Chapter Sixteen
Does Australia have its own dark web?
After a rather dull hour with Peach Jumpsuit taking photographs of me from every possible angle – and asking me questions that I’m sure she came up with, as practically all of them ended with an ‘s’ – I have a couple of hours to kill, so decide to hit the shops so I can expand my ‘Core’ repertoire beyond Picnic.
On Regent Street, I head into Hollister, momentarily confused as to why they have a whole front section of facecloths before I realise these are in fact tops, similar to the ones I last saw on the Sugababes. Handkerchief, bandeau, bustier… it’s a whole world of items I would previously have avoided like the plague, due to many things, but mainly bingo wings and the ‘do I wear a bra with that or not?’ question.
But the whole bra thing is no longer an issue. I have actually, several times recently, Forgotten. To. Put. One. On. I know, it’s a lot to take in. But aside from my glorious jawline and line-free visage, my tits are really one of my favourite bits of the new me. They’re like gorgeous bao buns, just sitting there, perky and firm and delicious. Why didn’t I appreciate them when I was younger? What an idiot I was to think they were too small. They’re bloody perfect. Anyway, I grab a handful of tops (and I mean handful, there is very little fabric going on here) and a pair of ‘ultra-low rise’ jeans and head for the changing rooms.
I expected these to be the kind of chaotic communal affair I remember from Topshop in the Nineties but instead, there are rows of cubicles with lockable doors, seats, mirrors and even a range of lighting options. Normally in this situation I would haveheld my own gaze in the mirror for fear of catching sight of the hideous bin bag of yoghurt that was my body. Today though, I lose track of time admiring myself to the extent that someone knocks on the door and shouts, ‘You okay, sis?’
Sis? Is that the new ‘bro’? Or maybe it’s not, maybe it’s someone who is out shopping with their sibling, and has knocked on the wrong cubicle door. This is a minefield. What do I say? Spluttering, I stop admiring my norks and pull on a lace-up-the-front white top, which to me looks faintly ‘Linda Lusardi’ but according to the saleswoman (I say woman, but she looked the same age as Héloïse), is ‘Coquette Core’.
‘Just… vibing.’
What the hell? Why did I say that? I think I must have picked it up from one of the TikToks. What does it even mean?
There’s a pause. Then…
‘For real.’
And then footsteps walking away.
Triumphant, both with my effortless use of Gen Z language and how brilliant my tits are, I buy all the face cloths and the jeans and head to the tube, grinning like a loon.
Nandy’s terraced house always smells of warm washing on radiators and toasted cumin seeds, and is a jumbled mess of clutter belonging to Ash, her artist husband, and her two children, Rohan and Maya, who are grown up and have left home but come back frequently for Nandy’s cooking – which her father often travels over from Walthamstow for too.
I am slightly thrown that I’m going straight there, given the nature of the surprise I have for her, but Nandy’s shift atMetrowas called off so she doesn’t want to come into town. ‘Just staythe night,’ she said. ‘I’ll make the Tangdi kebabs you like and we can get cosy and watch30 Rock.’
It’s freezing and already nearly dark when I get off the tube at Leytonstone to walk the ten minutes to Nandy’s. I call her on the way. I’m praying that Ash won’t be there, or the kids, but don’t want to ask – don’t know how to ask – without it being awkward.
‘Can you come and meet me on Pretoria Road?’
‘Is your bag heavy, old lady?’
‘Kind of…’
‘Okay… fine. We can get a bottle of red from Yardarm.’
A few minutes later I can see Nandy walking towards me in a massive black puffa coat and red beanie hat with her dog Pakora, a Schnauzer, trotting along next to her on a lead. She’s about to walk straight past me, but I grab her sleeve, making her jump out of her skin. Nandy assumes the Ready Stance that she learnt at self-defence classes, arms up. I resist the urge to burst out laughing.
‘Nandy – it’s me. It’s Erica!’
‘Erm – no, it’s not, but thanks!’ She keeps her arms up, turns and continues walking, but much more quickly.
‘Nandy, JEEZ… it’s me!’ I shout after her. She doesn’t look back.
I feel like someone in a sci-fi film that has to prove they haven’t been possessed by an alien, and frantically try to think of things that only she and I would know.
‘I know about the time you crapped behind a tree?’ I shout after her. ‘You think I should masturbate more? I brought you that Diptyque candle you like but I think smells like old greenhouses? It’s me. IT’S ME.’
Nandy stops and turns around slowly. Pakora’s tiny tail is wagging as if he recognises me, which helps.
‘Erica?’ She walks towards me as if approaching a particularly frisky horse. ‘What the FUCK did you do to yourself? And why are you carrying a picnic basket?’
‘I know, I know. This is why I wanted you to come out and meet me. Is Ash in? The kids? Your dad?’
‘No. Thank fuck. This is enough for one person to take in, we don’t need to crowdfund it.’
