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‘Sorry?’
‘I said we won’t be disturbed in here.’ She draws the curtain closed and I find myself in a large cubicle with a full-length mirror in front of me. Oh joy. In my experience there’s nothing quite so unforgiving as a full-length mirror. As well as my own reflection, I can see Tina standing behind me, looking expectant. An uncomfortable silence descends. My skin is prickling. Why doesn’t she just get on with it? After what feels like an age, she speaks again.
‘So, if you could just slip off your top and your bra, I’ll get you measured.’
‘What?’
‘Your top and bra. If you could just slip them off. There’s a stool there you can pop them on.’
She’s got to be having a laugh. Does she seriously think I’m just going to whip my boobs out in front of a complete stranger?
‘Umm, is that really necessary? I’m sure I read somewhere that you were supposed to be able to tell by just looking at me or something.’
‘Charlotte,’ she says soothingly, ‘I may be good at my job, but I can’t measure you by telepathy. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sure you’re not hiding anything under there that I haven’t seen before.’
I feel cornered. I’d love to make a run for it, but Tina is standing between me and freedom and I don’t want to flatten her in my bid to escape. I try to tell myself to be rational, that lots of women get fitted every day, but that doesn’t help. It’s not even that I’m ashamed of my boobs particularly – they’re all right, I guess. It’s just, well, embarrassing to think about stripping off in front of someone I’ve never met, in a shop.
‘Would you like me to step outside while you get undressed?’ Tina is asking now.
How on earth would that help? I wonder. That’s like asking if I’d like her to count to ten before she chops my head off. The result is the same, it’s just drawing the process out. I grit my teeth and resolve to murder Madison as soon as we’re alone and I can think of somewhere to hide her body.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Reluctantly, I lift my jumper over my head, and then reach round to undo my bra. I dump them on the stool and stand there staring fixedly at the floor, my cheeks burning.
‘Excellent. So, what I’m going to do is measure round your ribcage, just under your bust. That will tell me your underband size.’ She gently wraps the tape measure around me and notes the measurement. ‘Now I’m going to measure round your bust, and the difference between the two will tell me your cup size. Once I’ve done that and we know what size you are, I’ll go and get some bras for you to try. OK?’ Once more the tape goes around.
‘Right, Charlotte. You’re a 34C. Stay there and I’ll be back in a minute.’
I open my mouth to ask her if she’s sure she has measured me right, because I’m pretty certain I’m a 36B, but she’s already gone. I hear Mads’ voice from the other side of the curtain.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘Seriously, Mads? I’m plotting your demise in here.’
‘Relax. The worst is over. Now comes the good bit.’
Tina reappears with her arms full of bras. ‘We’ll start with this one. It’s a T-shirt bra. It’ll give you a nice shape under close-fitting tops.’ She hands me the bra and I put it on. At least I’m partly covered up now. She fusses with the straps for a few moments and then says, ‘There you go. What do you think of that?’
I force myself to look in the mirror and my first thought isWHOA! Where did THEY come from??Once I’m over the initial shock, I have to admit to myself that I like what I’m seeing. My normal sports bras tend to just squash and minimise, but this is really flattering. I can’t help smiling as I turn left and right, admiring my new décolletage. Tina then makes me try on various different styles, including a push-up bra (would madam like to wear her boobs as earrings, or use them to poke people’s eyes out?), and a plunge bra, which is supposed to enhance your cleavage but just makes me giggle hysterically. In the end I buy two T-shirt bras in different colours, with knickers to match. After I’ve paid for them, Mads insists that I go back into the changing room to put one of the sets on before we go and look at anything else.
‘You may have been right about this, but I still want to kill you,’ I tell her as we leave the store.
‘Rubbish, you should thank me for rescuing your poor tits from years of wrongful imprisonment!’
I laugh and glance downwards. It’s like two aliens have taken up residence on my chest, but I can’t help smiling (34C – did I mention that?).
‘OK, Mads, where next?’
‘Wait and see.’
It turns out that our next port of call is a mobile phone shop. This has the potential to be every bit as traumatic as the bra fitting, but for different reasons. I know that my iPhone is on its last legs and I did go into a shop to see about replacing it a few months ago, but I was so confused by all the different options and technical jargon that I ended up thanking them politely and, not to put too fine a point on it, fleeing with my tail between my legs.
Once again Mads takes charge, but this time I’m grateful. It’s almost like she’s acting as a translator between the sales guy and me.
‘What sort of contract is your current phone on?’ she asks me after several minutes of incomprehensible conversation between her and the sales guy.
‘Umm, it’s pay-as-you-go.’
‘OK, what about data? How much do you use?’
