by Jo Watson
When this inevitably fails, I get up to make a pot of tea and watch Saturday Kitchen with Zara.
Every time the phone rings, whether it’s mine or Zara’s (usually the latter), I hold my breath, panicking that it might be Sue Weaver calling from Oxfam, pulling me away from my planned morning of sitting in my pyjamas watching the telly.
I should phone up and tell her I don’t want to do it anymore. But I haven’t yet come up with a clever way of saying that I’ve changed my mind about my retail dreams because of one awkward customer, the mother of the guy my friends at work are trying to set me up with.
Well, that and the fact that I couldn’t figure out how to input multiple purchases into the till.
Oh, God. I must be a terrible person. I’m more interested in snuggling up on the sofa with a cup of tea than giving something back to the community by doing my voluntary job.
“No plans today?” Zara eyes my panda pyjamas.
“I might have a clear out later,” I say. “Get rid of old clothes and stuff.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Any reason for that?”
“I thought I might have a good sort out in my bedroom.”
“So it’s got nothing to do with point number four on this list of yours?”
“How do you know—”
“I’ve read it, too.”
“Should I keep going?” I look to Zara for validation.
She turns her body towards me, her eyes locked on mine. “Do you think I’m confident?”
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. Why is she asking me this?
“I…I…of course I do.”
“But I didn’t follow some magazine article to get there.”
“I wanted to be good at this.” I flop back against the cushions. “Everything else I’ve done has been such a big failure.”
“That’s not true.” She places a reassuring hand on my arm. “Look at how you took charge with your boss. It paid off, didn’t it?”
“So you don’t think it matters that the other things haven’t gone so well?”
“There’s still four things left.”
I frown and rub my nose. “I thought you wanted me to give up?”
“But I know that you’re going to do it anyway.”
“I look towards my closed bedroom door. “But there’s no time limit, is there?”
Zara laughs. “None at all.”
I tuck my feet up on the sofa. “Then I’ll definitely start tomorrow.”
Chapter Ten
I haven’t sorted out my clothes since I moved in with Zara.
Okay. I’ll be completely honest. I didn’t do much sorting then either.
The walk-in wardrobe takes up almost half the space in my bedroom, so I didn’t think I’d need to streamline my clothes to fit in there.
And I might have made a few more purchases since then.
Oh, God. I never thought I’d find this difficult. When I first read about throwing away small or outdated clothes, I thought it would be one of the easiest things to do on the whole list. All I’d have to do is pull out the clothes that don’t fit, or that I don’t wear anymore, and chuck them into a bin bag. It even sounds easy.
The way I imagined it, I’d end up with a colour-coded, dream wardrobe that would practically ask me how my day was going every time I opened the door.
The reality is that I can’t bring myself to throw away a skirt that I saved up for, week after week, because of something trivial like it no longer fitting me.
You never know when you’re going to be struck with a rare stomach bug that will make you drop two dress sizes in a week, do you?
If I throw away all the things that don’t fit me, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe when I do eventually lose the weight.
And as for things that I hardly ever wear, well, it’s much the same principle. It’s the way of the world that I’d get invited to a ‘60s-themed party the minute I decide to get rid of my psychedelic, flower-print shift dress.
So on Sunday, I don’t do anything beyond stroking the fabric of my neglected dresses before deciding that I’m not ready to be so ruthless with the clothing that’s served me well since my teenage years.
But I’m definitely going to do something about it when I get home tonight.
“Have you ever sorted through your wardrobe?” I pose an open question to the other women in the office.
Scarlett is back at work today, claiming she’s had food poising all weekend, and even Nora is making a rare appearance.
“I’m twenty-nine years old,” says Helen. “Of course I’ve cleared my wardrobe out. If I hadn’t, I’d still have crop tops and hot pants in there.”
Nora looks up from her computer screen. “I’m quite willing to bet that you still own at least one pair of hot pants.”
Helen winks. “What about you, then? I’m sure you’ve gone through a few tweed jackets in your time.”
“Had this one nearly fifteen years now.” Nora pats the dusky pink jacket that’s hanging over her chair. “But I think everybody’s had a wardrobe purge at some point.”
Really? Everybody?
Scarlett is sitting hunched over her desk with her hands pressed up to her ears.
“How about you, Scar?” I try to draw her into our conversation.
“What?” She cups a hand over her mouth and leaps to her feet. “I’m sorry.”
The three of us watch as she runs out of the office.
“Food poisoning?” I suggest.
Helen shrugs. “She did look a bit green.”
When Scarlett comes back, looking oddly pistachio-coloured, we all know something’s wrong.
“You should go home,” Nora orders, which is what she says when she’s scared she might catch something..
“I’m fine.” Scarlett waves a hand dismissively. “I just haven’t fully recovered.”
“You don’t look fine.” Helen edges back in her chair. “In fact, you look disgusting.”
“Thanks.” Scarlett gives her a meek smile. “And I go through my clothes all the time, Meg. I don’t want to be in the same outfit in all my Facebook pictures, do I?”
There’s the Scarlett I know. Maybe it is just food poisoning after all.
* * *
When I get home from work, I’m too exhausted to decide how many pairs of leggings I really need.
I step into the closet space and stare at the cluttered rail of garments.
Right. I know. I’ll just take everything out and then I can slowly add back in the stuff I want to keep. Then I’ll be able to buy more clothes to replace all the ones that I’m definitely getting rid of.
With an armful of clothes, I struggle towards the bed. After tripping over a beaded jacket and getting several coat hangers stuck in my hair, I end up with a mountain of clothes that look far worse consuming my purple, polka-dot bedding than when they were hanging in the wardrobe.
If Olivia Bright were here now, she’d probably say I was a complete failure. And that’s exactly how I feel.
Zara appears in the doorway to my bedroom, her eyes landing on the mess I’ve created. “Did all that come out of there?” She stares at the vacant space where my clothes used to be. “How the hell did you even get them in?”
“I do have some skills.” I shrug. “Mostly it involves doubling up on coat hangers.”
She pulls a face. “How can you see what you’ve got if everything is shoved on one hanger?”
The reason I don’t find this a problem is because I don’t trawl through my clothes, looking for something to wear. Most of the time, I choose the outfit that’s still sitting in the shopping bag waiting to be put away.
“I just know what clothes I have.” I ignore the urge to see what that orange velvet is, poking out from underneath all my office blouses.
“Well, if you need some help, I’ll be back later.”
I’ve only just noticed that she’s got her wool coat buttoned up, and she’s holding her leather gloves. “You’re
going out?”
“I’ve got a meeting,” she says as she heads out the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
* * *
Exactly two hours later, there’s still no Zara and still no change to the mountain of clothes on my bed.
Obviously I am going to sort through them. It’s just that ITV2 is showing back-to-back episodes of Gossip Girl, and it’s all getting very dramatic with secret relationships and a masquerade ball.
I’ve actually got a dress perfect for a masquerade ball. And I might have a mask too. One of those identity-concealing ones so you can have all the secret relationships you want.
Oh, my God. That’s where Zara is. There might not be any masks involved, but she must be with a secret lover.
It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? That’s why she’s been so secretive recently. I wonder who it is. Maybe it’s Gary from the flat above. That would explain why she’s always so interested whenever we see him going somewhere.
I’ll have to interrogate Zara when she gets back.
Except it doesn’t quite happen like that.
I hear Gary from upstairs come home about an hour later, and I instantly run to the window to see if Zara is with him.
She isn’t.
And when it’s approaching midnight and she still isn’t back, I start to suspect that the occupant of the flat above might be some sort of axe murderer.
You hear about these things happening all the time, don’t you? Young girls being snatched by their supposed friendly neighbours, their bodies found by dog walkers in some deserted woodland.
When I get no answer from her mobile, I leave her a frantic message about Gary. Just in case.
I decide go to bed just soon after and see the pile of clothes still waiting for me to organise them.
Sod it. I’ll just sweep them all onto the floor and worry about it tomorrow.
Chapter Eleven
Wherever Zara was last night, it turns out that it wasn’t in the company of an axe murderer.
I wake up the next morning to find her crashed out on the settee, her pale face smudged with makeup, her wild acting as a pillow.
She can’t have been with Gary, either, so I guess that means I’ll have to rethink my earlier assumptions about who her mystery boyfriend is.
Oh, God. When did I become like Scarlett?
Leaving her to sleep, I head to work, where things aren’t any less weird.
Scarlett is at her desk, clutching a plastic bucket in one hand and copy of Cosmopolitan in the other.
“Morning,” she grunts, pushing her unusually wavy dark hair out of her face.
“Still sick?” I plonk my purse down on the desk and study her melon-green face.
She nods. “Don’t worry. You aren’t going to catch anything.”
“Does Nora know you’re here?” I scan the empty office.
Scarlett shakes her head. “That’s why I’m reading this.” She waves the magazine in the air. “Keep an eye on the door for me.” She places the bucket on the standard-issue, office brown carpet near her feet and flips the issue of Cosmo open on her desk.
I watch as her eyes flick over the printed pages, but it doesn’t’ look like she’s taking any of it in.
Food poisoning or not, I can tell something is going on with Scarlett. But I don’t ask her about it yet. I know that she’ll tell me when she’s ready to.
Tonight, I have an unavoidable arrangement to meet my mum and Phil for tea. She’s picked the Toby Carvery in Rothwell, just a five-minute walk back to my flat for when I make my excuses and leave.
I’d much rather be asking Zara a few questions about where she got to last night than suffering through an awkward evening meal with my mother, listening to her going on about how wonderful Bryony’s winter-wonderland engagement party is going to be.
She’s planning to hold the party outside. Outside! In freezing-cold English December. That’s a reason why I don’t want to go already. Aside from the fact that Bryony is likely to be completely insufferable at such an event, as per bloody usual.
Leaving work, the last person I want to see is Liam Wiseman. But of course, there he is in reception, leaning over the marble counter talking to Charlotte.
I give him a scornful look as I push open the heavy glass doors so that he’s clear that I definitely do not have a sad, pathetic crush on him.
Outside, I stop to adjust my unravelling scarf before I head off to meet Mum. Liam appears on the pavement beside me like he’s teleported there.
“Yes?” I say with a hard stare in his direction. “Do you want something?”
“I wondered if you had Nora’s phone number.” He fiddles with the buttons on his jacket. “I’ve got a report to get to her and Charlotte says she’s already gone.”
“Why would I have it?” I snap.
“I thought you two were friends.”
“I’m sure Charlotte’s got everything you need on that computer of hers.” I shove my hands in my coat pockets and turn to walk away.
“Hey, wait.” Liam rushes in front of me. “Look, Megan, I—”
“Liam?” Another colleagues appears behind him and starts up a conversation—one that doesn’t include me.
Liam turns away long enough for me to take my opportunity to leave and run to the bus station before he has any chance of catching up with me.
I don’t know what he was going to say, and I don’t suppose it matters now.
* * *
Mum waves me over as I enter the pub.
“Phil and Tim are just at the bar.” She beams at me.
Did she just say…Tim Hudson is here?
What the hell is Tim doing gate-crashing my already awkward family dinner?
Forget that. My mother probably invited him. She probably invited him before she asked me.
Okay. I can do this. All I have to do is stay for the meal and then make a swift exit. I probably won’t even have to talk to Tim.
“Here you are, Meggy.” Phil places a large glass of white wine in front of me. “Tim bought your drink.” He winks at me, and I cringe.
Of course Tim bought my drink. That would explain why it’s white wine, which I can’t stand.
“How’s work going, Megan?” Phil sits next to Mum, forcing Tim to take the only available chair beside mine.
“It’s fine.” I grit my teeth, forcing away the memory of Liam leaning over Charlotte.
“Tim’s looking for a job in Leeds now, aren’t you, love?” Mum smiles across the table at him.
“Yes, I think I’m going to be sticking around.” He slurps his beer. “Any jobs going at your place, Meg?”
What? Oh, God. He’s kidding, isn’t he? Please tell me he’s kidding.
Okay. I’ll just say something jokey back.
“I think one of the cleaning ladies is leaving.”
Mum frowns at me, and Phil clears his throat before taking a gulp from his pint.
“Seriously.” Tim looks at me from over the rim of his glasses. “I’m having a spot of trouble finding a job that suits my skills.”
“Really?” I take a sip of wine and wince. “Well, you found the job in London, didn’t you?”
“The company was affiliated with Cambridge University. All their connections are in London.”
“They must need lawyers in Leeds.” I look encouragingly at Mum, hoping she’ll chip in with some local information.
“I’m not sure if I want to be a lawyer anymore.” Tim slumps forwards in his seat.
Oh, no. This is bad enough without me acting as a careers advisor.
“Thirty years ago, you could have walked into a job like that.” Phil snaps his fingers. “Hard to imagine now.”
I eye the growing line of people filling their plates at the carvery counter. “Let’s go get something to eat,” I suggest, standing and nodding at the others to follow me.
Once we’ve eaten, there isn’t anything to talk about. My mother is unfamiliar with silence and tries to start a go
ssipy conversation about her neighbours, which soon leads on to the topic of Bryony and her bloody engagement party—as if she had scripted it to happen.
“It’s going to be spectacular, darling!” she describes in great detail how she’s going to decorate the garden.
“What if it snows?” I don’t want snowflakes landing in my champagne (not that I’m going to be drinking champagne again, but that’s just an example).
Mum blinks a few times. “Well, that’ll be lovely, won’t it? We were looking at those snow machines, but you wouldn’t believe how much they cost! I said she’d be better off spending that money on something nice for the wedding.”
I nod in agreement, glancing at my watch.
How long am I required to sit here and pretend to be interested in these things until I can make an excuse to leave?
It suddenly occurs to me that this time I genuinely do have an excuse. I’ve still got that mass of clothing waiting for me where I left it on my bedroom floor.
“Mum, you don’t mind if I shoot off, do you?” I grab my coat from the back of my chair.
“Aren’t you going to stay a bit longer?” she protests. “We’ve hardly seen you. And I’m sure you and Tim have got lots to talk about.”
“I’ve got something to do.” I tug my coat on.
“Something to do?” Phil repeats. “That sounds very mysterious.”
“It’s not,” I assure him. “I’ve just got to clear out my wardrobe. You know, the things that don’t fit anymore.”
“You look better with a bit of weight on you now,” Mum nods at my body, now hidden beneath the fur coat. “Our Meggy’s got a lovely figure, don’t you think, Tim?”
To save a red-faced Tim from answering that question, I jump in. “Right. Well. I’ll see you all later.” I loop my scarf around my neck and lift my hand in a limp imitation of a goodbye wave.
“But You’ve barely touched your drink,” Tim says.
I stare at the incriminatingly full wine glass on the table.
Mum stares at it, too. “I thought you didn’t like white wine?”
Oh, no. What do I say? I can’t tell her that I do because she’ll start buying it for me for Christmas. And I can’t admit that I don’t because it might hurt Tim’s feelings.