‘Who are you calling?’ Rosie asked. ‘Brendan?’
‘No,’ Niamh said, ‘he’ll keep.’
A moment later, she spoke into her phone: ‘Rhianne, it’s Niamh – Rosie’s Niamh. Are you free?’
‘This is going to be fun,’ Rhianne announced as she ushered Rosie and Niamh through a door with ‘Cleo’s Closet’ written directly above it in hot pink. ‘Well worth the effort it took me to browbeat Marcus into pulling an extra shift.’
‘Oh god, did he mind?’ Rosie moaned.
‘No, I think he was secretly grateful,’ Rhianne said. ‘Becky’s on all day, so he’ll get to moon after her for seven hours more than he was expecting this week – and get paid for it.’
‘This place is heaven,’ Niamh said, waving a hand to indicate the shop’s array of brightly populated clothing rails, freestanding mirrors and shelves overflowing with accessories.
‘It’s a favourite,’ Rhianne nodded. ‘Rosie, your mission in here is to find items that make your heart happy. You arenotto worry about what will “suit you”, “hide a multitude of sins” or cover your arse.’
Rosie squirmed.
‘I’m serious,’ Rhianne insisted. ‘Find things you like – stuff that brings you joy. This is dopamine dressing. It’s about expressing yourself, flaunting your individuality – not putting on god-awful rags that claim they’ll cover your belly or “balance out” your hips.’
‘A-men,’ Niamh said, turning to Rhianne for a high five.
‘I’m still not clear on why you two have each other’s numbers,’ Rosie grumbled.
‘I never meet anyone interesting without asking for their digits,’ Niamh shrugged. ‘I work on the assumption that they might come in handy. In this case, I thought about the deli potentially catering client events.’
‘I didn’t even know we did that,’ Rosie said.
‘Sometimes,’ Rhianne explained, ‘we do the odd bit of special occasion work. In fact, we have an after-hours party coming up in a few weeks – our first foray into hiring the deli out as a venue. I’ll roster you on if you fancy the overtime.’
‘Sign me up,’ Rosie sighed. ‘I have a feeling you two are going to make sure this afternoon bankrupts me.’
‘We’ll do nothing of the kind,’ Niamh snorted. ‘Anyway, your birthday’s coming up – I’ll get the first exciting item you find.’
‘My birthday was two months ago,’ Rosie protested.
‘Whatever. I’m going to pretend it wasn’t. Just stop stalling and start searching.’
‘Seconded,’ Rhianne said, pointing at a selection of brightly coloured dungarees. ‘Let’s crack on.’
‘You two are a terrifying alliance,’ Rosie said some hours later, as she, Niamh and Rhianne sat surrounded by shopping bags in the corner of a tiny north London cocktail bar.
She sipped her drink – a Bramble – through a shiny metal straw that sat between thick shards of ice. The combination of gin, lemon juice, blackberry and syrup was sharp but sweet. Opposite her, Niamh sipped an espresso martini and Rhianne nursed a negroni.
‘We’re the retail therapy equivalent of NATO,’ Niamh said, crossing her arms. ‘Nobody fucks with us.’ Rosie rolled her eyes fondly but didn’t disagree.
After her first few tentative selections, she’d given herself over to being handed random garments by her two friends, most of which werewildlydifferent from anything in her current wardrobe. When she got over the shock of seeing her own cleavage in low-cut tops, her waist cinched in by colourful shirred dresses and her legs displayed in loud, patterned overalls, she began to enjoy herself.
She had even consented to visiting several cosmetics counters in the Westfield branch of John Lewis. Courtesy of Rhianne, Rosie had walked away with a red lipstick bolder than any she’d ever worn in her life. She’d also purchased an eyeshadow palette, highlighting powder and cream blush so she could recreate the look she was currently sporting at home. Carmel at the Bobbi Brown concession had cooed over her ‘feline’ green eyes, ‘perfect pout’ and ‘flawlessly creamy skin’ as she blended various powders and potions and applied them to Rosie’s face. ‘You remind me of the wee lesbian fromDerry Girls,’ she’d said. ‘You know, the lass who’s super glam in real life and best pals with the hairdresser fromQueer Eye.’
Rosie sank back against the blue velvet banquette of their booth and felt almost euphoric – elated in a way that her half-drunk beverage alone couldn’t account for. Bossy though they were, her friends had given up their Saturdays to boost her confidence. Their affection for her was palpable, and their sincere regard raised her opinion of herself.
It hit Rosie that years spent feeling unseen and unappreciated, often in ways she hadn’t been consciously aware of, had blinded her to a simple fact. Being around people who loved her made liking, respecting and expressing herself that much easier. It was a truth she intended to hold onto.
‘Thank you for today,’ she said, lifting her glass to clink it against Niamh’s and then Rhianne’s. ‘It’s been … important. More so than I expected.’ While new clothes were only set-dressing for what Rosie knew would be an ongoing self-esteem improvement project, she now saw that saying goodbye to her collection of voluminous ‘don’t look at me’ t-shirts and ‘flattering’ cover-ups was a vital first step.
She fiddled with the hair tie at the nape of her neck, then fanned her mid-length blonde hair around her shoulders. It was a pretty colour but it lacked volume, and it spent most of its life pulled back into a ponytail. Rosie’s mum had sometimes said it was a ‘hair grow’ rather than a haircut, and – for once – she wasn’t wrong.
‘What are my chances of finding a hair salon that’ll take a walk-in?’ she said, to nobody in particular. Niamh and Rhianne exchanged excited glances.
