by Carmen Reid
Chapter Twelve
Tor in recovery:
White blouse (M&S)
Deep red cardigan (M&S)
Jeans (no recollection)
Black boots (back of wardrobe)
Black fake fur (ditto)
Total est. cost: £360
‘. . . to new men and new scarves.’
Tor, the St Vincent’s mother Annie was making over for free, met Annie at the door of the family home she was about to be kicked out of and ushered her into the kitchen for tea.
‘No, I think we better make it red wine, babes,’ Annie insisted, taking a bottle from her bag.
‘I’ve made a rule never to drink by myself though,’ Tor told her, taking two water glasses out of the cupboard, already stripped of almost all its contents.
‘Good thing I came round then,’ was Annie’s response, before she assured Tor, ‘I think a little drinking on your own might be OK right now – for a few weeks anyway – until you’ve got the move behind you. You better not have packed up any of your wardrobe yet, otherwise how am I going to do my job?’
Annie put her lovely jangling golden bag down on a chair, then slipped off her soft conker brown leather coat and long scarf to reveal a pink, orange and brown patterned dress elegantly set off with high brown boots.
‘No,’ Tor replied, taking in the many details of Annie’s outfit: the tights in the same shade of orange as the dress for instance, the necklace of golden leaves fanning out from her collarbone. She looked so together, so carefully considered.
‘It’s still three weeks away,’ Tor continued. ‘I’ve just put away kitchen stuff . . . books . . . Things that are definitely mine.’
After a bit of talk about Tor’s new flat and her daughter Angela and how the divorce was affecting them (badly to say the least), Tor suddenly put her glass down on the table, ran a hand through her hair in an agitated way and blurted out: ‘I don’t know why you’re here, Annie! I don’t know why I’ve agreed to this. I just don’t think I can. I don’t want to think about clothes. I don’t care! I’ve got no money . . . showing me some clever things to do with scarves is just not going to help! Not one bit!’
‘Tor, calm down,’ Annie soothed, reaching out to pat Tor’s arm, ‘I am so sorry about what you’re going through. I am so, so sorry. I really do understand how you feel, honestly. I have been here.’
Tor looked up and met Annie’s eyes.
‘Yes, of course you have,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m trying not to think about myself and all my problems all the time . . . but it’s hard.’
‘I’m not a therapist,’ Annie continued gently, ‘I’m not a shrink – and it could be that you should see someone like that, to get you through the worst of it. God knows, I probably should have . . . But there is something I can do, I promise. I’m here to cheer you up, to make you feel just a tiny bit better about yourself, and what’s so wrong with that? C’mon, drink up,’ she instructed, ‘then we’re treating ourselves to a refill and heading to your wardrobe.’
In the bedroom, Annie took two bin bags out of her makeover kitbag and began to unroll then shake them open.
Tor looked at the black bags anxiously: ‘I wasn’t planning on throwing much away,’ she said.
‘I know.’ Annie sounded brisk. ‘No-one ever does, but don’t worry, you will. There’s a lot of dead wood in a divorce wardrobe, believe me. For starters, we’re going to get rid of all the unsuitable presents he gave you. You know, the expensive things that didn’t fit, weren’t your colour, but you didn’t have the heart to exchange. You know what I’m talking about. Open your underwear drawer,’ Annie instructed, ‘c’mon, pass it on out. I wish I could think of a good home for all the expensive underwear I have to get rid of . . . charity shops don’t want it, no-one will buy it on eBay . . . maybe I should be donating it to schools for their arts and craft boxes . . .’ Annie gave a little laugh. ‘You know, that is a good idea.’
Tor was almost threatening to smile at this; she was also opening a drawer, stuffed full of all the usual suspects: red and pink bras and suspenders, a tiny corset, dainty peach-coloured feathery things, quarter-cup bras for breasts the size of raisins, not Tor’s ample cleavage.
‘What was he thinking?’ Tor said, picking up the wincy bra and gazing at it in bewilderment. ‘Not of me, anyway . . .’ She tossed it into Annie’s bin bag.
The emptied drawer seemed to have just the galvanizing effect on Tor that Annie had hoped for. Soon she was opening her cupboard doors wide and ferreting about in there for anything suspect dumped on her by her soon-to-be-ex.
A revolting primrose yellow cashmere cardigan: ‘Yup, put it in the sale bag, Annie instructed. I’ll put it on my web site for you and you’ll get eighty-five per cent of the price paid. Sound fair?’
‘Sounds bloody marvellous,’ Tor told her.
Paisley scarves, dodgy brooches, a tweedy jacket and a scary loud pink cocktail dress with matching bolero followed on quickly.
Tor rooted deeper into forgotten corners of the cupboard: ‘Oh God!’ She picked up a cardboard box, opened it and took out a beaded, pastel-coloured wrap of sorts.
‘EBay, eBay . . .’ Annie instructed. ‘We don’t want anything hanging about that is going to make you think of Richard and weep. Obviously, I’ll make an exception for very expensive jewellery and handbags.’
‘Hah!’ Tor snorted and took another gulp of wine. ‘My engagement ring was the one and only decent bit of jewellery I got from him.’
‘Ah well,’ Annie said, ‘I never even got an engagement ring. We were young and couldn’t afford it.’
‘Do you think I should still wear it?’ Tor wondered, holding out her hand and the triple-stone ring for inspection. ‘On my other hand, maybe?’
‘If you love it, why not? It’s your badge of honour. Reminder of the better times before . . . or then again you could have the stones reset . . . or sell it off and buy something just for you.’
‘Hmmm.’ Tor turned back to her wardrobe and knelt in front of the shelves. ‘Everything in here is utter crap,’ she announced, the wine now loosening up any inhibitions about this task. ‘I don’t know if I can even bear to show you these things. I sort of rummage around in here every day and bring something out and just plonk it on.’
Now this was just so heart-breakingly sad, it made Annie want to cry.
Today, Tor was wearing washed-out jeans, a T-shirt with a sagging neck and a bobbly grey fleece cardigan.
‘Babes, if I gave that cardigan to Gisele Bundchen, she’d struggle to make it look good,’ Annie told Tor gently. ‘You’ve got to stop with the lucky dip going on in here every morning and find some things that are a little easier to work with.’
‘I’m not going shopping,’ Tor said firmly. ‘I can’t face it and I can’t afford it.’
‘I know, I know. But c’mon, let’s get it all out and see what’s hiding in there . . . and by the way, what is this nice little collection hanging up here on the rail?’ She made a quick rifle through the smart black skirts and jackets, sparkly tops and silky summer dresses.
‘Oh, you know, work clothes. Then dress-up things, I never wear any of those, I never go out any more.’
Annie tutted and shook her head. She brought down a lovely knee-length dress and held it up against Tor.
‘Bet you’ve lost weight . . . all the stress?’ she asked.
Tor nodded.
‘So, think how fabulous you’d look in this now. You know, once a week, babes, you’ve got to dress up: hair, make-up, shoes, the full monty, and get out there.’
When Tor scoffed at this, Annie insisted: ‘Not on the pull. Not yet anyway. Just nicely turned out for a special occasion. And then you make the occasion happen. You take your daughter out for coffee at a nice hotel . . . you go to the cinema . . . you ask your friends out for a drink. Once a week, girl, you have to dress up, treat yourself and remember how great you can look when you want to. You have to remind yourself that life is still out
there, fun is still to be had. Otherwise, all these beautiful things, they’re just hanging here with nowhere to go. Look.’ She took down a turquoise silk blouse: ‘Wear it with jeans to do the supermarket run. Wear it to work, just don’t leave it up there all alone!’
Tor’s shoulders seemed to droop at the thought of having to make this effort.
‘OK, work with me,’ Annie encouraged her, ‘let’s get rid of the unwearables and see what’s left, shall we?’
They spent the next ten minutes or so sifting through Tor’s daily lucky dip outfits. Everything worn, saggy, ratty and baggy hit the bin bag, including the tragic knickers and mismatched ankle socks.
‘You do not need me to tell you that you need new underwear, Tor. You can afford new pants, OK? Everyone can afford new pants,’ Annie told her. ‘Buy them on the internet or at the supermarket if you don’t want to go into a lingerie shop.’
Annie looked carefully through the clothes that remained and could see that there was going to be enough . . . just.
‘You need a uniform, don’t you? You don’t want to think about outfits every morning yet - you’ve got enough going on in your head. You’re not quite ready to come shopping with me to try on swing jackets and tunics and figure out how the new season is going to work for you.’
Tor just shook her head.
‘But you will be soon,’ Annie told her.
‘So, in the meantime what we need is an easy uniform . . .’ Annie began to lay the remaining clothes out on the bed. ‘I’m looking at your nice white shirts, and this little red cardigan here and the two woollen V-necks and these jeans, which are almost passable, and your nifty black trousers . . . but please, Tor, a skirt at least twice a week, not just for work. Anyway, I’m thinking, here is the beginning of a chic French mama uniform. White shirts, ironed,’ she warned, ‘are very morale boosting, so c’mon, into the first outfit.’
Tor seemed taken aback at the request, but Annie insisted: ‘Get on with it! I won’t look, not that there isn’t anything I haven’t seen before, believe me.’ So Tor undressed quickly then put on the white shirt, jeans and red cardigan.
‘Right.’ Annie turned her in the direction of the mirror. ‘Feeling a little bit more together?’
When Tor nodded, Annie moved in and undid the shirt one button lower: ‘You’re not teaching at Sunday school. Now, show me your jewellery box.’
Tor pointed to the corner of the bedroom and Annie asked: ‘May I?’ before rummaging about inside then returning to Tor with several long-forgotten treasures.
She clipped a red and silver necklace round Tor’s neck, instructed her to put on earrings, then Annie took Tor’s hairbrush from the bedside table and brushed out her scrappy bob before securing it with an elaborate silver clip she’d found in the jewellery box. Then she went into her handbag and brought out blusher and rosy lip gloss.
Once this was applied, they both looked at the effect in the mirror.
‘Better?’ Annie asked.
Tor examined herself and nodded slowly. But she didn’t seem convinced.
‘I really do understand why you don’t want to care about how you look, babes,’ Annie began. ‘Sometimes when everything’s turned horrible, we want it to show on the outside too. It seems just too frivolous to care about hair and nails and colour co-ordinating. But the problem is . . . the big problem is, it’s not good for morale. If you hide inside a baggy grey fleece every day, believe me, it’s much harder for things to get better again. Great things do not happen to people hidden inside grey fleeces . . . they don’t land exciting new jobs, or meet brilliant new friends or have amazing ideas or get invited out spontaneously. They just don’t. They get greyer and fleecier, you’ve got to believe me here. Maybe the best piece of advice I can give you is to dress for how you want to feel again. Because then it will happen more quickly.’
Annie squeezed Tor’s shoulders because she could see her eyes welling up.
‘You’re going to be fine, Tor,’ she assured her. ‘In a year’s time, this is going to feel like the best thing that ever happened to you. And the more you keep it together, the easier it will be for Angela. Don’t let her think of her dad as the man who kicked the stuffing out of her mum.’
Annie let Tor blow her nose while she turned her eyes in the direction of the wardrobe again: ‘And what is this lovely coat doing hiding in here?’ she asked, taking out a cosy, black fake fur which looked almost brand new. ‘And these boots!’ Her hand reached for the black suede mid-heels, again almost unworn.
‘Well, they’re special occasion . . .’ Tor began.
Annie shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, no! Not any more, they’re not. You need all your special things around you right now. For support,’ she insisted, handing over the coat and boots.
Tor put them both on. And now Annie could see she was more convinced. The boots gave her an extra inch or so and forced her to straighten up, her hands were sunk into the coat pockets and she was turning just a little, this way and that in front of the mirror, actually admiring herself, if only slightly.
‘Oh yes!’ Annie raved. ‘Now you’re good to go!’
Tor’s smile suddenly appeared and she gave a relieved giggle, which made her seem so much younger than the weighed-down 46 or so that she was.
‘More wine for the lady!’ Annie teased.
‘No, no, I need to concentrate or I’m going to forget everything you’ve told me,’ Tor replied.
Annie made her fetch a notebook and a pen (‘No, in the boots! Don’t take off the boots now!’) and together they wrote down all the outfits Annie had put together for her and lots of Annie’s top tips including: ‘New pants, for God’s sake!’ . . . ‘Lip gloss, tinted moisturizer and blusher, it’s not rocket science’ . . . ‘Smile more – laugh, even’ . . . ‘Cheap but glamorous sunglasses for bad crying-eye days’ . . . ‘White shirts, IRONED, to boost morale’ . . . ‘Always, always, jewellery to make you sparkle.’
‘Semi-permanent hair dye, Tor, ever heard of it?’ Annie asked. ‘You can buy it at the chemist’s for a fiver, no need for a hairdresser, no need for an inch of grey root.’
‘OK, OK!’ was Tor’s reaction.
‘Clever ways with scarves,’ Annie scribbled down in the notebook. ‘Let your sexy new boyfriends teach you these.’
‘Oh, ha ha,’ Tor responded.
‘It’s true though,’ Annie insisted. ‘There will be new men – and think how exciting that’s going to be. But you do need new scarves, honestly, babes: soft velvety ones, bright cashmere ones, you need the colour and the comfort, something to snuggle up in, a buffer between you and your jackets, you and your coats, you and the world . . . a sprinkle of colour when you’re feeling totally monochrome.’
‘Well then,’ Tor met her eye and smiled broadly, as if she was finally enjoying herself, ‘here’s to new men and new scarves.’ She held up her tumbler of wine.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Annie clinked glasses with her.
When Tor’s session was over, Annie buttoned herself back into her leather coat. She ran a hairbrush through her locks, applied lipstick, a little spritz of perfume and set her shoulders back. This meant that when she was out of the front door, she was ready to face her mobile phone.
She switched it on and looked for the voicemail symbol. Nothing there. She checked her inbox just in case.
No. Nine days had passed and Gray had not called her. What a total, utter downer. She couldn’t understand it. He’d seemed so keen. He’d promised! He’d even put her number directly into his mobile.
She wasn’t sure what she was going to do now. Going back to Tor’s house to rescue the grey fleece from the bin bag for herself was a tempting idea.
Chapter Thirteen
Annie’s ‘accidental’ date outfit:
Pink cardigan (Whistles sale)
Flowered pink and camel skirt (same)
Camel trenchcoat (the trusty eBay Valentino)
Pink pashmina (so out of fashion, but still
so good)
Flower necklace (Topshop)
New high-heeled camel T-bars (Chanel, oops . . . but with a staff discount . . . and consider the Trading Station resale value)
Cloud of Chanel’s Cristalle
Est. cost: £490
‘Gray! What are you doing here?!’
‘So when is your date with Gray?’ Dinah had barely been able to contain her excitement. Dinah hadn’t just seen Gray at the party, she’d been introduced to him, she’d chatted to him, she’d watched carefully how he’d reacted to Annie. Then she’d pulled Annie off to the ladies to tell her that Gray was ‘very promising’ and that Annie was to use all her available charms to ‘go, go, go for it, girl!’
‘Well, he’s coming into town this week . . .’ Annie had fudged, ‘and he said he would call to arrange something.’
‘So? What’s arranged?’
The pause that followed told Dinah all she needed to know: ‘He hasn’t called?’ she asked, outraged. ‘Oh Annie! Have you got his number? Aren’t you going to call him? It’s not like you to—’
‘I thought about it,’ Annie cut in, ‘and I decided it wasn’t cool. I mean it’s never cool to be the one phoning to say’ – she put on a whiny voice – ‘“Why haven’t you called me?”’
‘So you’re not going to see him?’ Dinah sounded very disappointed for her.
‘No. I didn’t say that. I have a plan,’ Annie confided.
‘Uh-oh.’ Dinah didn’t sound convinced. But then this was a crucial difference between Dinah and her older sister. Dinah liked to leave things to fate, to chance, to instinct or luck, whereas Annie liked to plan and scheme. Annie always had a plan . . . she always thought it was better if she was in charge.