‘I need to blend in until I can make my mark and then, mix it up a bit,’ I say, closing the wardrobe on my college clothes which were funkier.
On my college work placement, I realised that my version of sedate was not quite sedate enough, so this time, with my first real job since college, I want to nail it. There will be two interns in the company and I am determined to be the one who gets even a quarter of a job.
White shirts, a plain woollen coat that cost half of my savings, two skirts, a silky blouse and a couple of cheap dark grey suits from Marks and Spencer’s. Personally, I think it’s all hideous but societal mores insist on a certain kind of dressing for junior business people.
The sort of dressing mum and I abhor.
She fingers alight-grey suit jacket and shudders.
‘You’ll blend into the walls, lovie.’
Mum is wearing her standard uniform of a floral quilted kaftan (patchwork purple today), belted with a crocheted Obi,olive-green cargo pants and heavy socks because her boots for working in the polytunnels are just inside the back door. The restaurateurs who buy her heritage tomatoes and tiny aubergines and edible flowers think she could wear a bin liner and they wouldn’t care.
‘I’ll stand out when they all think I’m fabulous, but not before,’ I say. ‘I want them to notice me for the right reasons.’
‘Why does what you wear matter?’
‘It shouldn’t,’ I mutter, following her out of the room.
Giselle goes gracefully downstairs in our small farmhouse with me in tow. My mother is graceful, with tiny wrists, sleek limbs and stands at five two in her socks. I am precisely the same, onlytwenty-two to herthirty-eight. With our Matrioska doll caps of shining dark hair and Giselle’s remarkably unlined and perpetually smiling face, we do resemble sisters more than mother and daughter, but then she was sixteen when I was born, and she fought fiercely to keep me.
Our kitchen is chaotic but beautifully so. Gertrude, our sheepdog, is on the couch near the stove, smiling, wagging her tail and shedding black and white fur everywhere. Vilma, my little sister, four and three quarters, and gravely kneeling at the kitchen table making a very long necklace out of pasta shapes, doesn’t even look up when we come in.
‘It’s six foot tall,’ she announces. ‘As tall as Daddy. I want to be as tall as Daddy. He’s hidden the chocolate biscuits up in the high cupboard.’
The adorable little face, with those keen dark eyes, is raised to us as though to say that if being tall gives a person an unfair advantage, then Vilma wants it too.
Stefan walks into the kitchen at that precise moment. He has to bend his head to enter the door and, as ever, he beams to see us. He really is very tall, six foot five or thereabouts like all his family, a glorious melting pot of Lithuanians who are all carpenters, like Stefan. Some people bring happiness to the world – the combination of my mother, my stepfather and little Vilma brings utter happiness to mind.
I quash down the anxiety about starting a new job in my greydressing-up clothes on Monday. I have tonight and tomorrow afternoon left of the weekend to bask in their presence before I head to the city and my rented box room in a shared house where my new life begins.
By day three of working in Lowther & Quinn in the city, I’ve been in Dublin for a week and I feel I’ve got a routine.
First, I’m adding to my grey wardrobe: a dotted silk scarf I picked up in asecond-hand shop, mySarah-Janes that look so much better than shoes with a little heel. A flower brooch that Daisy, who also lives in the shared house, made with pale turquoise tulle and silk.
Second, I get up early and have a coffee in a cute café near the office, where I can watch the city walk past and make my list for the day.
Me: country girl at heart is now city slicker and I like it.
I feel like one of theSex and the Citygirls – myself and Lois, also new in the firm and from my year in college, better wardrobe though, and I discuss which character we are. As it’s our second week and we’ve actually got some money now, we go out to lunch.
‘Samantha,’ says Lois, admiring her nails for the nth time. Her second manicure ever. Lois is ignoring thefitting-in concept and her nails are too. They’re Rouge Noir, a sexy midnight burgundy. They look like they’re made for ripping things.
‘How many guys have you slept with, then?’ I ask daringly. Lois is the sort of person who won’t hit you if you ask her this. She wears her utter ease with herself with such glorious pride.
‘Five and a half,’ she replies, after a moment ticking on her fingers.
‘A half ?’ We both giggle.
‘He fell asleep,’ Lois explains.
‘Which half ?’
We snort into our sandwiches and it takes a while before we can eat again.
‘You next,’ she says.
I flush a little, wishing for some of Lois’ easy sensuality.
