“Also,” I add, because apparently I’m not done talking abouthim. “I didn’t steal his virginity.”
“His boy virginity, then.” She puts the dress back. “You fucked him and blocked his number.”
“I do that to everyone.” I guide my best friend away from the rack of clothes designed for people whose foundation shade isn’t something akin toVitamin D AllergyorVictorian Wasting Disease Victim.
Daisy looks me dead in the eyes. “Yes, but you lov—” She stops herself mid-word. “Liked Harry.”
My heart skitters in my chest like it’s battling a caffeine overdose. I pause halfway to the Chloé racks and shut down the conversation. “Girl, we are not talking about me any more.” Even though I was the one to bring the subject of Harry Ellis to the table yet again.
Daisy pulls her strawberry-blonde hair off her face and wraps it into a ponytail using a blue hair tie from around her wrist. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” She gives the racks a withering look. “Lan, I can’t afford these dresses. I work in a pub, remember? Let’s go to John Lewis.”
“Babes, I know you did not drag me all the way to London to shop at John fucking Lewis.”
Not that I have anything against John Lewis. I have been known to indulge in a slutty little John Lewis spending spree once or thrice. Nobody quite does cushions the way they do. Anyway, Daisy knows I’m paying today. She wouldn’t have stepped a foot in Harvey Nicks if she’d had even an iota of an intention to pay.
“We agreed, you get lunch and I’ll get everything else,” I remind her.
Or Warwick Oakham II will. Whatever.
I work my fingers along the precisely laid-out hangers and extract a dress in Daisy’s size. It’s a carmine-red satin slip gown with a thigh-high split. It’s reminiscent of the nineties—part nightwear, part grunge-glam, part Jessica Rabbit—and the cool purple undertones will complement Daisy’s cadaverous skin tone.
“A little too slutty for my dad’s wedding, don’t you think?” she asks.
“Won’t Serasi be there?”
Daisy doesn’t need longer than half a second to change her mind. “No, you’re right. It’s perfect.”
Serasi is Daisy’s long-term (two years) and long-distance (Mudford-upon-Hooke to Cambridge) girlfriend. Two years, or seven hundred and whatever number of days later, and they still subsist on stolen moments here and there—a planned weekend getaway together, an impromptu day trip to one city or another, a family gathering like Mr B’s wedding. And it’s not that I begrudge Daisy’s happiness, it’s just that whenever Serasi’s near, Lando gets forgotten about. Completely ignored, in fact, like a politician’s expenses account around moat-building season.
And my attention-whore little heart does not enjoy being ignored.
She snatches the red dress from my hands and checks the price tag. “Jesus fuck, Lan. It’s three grand. We could go on a Caribbean cruise for that money.”
“We’ll add it to the shortlist and search for cheaper options,” I say, but I already know she’s going home with that one. Probably new underwear and new shoes too.
“Can I help you with anything?” A sales assistant appears beside us as though she were conjured from magic.
She’s in her late forties, with box-dye ginger hair and aggressive eyeliner application. Her name tag reads Catherine, and she smells incredible. Spicebomb by Viktor & Rolf if I’m not mistaken. One of my favourite masc-leaning scents, made even better when worn by a woman. It’s robust and handsome, but prettified by her femininity.
I briefly flirt with the idea of telling her she smells nice, but I don’t. No good has ever come from being pleasant to people.
Instead, I look her up and down and say, “Doubtful. I know more than you.”
Catherine’s mouth falls open in surprise. They always do.
“Fucking hell, Lan,” Daisy says, feigning shock and embarrassment like it’s the first time I’ve ever said anything out of whack. “She’s just doing her job. Apologise now.”
I hide my laugh behind a throat-clear, but I can tell Daisy’s not amused. “Sorry,” I mumble like a reprimanded child.
Catherine purses her lips together, and her eyes travel all the way over me and then sweep over Daisy. She works in fashion, so I know she sees my black Vivienne Westwood shirt, my black Acne Studios wide-leg jeans, and my cream Dries van Noten suede trainers. Daisy’s wearing a seen-better-days Bath Centurions Women’s rugby jersey, Sainsbury’s own-brand jhorts, and orange Chuck Taylors so scuffed and threadbare that the sole on the left toe flaps around when she walks. Of the pair of us, it’s obvious that the powerful little plastic card resides in my pocket. As does the decision-making expertise.
A frown mars Catherine’s expression before she arranges it into something more neutral. She’ll have to be nice to me if she wants the sale. We both know this.
To be fair, the lesbian shorts look pretty cute on Daze. She’s the only person I know who can pull them off. She’s also on several occasions refused the gift of new Converse, claiming these are her lucky pair, but there are only so many times one can Gorilla Glue the rubber back together.
“I’ll take this gown through to the fitting room for you,” Catherine says instead of whatever retort she’d been brewing behind her professionalism.
Apparently, I can only be trusted to pay for the three-thousand-pound garment, not handle it.
