is jam-packed with social engagements over the next few weeks. Even after binning more than half of them I reckon I still have just about enough clothes to be going along with for now.
By the time my parents are back, I’m fully unpacked and I’ve made a trip to the recycling bank to drop off the bin bags of worn-out clothes. I feel a sense of achievement, but I’m very conscious that there are another six days to fill before I go back to work on the second of January and pick up some semblance of my normal life. I plug the iPhone in to keep it charged and sit cross-legged on the floor by the plug to call my friend, Madison.
I met Madison the day I moved in with Josh. She lives in the flat opposite ours and we hit it off straight away. Although she was born in America to American parents (hence the name), her accent is mostly pure cut-glass British – a legacy of the expensive private education her parents put her through after they moved to the UK when she was small. I’ve never met her father; he works for some big international corporation and travels a lot, but her mother has been at the flat a few times when I’ve popped over. It’s bizarre listening to them chat; Madison’s accent reverts to a broad American twang when she’s talking to her mother, but switches to British the moment she addresses me.
She works as a freelance journalist, so she’s often at home during the day. I got into the habit of popping over to hers for a decent cup of tea and a chat whenever she was around on my Wednesday afternoons off, and we’ve become firm friends.
She picks up almost instantly. After the usual ‘How are yous?’ I fill her in on the situation between Josh and me.
‘Oh, Charley, I’m so sorry. What a bastard! I’d offer to firebomb his flat for you, but it might burn mine down too.’
When I tell her about the trip to the recycling bank, she squeals with delight. ‘But you see what this means, Charley, don’t you? You’ve just thrown away half your wardrobe and the post-Christmas sales are on. You and I are going to hit Bluewater and get you a whole new look.’
‘Mads, I’m not sure I’m up to a big shopping trip right now.’
‘Nonsense. Best thing for you. After I’m done with you, you’ll feel like a new woman!’
‘I don’t think I want a new woman. Last time I looked I was still very much heterosexual.’
‘Ha ha. I see your break-up hasn’t improved your sense of humour. I’m at Mum and Dad’s until tomorrow. I guess you won’t want to come over to mine in case you bump into Josh and whatshername, so I’ll pick you up from your parents the day after tomorrow. Bring credit cards.’
We agree a pick-up time and she rings off.
I’m not sure I’m ready to reinvent myself yet, but once Mads gets the bit between her teeth there’s no deflecting her. I guess it will fill a day even if I don’t buy anything, and she’s promised to pay for lunch, so what’s the harm?
4
Mads picks me up as arranged, and we arrive at Bluewater just after it opens at ten. My suggestion of a coffee before we start is dismissed.
‘No time, too much to do.’ Mads starts dragging me through the shopping centre. When we arrive at our first destination, I’m surprised to see we’re standing outside a lingerie store.
‘Now, we’re starting from the inside out. There’s no point getting you lots of lovely new stuff if you’re wearing crappy underwear underneath. Tell me, when was the last time you bought a new bra?’
‘Umm, I don’t know.’
‘And what sort of bras do you like – wired or not wired? Push-up? Balcony?’
‘I normally just buy sports bras to be honest. They’re good for work.’
‘Honestly, Charley, you’re hopeless! Sports bras are fine for keeping everything in place if you’re exercising, but there are so many different types and they all do different things for you. That’s why you need expert advice and that’s why we’re here. You’re going to have a bra fitting.’
‘What?? I don’t need a bra fitting! I know what size I am and, anyway, they look busy. We’ll probably have to wait for ages. Let’s start somewhere else.’
I daren’t confess that I’ve never had a bra fitting. My mother tried to persuade me to have one when I was a teenager, but I managed to dodge her by just trying on loads of different sizes until I found one that I thought felt right. It’s a technique that’s worked just fine for me ever since.
Before I can object any more, she pulls me inside, marches up to the counter and says to the assistant, ‘This is Charlotte Jenkins. She has an appointment at ten fifteen for a bra fitting?’
While the assistant consults the appointment book, I pull her aside. ‘You booked me in?’
‘Oh yes, as soon as they reopened yesterday. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.’
‘Right now, I want to smack you one!’
Before I can carry out my threat, a pretty woman with a tape measure hanging round her neck comes up to us and asks, ‘Which one of you is Charlotte?’ Mads practically thrusts me at her.
‘I’m Tina,’ she says, ‘and I’ll be doing your fitting today.’ She leads me to a changing room at the back of the store. I guess she’s in her late thirties, but she has one of those faces that make it very difficult to tell. She could be older and just ageing well. I’m so wrapped up with trying to work it out that I miss the fact she’s speaking to me.
