It cannot go on.
But in the meantime, I feel mysteriously compelled to be my best, most polished self at the awards. As nothing in my wardrobe feels quite good enough, I am left with no choice but to go online for a new outfit. It is a frustrating and ultimately fruitless endeavour. I have no idea why Pinterest has taken to suggesting £980 blouses to me in its email round-ups; I feel like sending them a copy of my payslip to prove just how screwed up their algorithm is. But the unedifying result is that I now have what my mother would disapprovingly call ‘expensive tastes’. The consequence of this is that I can find nothing I like that’s also in my budget.
I’m starting to despair when Daisy, of all people, makes a suggestion.
‘Why don’t you hire one?’ she says. ‘It’s better for the environment and what everyone our age does when we go somewhere special.’
I’m sceptical at first. I’ve seen no evidence that Daisy goes anywhere special, unless you count the ‘Knit & Natter’ meetings she persuaded her local organic juice bar to introduce.
Still, partly in a bid to prove I’m still a trendy young thing at heart, I set up an account for an online rental service and spend every night for a week scrolling through dresses by designers such as Yves Saint Laurent and Elie Saab. They are stunning, every one of them. But they’re not exactly . . .forgiving. There’s a lot of leg on show. And cleavage. And back – not just shoulders, I’m talking all of it, right down to the top of your bum. Frankly, I’m worried about being a bit chilly. Most don’t even allow for the wearing of a bra, let alone the Bridget Jones knickers I was hoping to use to suck in my bumpy bits. If you’re in any way self-conscious about bingo wings, you’ve clearly had it.
Problem is, once you’ve got the idea of Elie Saab in your head, nothing you can pick up in the Monsoon sale is ever going to cut it. I eventually hit on a long, glamourous gown in shimmering teal, with a sweetheart neck.
‘A jaw-dropping dress that captures the light and movement of the fabric – ideal for any red carpet!’ says the blurb. Neither of these qualities had been among my on-paper priorities, but it is beautiful, there’s no denying it. The only issue is that it requires a leap of faith in that you can’t try it on before you rent it. But the company provides a ‘fit guarantee’, so if the item I pick isn’t right, it can just be put back into the post and I won’t be charged. Which admittedly would leave me squeezing into one of my old outfits. Still, I’m nothing if not an optimist.
The dress arrives the day before the event.
It’s been carefully packaged with a note from its owner. ‘Hey babe, thx for hiring! Hope you feel a million dollars in this (word of warning – it’s a d*** magnet!!!). Have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! LOL!! Love n hugs, Stacey G xx’
I try it on, look in the mirror and . . . honestly, I can’t decidewhatI think.
The dress is beautiful, significantly more elegant than Stacey G’s message might suggest. But it’s also very low cut – both at the front and back – to the extent that, frankly, it’s just impractical. How would I cover up my bra?
I turn to look at it from a different angle. Then another. I bite my lip.
No, I couldn’t.SurelyI couldn’t . . .
I decide to take a selfie to see if it looks any different on my phone camera than with my actual eyes. I find a position in front of the mirror, as if I’m making a profile on the dating websites I briefly dabbled with after Brendan left, in a futile attempt to make him jealous. I take a photo from a couple of different angles. In the flattering light of my bedroom, the dress looks less revealing than it really is. Instead, I go to my wardrobe and take out a classic, demure black number. It was slightly too big when I first bought it but it fits like a glove now because I’ve worn it on countless occasions and it never lets me down.
Decision made.
The subject of my outfit comes up that night when Rose and I go for a quick drink at the new bar in the village while Jacob is having his tennis lesson.
‘How’s your planning for the awards going?’ she asks. ‘Do you know what you’re wearing yet?’
I deliberately hadn’t mentioned the event because this is the first year for as long as I can remember when she won’t be attending. We’ve always looked forward to going together; onetime, we treated ourselves to a mani-pedi in advance, pretending we were the kind of women who often whiled away half an afternoon on this sort of stuff.
‘I hired a dress on Daisy’s recommendation but it’s going straight back.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Way too revealing.’
She takes a sip of her drink and narrows her eyes. ‘Did you get a pic?’
I click on my phone and hand it over. She looks at it, then up at me.
‘Donotreturn that,’ Rose says, with a warning tone.
‘Really?’ I say, stunned.
‘Lisa, it’s gorgeous!’ she gushes. ‘You look phenomenal! When did you get abs like that? And your cleavage . . . oh my God. It’s to die for.’
‘It’s just the lighting in my bedroom,’ I mumble, a little taken aback. ‘Though Ihavebeen doing this Core Crusher thing . . .’
‘Wear it,’ she says, emphatically. ‘Honestly, you must.’
‘Hmm . . . no, I’ve got a long black one I’ve had for a while. I think that will be better. I always feel comfortable in that.’
