Unless you counted my collection of sensible suits for school or my tracksuit bottoms and cashmere jumpers (all slightly bobbly, iftruth be told), I hadnothingto wear. And the thing was, I wanted to look sexy. Attractive. Still got it. That kind of thing. Things that I hadn’t asked of myself in years. If Red was going to be there, I didn’t want to turn up in my easy-care separates.
Jeans. Try the jeans. And my black top. Better perhaps than with the black trousers? What about my ballet flats? Hmmm. I assessed myself inthe mirror. No. No way. I looked like a nun on a night-off. Maybe it was the way I was standing, slightly hunched? I pulled myself up, ballerina style.
‘Mum! Oh my God!’ Rosie was standing at the door, laughing. ‘Oh my god what are you doing, you look ridiculous!’Shelooked effortlessly gorgeous as always, in her old tracksuit bottoms, long hair loosely tied. ‘Mum… you haven’t gone mad, haveyou?’
‘I think I might have. I was just trying to look nice. It’s Clodagh’s party and it’s going to be full of scary media folk. No one eats, apparently, and they all have personal trainers and dieticians and food coaches and…’ I sounded pathetic, I knew that. ‘I just want to up my game…’
‘Up your game?’
‘Just a bit. Not enough to win Wimbledon or anything, but enough not to embarrass myselfby tripping over the balls or getting tangled in the net…’ my metaphor drifted away, exhausted. ‘Listen, I know it’s stupid and it goes against everything I’ve ever taught you about being yourself and not trying to fit in. I know that it’s not feminist or empowering, but for one night, just one night, I don’t want to look like a principal of a suburban national school. I want to look like… likeutterly unlike me. I want to look nice.’ I didn’t want to tell her about Red. How could I explain that one? That I wanted to look nice for a man that wasn’t my husband and someone with whom I shared a secret past.
‘You do look nice,’ she said, loyally. ‘You always look nice. But if you want to look a little bit more glamorous, then I’ll help you.’
‘But I don’t want to take you away from yourbooks.’
‘I need a break,’ she said. ‘I’ll just get you out of the house and then I’ll go back to them.’
‘Or go and see Alice and Meg?’ I suggested. ‘It is Friday night after all.’
‘They’ll be working too,’ she said, quickly. ‘Everyone is. Anyway, I’ll give you a hand.’
‘I don’t even know what’s fashionable anymore. I don’t even know how to get dressed. I mean, are jeans still even a thing?Or is it something else entirely. Dungarees or spacesuits. I have no idea.’
‘No, jeans are still a thing,’ she reassured. ‘But you can’t wear them with that.’ She eyed my blouse. ‘Take it off…’
‘But…’
‘Off.’ She scanned the contents of my wardrobe with the eye of a personal shopper. ‘Right then…’
I felt almost giddy with delight, sharing this moment with her. I missed her, I had been so worriedabout her, yet here she was, bossing me about, being my daughter again, the one I loved with all my heart.
‘What about this?’ She held up a top on which I had spent a ridiculous amount of money and it had hung, reproachfully, in my wardrobe for three years. A daily reminder of my profligacy.
‘It’s not me. Too low-cut,’ I said. ‘And too tight. It might be okay if I was a yoga teacher, livingin LA, existing on nettles. And had an entirely different personality. And face. And body.Then, then it would be gorgeous on me. But there’s not enough time. I mean, I can’t even touch my toes…’
‘So? Try it on.’
I didn’t argue and pulled it on.
‘Now the jeans.’
I did as I was told, wriggling in. They were tight but not insurmountable or un-get-in-able.
‘Good,’ said Rosie, narrow-eyed, withan air of Henry Higgins, surveying and scrutinising. ‘Now the shoes.’
‘I thought I could wear my flats. They’re comfortable and…’
‘Comfort?’ She looked at me as though I had suggested wearing a pair of novelty Garfield slippers. ‘Oh no, tonight is not about comfort…’
‘Who are you?’ I said. ‘What kind of creature have I raised? I thought high heels were a symbol of male oppression?’
‘Mum,’she said. ‘It’sonenight. Wearing high heels is not going to kill you. You wear those flat shoes every day. They’re like slippers.’
‘Which is why I wear them.’
‘These.’ She produced another vast waste of money. They weren’t me, respectable teacher, mother and politician’s wife. I had worn them only once and never again. ‘Theseare perfect.’
‘They are ridiculous,’ I insisted.
