by Jo Watson
Oh, God, what if she thinks my boobs are too small or too saggy or something? I raise an arm self-consciously across my chest.
“What sort of bra?” she asks. “Is it for a special occasion? We’ve got some lovely new balconettes in.” She eyes my outfit of a mint-green blouse and black leather pencil skirt as though my clothing will help her ascertain if I’m the sort of girl who would own a balconette bra.
I glance at the sea of colours around me, all lace and ribbons and diamante. Olivia Bright never said I needed anything special. In fact, she never said I needed to go anywhere near La Senza. I bet there are tons of shoes and bags I could buy that would make me feel loads more confident than any bra.
Consider the shopping experience itself. Shoe shopping is never humiliating, is it? Nobody cares what size feet you have. Except maybe if you’ve got tiny little-girl feet or massive giant-man feet. And even then, you still get a nice pair of shoes at the end of it, so it’s not all bad.
“Or we have an excellent selection of T-shirt bras,” the assistant continues when I don’t say anything.
T-shirt bras. They’ll do, won’t they?
“Great. Thanks.” I follow her to the back of the shop.
She leaves me standing in front of a display of plain cotton bras all the same in design, but with subtle colour variations, you know, for those times when you might need to wear chocolate-brown instead of tan.
I hear a giggle to my left and notice that the festive underwear is right next to the shop’s most ordinary bras. And oh, my God. Some ancient couple is actually looking at this stuff.
My view of them is partially blocked by a display of novelty thongs, but I can just see the man’s bald, pink head as he chuckles at a candyfloss-haired woman holding out one of the sexy Mrs. Claus outfits. She gives a little sway of her hips, hidden beneath a long beige duffle coat.
Wait a minute.
I recognise that coat.
No… It can’t be.
But it is. My mother sees me just as I realise what’s going on. She’s out shopping for sexy underwear with Phil, my stepdad.
Oh, my God. This has got to be some sort of joke. Mums don’t shop in La Senza. Not mums over fifty, anyway. This is all wrong.
Okay. Calm down. Maybe she’s just…doing her Christmas shopping. I’m sure Auntie Lily would love one of those fur-trimmed bra sets. Oh, God. That’s even worse.
“Megan!” My mum pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s so nice to see you! We were just saying, weren’t we, Phil, how long it’s been since you came over for your tea.”
I grit my teeth and force a smile back at her.
My mother and Phil live across town in Horsforth, and regularly host evenings of canapés and wine tasting with their snobby next-door neighbours. The last time I went, I spent the evening pretending I like caviar and clinking glasses with pretentious idiots who felt the need to tell me what flavours they could taste with every sip of wine rather than just bloody drinking it.
Before they bought their semi-detached house in the nice area of Leeds, she probably got all her underwear from Primark.
“So, Meggy,” Mum is saying, and I wince at the horrible childhood nickname, “why don’t you come over on Friday night? We’re having a little soirée, aren’t we, darling?” She looks at Phil, who nods animatedly. “And you’ll never guess what!”
Please don’t make me guess.
“What?” I use as much enthusiasm as possible, given the circumstances.
“Tim will be over from London. Isn’t that wonderful? You know, he’s a really successful lawyer now over there. Done well for himself, that boy.”
Tim Hudson is Auntie Wendy’s son. She’s not a proper auntie, mind. She’s just a friend of my mum’s who used to think it was appropriate for me and her weird son to have sleepovers together as children.
“That’s…great!” I fake excitement. “I presume Wendy will be there, too?”
Mum nods. “Her and Bryony.”
Ah. There we go. I wondered when we were going to get on to the subject of Tim’s even weirder sister. “Bryony’s coming to show off her engagement ring,” Mum explains.
“She’s engaged?” I say with genuine surprise. Normally this type of gossip is what my mother fills our telephone conversations with.
“Yes! Didn’t I tell you? Oh, he’s a lovely chap. Wendy’s always gushing about him. The Hudsons are a lovely family themselves, don’t you think?”
I know where this is going. I can see straight through Mum’s pursed-lip smile. Of course she’s upset that eleven-months-younger-than-me Bryony is getting engaged first. And who better to set me up with than her successful and available older brother? Which I decided was never going to happen after witnessing Tim’ public dental hygiene routine.
“They’re the best, Mum.” I mirror her tight smile. “Anyway, look, I’ve really got to go. I’m due back at work.” I pretend to look down at the watch I’m not wearing.
“So we’ll see you on Friday, then?”
“Um…I’m not sure if I’ve got plans with Zara.”
“Bring her along!” suggests Phil, and I glare at him.
The last thing I need is for Zara to witness my total humiliation as Mum tries to set me up with Tim “successful London lawyer” Hudson.
I have this theory that Mum and Auntie Wendy have been secretly planning a wedding between Tim and me for years. And now that Bryony’s getting married, what better time to present their plans?
Shit. What if they’ve got a double wedding or something equally hideous and tacky in mind?
I’ll be sharing the attention with Bryony as we waltz down the aisle in matching white dresses, hand sewn by our mothers.
The thought makes me shudder, and I quickly snap back to reality. As if I’d even consider marrying Tim. I’m only twenty-four! I’d have to be at least thirty and facing a serious groom shortage before I reached such a desperate stage.
“What a wonderful idea, Phil,” Mum gushes. “I’m sure there’ll be somebody coming along who might catch Zara’s eye, too!”
My mother seems to think that single girls only attend parties if they’re looking for a man.
“I think Zara said she’s busy on Friday night. She’s just taken on a really big job.”
“Didn’t you say you had plans with her?” Mum asks in puzzlement.
“Provisional plans,” I correct hurriedly. “I think she said she might have work to do. But sometimes she never knows, being freelance.”
“Oh.” Mum rubs her chin. “So will we see you there or not?”
I should say no. I should have something fantastically important to do that I can’t get out of. But my mind is blank.
“Um…”
“Wonderful!” Mum throws her arms around me again before I’ve thought of anything to say.
And now it’s going to be even harder to get out of.
Chapter Three
So, since the first point on Olivia Bright’s list didn’t exactly go to plan, I’ve decided I’m going to spend my morning at work the next day thinking hard on the second one.
What is it again? Oh, yes. Volunteering to find my dream job.
Trouble is, I have absolutely no idea what my dream job is.
When I was little, I wanted to be a vet. Until I realised that I actually hate dogs. There’s no way that I could stand all that yapping and having to wash their disgusting, matted fur. At least cats clean themselves. Although I’m not a big fan of cats, either.
Okay. What else is there? What skills do I have? I got a B in GCSE drama when I was at school. But I don’t suppose there are many volunteer acting jobs going. Not the glamorous film set type, anyway, where you get to meet Brad and Angelina.
Then there’s always the course I did in fashion design. The only problem is I was completely useless at operating a sewing machine.
Oh, God. I’m going to work in HR admin forever, aren’t I? And Nora will still be my boss when she’s ninety-two and getting around th
e office with a Zimmer frame.
I’m in need of a bit of retail therapy by lunchtime, so I head straight to the handbag section in New Look. While I’m standing, mesmerised by the beautiful beading on the new range of clutch bags, I remember that they sell underwear here. And it’s a reasonably upmarket place, isn’t it?
Finding a light blue set in my size, I grab it and one of the silver bags that would be perfect for a wedding—if I was going to a wedding, that is—and head for the checkout.
As the young girl behind the till scans my items, I spot a notice pinned to the counter advertising for the position of store manager. Well, I’m not sure I’m managerial material, but fashion retail is definitely something that interests me.
I picture myself in a different pair of New Look heels every day, snapping up the gorgeous clothes before anyone else gets a chance. That sounds like something I could be good at.
“Do you take on volunteers here?” I ask the girl as she hands me my change.
She gives me a blank look in response. “Volunteers?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about a career in retail for a while now,” I lie.
“If you want a job, you’ll need to get an application pack from customer service. If you want, I can call Sally over for you?”
I stare at the growing line of impatient customers behind me. “No, that’s okay. Thanks, though.”
Back at the office, Scarlett jumps on my New Look bag like a child unwrapping a present on Christmas morning, calling out, “You didn’t tell me you were going shopping! What did you buy?”
The shopping bag is out of my hands before I can answer her.
“This is lovely.” She examines my new clutch bag, her fingers trailing along the beading. “Are you going somewhere special?” She dives back into the plastic bag and pulls out the blue underwear set. “Oh.” Her brown eyes widen. “I get it. You’re going on a date!”
“No!” I shout back with a snort of dismissive laughter. “What gave you that idea?”
“Are you telling me you’re going to be using this tiny bag for the office now?” She holds the bag by its thin strap and cocks her head to one side as she looks at me.
“No. But that doesn’t mean I’m going on a date,” I point out.
Scarlett sucks in a sharp breath. “You don’t buy underwear like this if you don’t want someone to see it. So who is it, then?” Her eyes dart around our office as though this “date” she’s dreamt up for me is hiding under my desk.
“It’s nobody,” I insist, snatching my things back from her manicured fingernails and holding them in front of me like a shield.
Oh, no. I’ve made it worse. Now she’s going to think I’m going on a date with somebody embarrassing, someone like the comedy-moustache-sporting Charlie from accounts.
She snaps her fingers. “It’s Ray, isn’t it? The new warehouse guy. I saw you two talking the other day but I never thought—”
“It’s not Ray.” I cut her off, inadvertently turning this into Scarlett’s idea of a fun guessing game.
“Marcus, then?”
“Marcus hasn’t worked here for months.”
“So? That doesn’t mean that you two aren’t hooking up.” She pulls a makeup compact out of her desk drawer and fluffs her long, dark hair as she looks in the mirror.
“Look, Scar, I’m not hooking up with anybody, okay?”
“Oh, I see.” She closes the compact and studies my face. “You haven’t asked this guy out yet, have you?”
“Scarlett.”
I’m saved by Helen striding into the office, swinging her newly highlighted blond locks behind her like she’s in a L’Oréal advert.
Scarlett and I both gawp at the rock dazzling us from her right hand.
“Hey ladies,” she greets us, straddling her desk chair so that she’s facing the two of us. She drums her fingers against the back of it, just in case we’ve managed to miss the bling.
“I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow,” says Scarlett.
“Thought I’d come back early.” She twists the glinting diamond ring around her slender finger.
I’m too stunned to say anything.
“Did Raul buy it for you?” Scarlett nods towards Helen’s right hand. “That’s so romantic!”
“Raul?” Helen’s pencilled-in eyebrows are firmly raised. “I’ve known the guy maybe a month and you think he’d buy me a diamond like this?”
“You’re not seeing someone else, are you?” Scarlett claps a hand over her mouth, and I can see her eyes cataloguing the corridor through the glass door of the HR office as if Helen’s mystery man, and probably my secret date, are hiding out there.
Helen winks and holds her ringed finger up to the light. “Can’t a girl treat herself every once in a while?”
“Where did you get it?” I ask. “Where do you find a ring like that and just buy it yourself?”
“Well it’s not real. Imagine how much it would be worth if it was.”
“I want one!” Scarlett uncaps her tube of lip gloss.
“It’s one-of-a-kind.” Helen retracts her hand. “But they have plenty of affordable fakes at that second-hand jeweller in town.”
Scarlett wrinkles her freckled nose. “The one near the Oxfam?”
Helen is saying something else about jewellery, but I’m not listening.
Charity shops are always looking for volunteers, aren’t they? And it is retail, isn’t it?
Okay. Informing little old ladies what 99p cardigans are available isn’t in the same league as telling New Look’s customers what stilettos they’ve got in.
But charity-shop retail work has got to be better than working in some places. Like…like a lingerie shop. I cringe imagining standing behind the counter in La Senza when your mother walks in, her husband in tow, and heads straight for the festive underwear section…
But it’s one step closer to fulfilling the points in the article. Isn’t volunteering supposed to make you feel all warm inside? Maybe that’s why Olivia Bright particularly mentions voluntary work. Maybe I really will turn into a cool, confident woman because of it.
I can do this. I’m going to be good at this.
I mean, better than I ever would be at fashion design or any of those silly ideas.
* * *
Nora sends us home early on Thursday, which gives me time to nip down to Oxfam before I catch my bus home.
The Leeds shop is a decent size, and not too far from the bus station. There’s a woman sitting behind the counter who looks much younger than the average charity shop face, her long black talons gripping a tatty Mills & Boon paperback.
She doesn’t smile as I approach.
“Excuse me?”
She flicks her dark eyes over me for the first time, a pinched expression on her face. I’ve obviously interrupted an erotic scene between a Greek billionaire and his virgin mistress.
“I was wondering if you had any voluntary vacancies going.”
The woman sighs as though my query is such a hassle to her and reaches under the desk for an application form. “Fill this in,” she says in a monotone voice.
I move to one side of the counter to fill in the forms, ignoring the sound of the door opening behind me. I’ve just got to the part about my skills and experience when a voice behind me says, “Hello, Megan. I thought you said you were going straight for the bus.”
It’s Nora. My high-class, well-dressed boss, who definitely doesn’t buy her clothes from charity shops. So what is she doing in Oxfam, then?
“Nora!” I greet her enthusiastically. “I was just…uh…” A wave of panic surges through me as I realise that her eyes have already fallen on the papers in front of me.
What if she thinks this will affect my paying job? What if she says she’s setting me free to pursue a career in retail? And what if I discover it’s not really my dream at all? What will I do then? Confident women aren’t unemployed, are they?
I think again of the photos in the magazine.
All those girls look like successful businesswomen who wear Jimmy Choo pumps and Chanel No. 5 perfume.
“Volunteering?” Nora’s lips are a tight line. “Well, Megan, I’m sure you will be an asset to a place like this.”
I blink a few times. Is she really saying… Is that a compliment?
Swallowing, I manage to say, “Thank you.”
Nora nods once at me and then moves off to scan a rail of dull suit jackets.
Oh, my God! She really does buy clothes from Oxfam. She might even get her underwear from Primark.
I turn back to the desk. The shop assistant is still reading her book like Nora and I aren’t here.
Does this mean Olivia Bright could be wrong? Nora is a woman who exudes confidence without being anything like the glossy-haired girls in magazine photographs. And she definitely isn’t the sort of person to listen to anyone’s advice.
But then it occurs to me that, if confident women like Nora shop at Oxfam, maybe working here really will be a good thing.
I’m grinning with excitement as I hand in my application form.
“Thanks.” The woman behind the counter finally drops her book. “Due to the high volume of applicants received, please assume you have been unsuccessful if you haven’t heard from us within two weeks.” She speaks as if reading from a cue card.
“What?” I stare blankly at her. “You mean I don’t automatically get the job? It’s a voluntary position for God’s sake!”
“We get rather a lot of applications from people seeking something to fill their CVs with,” she explains, picking her tatty Mills & Boon back up.
“Oh.” I step backwards. “I see.”
“We’ll give you a call if anything suitable arises,” she says as I head out of the shop.
Well, that didn’t exactly go to plan. Don’t they need more staff to cover the Christmas period? Do people even do their Christmas shopping in charity shops?
Oh, dear. I haven’t got a clue. Maybe retail isn’t going to be my dream job after all.