Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  ‘So, you’re really ready to do this, then?’ Delilah says at last.

  I nod slowly. But the truth is I’m not ready. I’m not ready at all. I probably never will be. I’m just doing this in a desperate attempt to be different because I’m sick of being myself. I remind myself of this as I take a deep breath, stand up and walk towards The Wardrobe. I place my hand gently on the key in the lock and turn it slowly. I close my eyes, open the door and then open my eyes again.

  Inside is a row of immaculate vintage pieces that I’ve painstakingly collected over the past two years, all unworn and covered in plastic, each one an embodiment of the girl I want to be. Vintage clothes are different: they’re original. They have history, a sense of magic about them. Besides all that, I love the fact that these clothes have lived a life before. I feel that simply by having them in my wardrobe, that life might just rub off on me. I don’t need to wear them. Once I buy them I immediately have them all dry-cleaned – a little luxury – and then they get locked away in the wardrobe. It’s not like I can wear them in my day-to-day life. My job in the stockroom and evenings spent looking after Delilah’s kids puts paid to that. But I’ve carried on purchasing them anyway. There’s something from every decade of fashion that I adore: 1920s silvery-white flapper-style beaded dresses; shimmering nude, pale-pink and oyster-coloured bias-cut satin floor-length gowns from the 1930s, which I’ve accessorized by wrapping faux fur shrugs and strings of pearls carefully round the necks of the hangers. There are gorgeous 1940s floral print tea dresses; pastel 1950s prom gowns with corsages and layers of tulle; pencil skirts and beautifully tailored trousers, silk shirts in fabulous jewel colours and armfuls of gorgeous brightly coloured 1960s mini shift dresses.

  Over the past two years these clothes have become like my own personal priceless art collection. They hang in my wardrobe, perfectly curated in order of colour, style and length, but they never get taken off their hangers, or out of their plastic. They’re just there for my viewing pleasure.

  ‘Wow,’ Delilah breathes as she takes in the row of glistening transparent plastic before us. ‘Can I see some of them?’

  I inhale sharply. Even though Delilah has always known about The Wardrobe, I’ve never shown her any of the clothes. I’ve always locked them away as soon as I bought them, before she had a chance to sneak a peek. She’d beg and plead, but I’ve always been adamant about keeping them private. Showing them felt akin to telling someone your dreams after you wake up; to you they’re deeply meaningful and personal but they probably seem boring or bizarre to anyone else.

  But today is different. I realize that if I’m going to pretend to be a stylish, beautiful personal shopper, these clothes are my only chance. I can’t afford Carly’s designer clothes, and besides, they just wouldn’t suit me like these do. I love the way that each garment feels like it’s been made especially for me, accentuating my waist, hiding my hips and making the most of every curve I’ve got. I may be pretending to be Carly, but deep down, I still want Joel to be attracted to me.

  I step forward and lift a hanger off the rail, holding the plastic against my body for a moment, hoping that it will be enough. Fat chance.

  Delilah shakes her head. ‘Put it on.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I reply, shaking my head vehemently.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I swore to myself I’d only wear these clothes for an Occasion.’

  ‘Well,’ she says patiently as she throws her pizza crust on her plate before stretching out on the bed, ‘this is the “Trying on Outfits for the First Date you’ve had in a Very Long Time” Occasion. Come on, Evie, you’ve got to do it some time, and who better to do it with than me?’ She smiles encouragingly and I bite my lip. She’s right. If I’m going to do this, I need a practice run.

  ‘But I don’t know where Joel might take me or what we might do!’ I protest, trying to buy myself more time. And part of me is still scared that he’ll never call. That our delicious meeting will forever languish in my memory of Things That Might Have Been. ‘Why don’t I just take some of them out of the plastic to show you, and leave it at that?’ I add hopefully.

  Delilah grins. ‘No chance. You’ve brought me this far, you can’t back out now. This is better than a night at the movies. I wish I had popcorn,’ and she snuggles down into my bed. I can’t help but be thankful that her kitchen is on the bottom floor so there’s little chance of her bothering to go back down to get snacks. The thought of her munching messy popcorn on my bed is horrifying. I’m having a hard time as it is ignoring the pizza crust.

  ‘But I don’t know which one to try on!’ I wail pathetically.

  ‘So try them all,’ Delilah shrugs. ‘I’ve got all night. Will’s out with the boys and won’t be back till the early hours. Again,’ she adds, leaning over to take a sip of wine. She throws her arms above her head. ‘Come on, sis. Let the show begin!’

  Reluctantly I head for the bathroom. I should be excited about this, but I can’t help but feel I’m about to disappoint Delilah and let these beautiful clothes down, even though each one of these garments was bought because I knew instinctively when I saw it that it would make me feel different, special, beautiful, visible for once in my life. But suddenly the thought of putting something on that could make me stand out is petrifying. I have faded into the background for so long I’m not sure I can handle the spotlight. Even one in my own bedroom with just my sister as an audience. How pathetic is that? I glance down at the dress I’m holding and notice that I’m shaking a little. Here in my hand is the fabric of a life I’ve only ever dreamed of stepping into. Each stitch is a story of what could have been.

  Then I remember the unyielding feeling I had that something special could happen to me when I put on the Gainsbourg. And it did. I met Joel. And I know that when Joel saw me in that top, he really saw me as an effervescent, lively, attractive girl who was worth getting to know. That top saved me from the obscurity I’ve become so used to. And I want – no, I need – to have that feeling again.

  I strip off my jeans and hoodie quickly before I change my mind, and lift the plastic delicately over the garment and off the hanger. It is one of my best vintage finds, a beautiful 1950s Larry Aldrich dress, which I discovered after trawling through endless American vintage clothing websites one rainy Sunday afternoon whilst I was trying to give Delilah, Will and the kids some ‘family time’. It is beautiful, soft, sage-green silk chiffon with shoulders that can be gathered or fanned out over the tops of your arms, and a plunging neckline that is softened at the bust by a delicate corsage. There is a ruched satin waistband that accentuates that particular part of my figure well, and then the skirt itself is full and sweeping and falls to a flattering mid-calf length. It is demure yet sexy, classic yet different, simple but with exquisite extras. It is perfect.

  I feel nervous as I unhook my bra and step into the dress. The chiffon brushes against my skin and I get goosebumps all over my body as I wriggle it up over my hips and bust. There is no need for my normal slimming underwear as the dress is internally structured to support and disguise, simultaneously lifting and hiding any (or, in my case, many) lumps and bumps. I pull my hair off my neck and twist it into a bun, holding it against the back of my head as I step over to the mirror that hangs over the basin. I stand on tiptoes to try to get a better look of the whole effect. I don’t want to show Delilah until I’m sure I don’t look ridiculous. The chiffon overlay hides a multitude of sins, drawing the eye to the natural curve of my waist that I am actually proud of, whilst hiding my hips and thighs, which I am not. Then the chiffon cascades down towards my knees in a stream of sensuously soft material, and with it, the eye heads down to my calves and ankles, bypassing my most unflattering bits. I slip my feet into a pair of peep-toed vintage silver Gina heels and take a deep breath as I look at myself in the mirror.

  Not bad.

  I step out of the bathroom. Delilah has her head buried in the latest issue of Vogue. I clear my throat to get her attention and she li
fts her eyes and stares at me unblinkingly. Her mouth opens and shuts, but no words come out. I am not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.

  ‘Lila?’ I squeak. ‘Say something . . . please?’

  She just shakes her head silently. Then she clambers off the bed and steps towards me. She holds my arms and stares at me from my head to my toes, which are in need of a lick of nail polish, I realize. I try and scrunch them in my shoes to hide them.

  ‘It’s too much, isn’t it?’ I mumble. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t wear this on a first date, obviously. It’s more for if I ever get invited to a big event, you know, like, like . . . the Oscars or something, which, you know, obviously could totally happen because that’s how my life rolls . . .’ I force a laugh. Delilah is still staring. ‘Anyway, I’m going to get changed now . . .’

  ‘Will you just SHUSH for a moment?’ Delilah says impatiently, and a smile bobs over the corners of her lips. ‘I am trying to savour the moment when my little sister turned into a woman. Look at you, Evie!’ She twizzles me around and pushes me in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the armoire door. ‘You look beautiful!’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say bashfully. I look passable, yes, pretty even, but beautiful? Never. I love my sister and all, but even I know she’s over-exaggerating. But that’s OK. I realize that what she’s trying to say is that I look better than I’ve ever looked before, which frankly, is all I’m aiming for.

  I gaze at my reflection with the same eye I use on our shop-floor displays every morning when I’m assessing what I’d do to make them better, if someone would just let me. I try to be critical but even I have to admit that this is probably the best I’ve ever looked. The sage colour of the dress enhances my pale skin so it looks soft and creamy, and does the same for my mousy hair. It has a really lovely sheen to it this evening. My ankles look small and delicate, my thighs are well hidden under the full skirt, as are the tops of my arms. And my boobs – well, frankly, this dress makes them look fabulous. Usually I hide them under baggy clothes, but the hidden corsetry has lifted them, which forces me to stand tall and throw my shoulders back.

  ‘Oh, Evie, it’s so nice to see you happy with the way you look,’ Delilah says. ‘I hate the fact that you’re always so hard on yourself. So,’ she claps her hands, ‘are we decided?’

  ‘Decided on what?’

  ‘Your outfit, of course.’

  ‘Um, no,’ I reply in horror.

  ‘Evie, you have to wear this for your date, you just have to. It’s PERFECT.’

  I stare at her in horror. ‘But I don’t know where we’re going. I’ll look a right fool turning up to a pub or somewhere in this.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looks downcast for a moment and then her eyes light up again. ‘Well, let’s try an outfit on for every possible scenario then!’ She claps her hands in delight, then dives into my wardrobe, peers under some of the plastic and pulls out a blush-spotted chiffon blouse and hands it to me. ‘Try this with those navy cigarette pants, Evie. Go, GO!’

  I skulk off to the ensuite. I know not to argue with Delilah when she’s like this.

  An hour later and I’ve tried on four more outfits for four very different dates: a black ruched long-sleeved wrap dress with a plunging neckline for a chic city dinner date; a 1940s fur-trimmed tweed jacket with a soft, cream cowl-neck jumper, denim skirt and knee-length brown 1970s boots for a Sunday afternoon countryside amble; a gorgeous horse-printed wrap dress with heeled brogues and a camel cape for a trip on the London Eye (‘He’s American,’ Delilah exclaimed. ‘He’s bound to choose somewhere like that!’); and lastly, and because Delilah begged me to, I also tried on one of the 1930s bias-cut satin gowns for a sexy night in a hotel in Paris. Even though it brought back memories of Jamie. Delilah sighed and said she hasn’t been to Paris, or had sex, for a long, long time and she needed to live vicariously, so I relented.

  Another hour later and we’re officially drunk. I’ve put It’s a Wonderful Life on DVD and we’re snuggled up in bed, simultaneously sniffing and swooning over Jimmy Stewart.

  ‘The thing nobody tells you,’ slurs Delilah as she stretches out next to me on my bed, ‘is that once you’re married and have got kids, you never go on dates any more or do any of the fun, exciting things that made you fall in love with each other. It’s just endless monotony. Work, kids, dinner, tidying up, more work, bed.’

  She rolls on her side and leans up on one arm. ‘Do you want to know a secret, Evie?’ I turn my head to face her and see a faraway gaze in her eyes. ‘Sometimes, I wish I was you. You’ve got it all ahead of you, haven’t you? Your dream job, buying your first flat, falling in love, getting engaged, travelling, marriage, first baby – all those exciting firsts! Whereas me, I’ve just got this. For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life.’ She sighs and turns her face towards the ceiling again. ‘I know it sounds really awful, but I just can’t help thinking, is this it?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound awful, Lila,’ I say gently. ‘It’s normal. Lots of women feel the same. But look at you! You’re beautiful, clever, you’ve got an amazing, successful career, a wonderful husband, two great kids and this incredible house. People would kill for your life. Whereas, you know, if they got offered mine they’d probably say, “Er, no thanks, I’ll stick with what I’ve got.” It’s just the wine making you maudlin.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Delilah says shamefully. ‘I know I’m lucky, but I can’t help how I feel. Maybe it’s because I’m about to turn thirty-five. I mean, God how depressing.’

  I rub her shoulder soothingly. ‘Would it help if I told you that you look younger than I do?’ I reply. Delilah smiles weakly and I sit up and cross my legs. I over-exaggerate a frown and point out my forehead speech marks to her. ‘Look. Now, tell me truthfully, wouldn’t you be more depressed if you were twenty-eight and had these? Joan Collins has fewer wrinkles than I do!’

  She laughs and I notice her brush away a solitary tear.

  ‘Age means nothing these days, Lila,’ I say, rubbing her knee. ‘Look at Kate Moss! And now look at me. I may be six years younger than you but I work in a fuddy-duddy shop, I never go out and I haven’t had sex since Jamie dumped me! That was two years ago, Lila. I mean, I’m practically a born-again virgin!’ I force a laugh and Delilah joins me but I’m not laughing inside. Right now I’m focusing on distracting Delilah from her weird wine-induced mid-life crisis. I can focus on my less-than-average life later.

  ‘Now,’ I say, clapping my hands as I think of the perfect way to cheer her up, ‘it’s your turn for the fashion parade. So, let’s just say that you were going on a date that could end in hot sex, what would you wear?’ I indicate The Wardrobe, wordlessly granting her access to its priceless garments, despite feeling a little nauseous at the thought.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly Evie,’ Delilah smiles at me. Her tears have separated her eyelashes so that she suddenly looks like a young Twiggy from the sixties, all thick, spidery lashes and wide-eyed innocence.

  She looks towards The Wardrobe and then back at me before leaning across the bed and fanning my hair over my shoulders like she does with Lola. ‘These clothes, well, they’re the essence of you, aren’t they? I couldn’t possibly try them on. No one would do them justice like you can.’

  I swallow, overcome by my sister’s sensitivity. It’s moments like this that I realize just how much I love and need her.

  I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.

  Friday 2 December

  23 Shopping Days Until Christmas

  ‘Morning, Felix,’ I say, brandishing a strong Starbucks Americano in front of his security off ice window.

  It’s Friday, thank God, but Felix doesn’t look like he’s got that Friday feeling at all. He smiles wearily at me and reaches out for his coffee. He looks almost grey with fatigue, but then again if I’d been up all night I’d look like crap, too. Felix is here every morning when I come in. He’s in his mid-seventies, and he’s what you’d call a rough diamond. He’s lean fo
r his years, with sharp blue eyes, messy dark-grey hair and matching stubble. He looks slightly unkempt, like a man who doesn’t have a woman in his life. Maisie, his wife of nearly forty years, died almost three years ago. But before she died, Maisie left him a list of things she wanted him to do after she’d gone. The first was go back to his old employers and to ask for a job. The last was find a companion. Felix complied with the first, but has told me he’s too long in the tooth to be meeting any new woman. ‘Dating? At my age? She was a clever old bird, my Maisie, but she wasn’t always right. Nope, having a job is good enough – I don’t need anything else.’

  I know when he came here that being a security guard wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind, but he says it suits him as he hates being at home on his own at night. Until Maisie’s death they had never spent a night apart. Can you imagine that? After Jamie, I thought I knew what it was like to lose the love of my life. Now, since I’ve met Felix, I can only wonder what it would be like to find it.

  I hand him his coffee and nod at the newspaper in front of him, which is, as ever, turned to the puzzle page. ‘How are you getting on with that?’ I ask, pointing at the Sudoku.

  He shakes his head ruefully and flicks his pen between his teeth. ‘I’m well and truly stuck, Evie. Feel like I’ve been on the same bloody square forever.’

  ‘You and me both,’ I laugh ruefully. ‘May I?’ I tilt my head towards the pen and he smiles at me.