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“I think there might be a tikka masala sauce in the cupboard,” Zara continues. “Even you can’t go wrong with that.”

She’s forgetting about the last time I tried to cook using a jar of sauce, also fooled into thinking it would be easy.

It took up a big chunk of my wages for that month, replacing the microwave I blew up after assuming it would be safer than cooking on the hob. Turns out you aren’t supposed to microwave metal bowls.

I’m about to remind her of that humiliating occasion when I notice the smile playing on the corners of Zara’s lipsticked mouth. She’s one of those girls who absolutely cannot leave the house without lippie. Even when she’s staying in, she still applies her favourite shade of cherry-red matte because she says you never know who you might see.

“You’re joking!” I realise, giving her a playful shove. “God, I thought you wanted to get food poisoning.”

Zara’s green eyes roll heavenwards. “You’re not that bad, Meg. You can cook something if you want.”

I eye the menu for our local pizza delivery place that’s pinned to the notice board behind Zara’s big hair. “How about a takeaway?” I suggest.

After all, I don’t need to start following Olivia Bright’s advice just yet, do I?

Chapter Two

Mondays should not exist for a very good reason. Everything starts on a Monday.

The working week, diets, resolutions.

Nobody counts calories on a weekend, do they? And it’s totally acceptable to splash out on a new handbag on a Saturday because, on Monday, you’re seriously going to be cutting back on your spending.

But after Saturday’s shopping splurge with Zara, I still walk into work on Monday with a fresh Starbucks caramel latte. To be fair, I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get if I’m really going to start becoming a confident woman today.

I’m going to do it point by point, starting with the first bit of advice about buying a proper bra. Which is why I’ve already pre-ordered my tuna-mayo baguette from the sandwich shop to eat on the go while I’m out browsing the rails in La Senza during lunch.

Obviously this is another can’t-be-helped expense. I’ve got to eat, haven’t I?

Especially if I’m going to get through today.

Not only am I about to embark on my new life as the confident Megan Riley, but I’m also being given a huge amount of work — Window Shine has recruited loads of new staff to work in their warehouses. They’re obviously starting on a bloody Monday, and require the HR department to oversee their settling-in periods.

Normally, organising recruitment paperwork is Helen’s job. Only she’s swanned off to Wales for a dirty long weekend with Raul from her salsa class.

After Nora abandons me and Scarlett to take care of everything, the last thing I’m going to want to do is traipse around underwear shops listening to the overly perky sales assistant’s drivel about strapless bras.

But I’ve got to start today, haven’t I? Who starts any new project on a Tuesday?

So when twelve o’clock comes, I skip out of the office and into the cold city air.

Well. Okay. I don’t exactly skip.

It’s more a shuffles, hoping that I’ll bump into Nora and she’ll ask me—no,
beg
me—to work through lunch. Then I’ll have no choice but to start all this confidence stuff tomorrow. Or maybe I could wait until next Monday…

The truth is, I’ve never been a big fan of underwear shopping. Like food shopping, it fails to excite me in the way that hunting for a nice party dress or a new handbag does. Nobody strolls into work and gets questions about where their knickers are from. Nobody even sees your underwear.

Unless you’ve just got a new boyfriend, and you’re buying skimpy see-through things that you’re supposed to wear with suspender belts and stockings. And then you discover that it’s a bit tricky attaching the stockings and…well, that’s a different story.

I tend to get all the bad kind of shopping done in one trip by grabbing new underwear sets from Asda when I’m food shopping with Zara. And their underwear is quite nice.. It’s always served me well so far. Although I hate those sets where they guess what size your bottom half is based on your cup size. Not every small-busted woman also has a small bum.

Okay. Fine. If Olivia Bright says I’ll feel more confident in a bra that fits me properly, I suppose La Senza it is.

I take the short walk from the office to the lingerie store with my winter fur coat fastened up as far as it will go, my scarf wrapped around my otherwise exposed neck. God, it’s cold. Surely November’s too cold to be looking at underwear that isn’t thermal.

What if the assistant comes into the cubicle with me, measures my chest and gives me the depressing news that I should be buying a smaller-sized bra?

Oh, God. I don’t think I want to do this.

But I’m here now, aren’t I? I suppose I could take a quick look inside. I don’t have to buy anything. In fact, I probably won’t. I could save the money and invest it in something a lot more interesting, like one of those cute tote bags I saw in Topshop.

I slip my hands out of my mittens and head towards La Senza.

The shop front is decorated with silver tinsel and all the mannequins are wearing sexy little Santa outfits. I press my face up to the glass and eye the red velvet lingerie trimmed with white fur.
This definitely isn’t what Olivia Bright’s article is all about,
but I shove the door open and step into…a porn star’s dressing room.

Brightly coloured bras hang on racks, while neatly folded lacy thongs line the left side of the shop. Satin nighties and other slight more demure garments occupy the space to my right.

Oh, my God. I have no idea what to do.

“Can I help you?”

I turn to face a beaming brunette sales assistant with a bluntly cut fringe.

“I was just looking…um…for a bra,” I fumble, looking around the brightly lit shop.

I swear this woman is staring at my chest. You know like how Gok Wan looks at the women on his fashion shows and tells them their body shape straight away? Maybe La Senza employees are the bust equivalent. She probably won’t even have to whisk me behind a curtained cubicle. Perhaps she already knows what size bra I need.

Oh, God, what if she thinks my boobs are too small or too saggy or something? I raise an arm self-consciously across my chest.

“What sort of bra?” she asks. “Is it for a special occasion? We’ve got some lovely new balconettes in.” She eyes my outfit of a mint-green blouse and black leather pencil skirt as though my clothing will help her ascertain if I’m the sort of girl who would own a balconette bra.

I glance at the sea of colours around me, all lace and ribbons and diamante. Olivia Bright never said I needed anything special. In fact, she never said I needed to go anywhere near La Senza. I bet there are tons of shoes and bags I could buy that would make me feel loads more confident than any bra.

Consider the shopping experience itself. Shoe shopping is never humiliating, is it? Nobody cares what size feet you have. Except maybe if you’ve got tiny little-girl feet or massive giant-man feet. And even then, you still get a nice pair of shoes at the end of it, so it’s not all bad.

“Or we have an excellent selection of T-shirt bras,” the assistant continues when I don’t say anything.

T-shirt bras. They’ll do, won’t they?

“Great. Thanks.” I follow her to the back of the shop.

She leaves me standing in front of a display of plain cotton bras all the same in design, but with subtle colour variations, you know, for those times when you might need to wear chocolate-brown instead of tan.

I hear a giggle to my left and notice that the festive underwear is right next to the shop’s most ordinary bras. And oh, my God. Some ancient couple is actually looking at this stuff.

My view of them is partially blocked by a display of novelty thongs, but I can just see the man’s bald, pink head as he chuckles at a candyfloss-haired woman holding out one of the sexy Mrs. Claus outfits. She gives a little sway of her hips, hidden beneath a long beige duffle coat.

Wait a minute.

I recognise that coat.

No… It can’t be.

But it is. My mother sees me just as I realise what’s going on. She’s out shopping for sexy underwear with Phil, my stepdad.

Oh, my God. This has got to be some sort of joke. Mums don’t shop in La Senza. Not mums over fifty, anyway. This is all wrong.

Okay. Calm down. Maybe she’s just…doing her Christmas shopping. I’m sure Auntie Lily would love one of those fur-trimmed bra sets. Oh, God. That’s even worse.

“Megan!” My mum pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s so nice to see you! We were just saying, weren’t we, Phil, how long it’s been since you came over for your tea.”

I grit my teeth and force a smile back at her.

My mother and Phil live across town in Horsforth, and regularly host evenings of canapés and wine tasting with their snobby next-door neighbours. The last time I went, I spent the evening pretending I like caviar and clinking glasses with pretentious idiots who felt the need to tell me what flavours they could taste with every sip of wine rather than just bloody drinking it.

Before they bought their semi-detached house in the nice area of Leeds, she probably got all her underwear from Primark.

“So, Meggy,” Mum is saying, and I wince at the horrible childhood nickname, “why don’t you come over on Friday night? We’re having a little
soirée,
aren’t we, darling?” She looks at Phil, who nods animatedly. “And you’ll never guess what!”

Please don’t make me guess.

“What?” I use as much enthusiasm as possible, given the circumstances.

“Tim will be over from London. Isn’t that wonderful? You know, he’s a really successful lawyer now over there. Done well for himself, that boy.”

Tim Hudson is Auntie Wendy’s son. She’s not a proper auntie, mind. She’s just a friend of my mum’s who used to think it was appropriate for me and her weird son to have sleepovers together as children.

“That’s…great!” I fake excitement. “I presume Wendy will be there, too?”

Mum nods. “Her and Bryony.”

Ah. There we go. I wondered when we were going to get on to the subject of Tim’s even weirder sister. “Bryony’s coming to show off her engagement ring,” Mum explains.

“She’s engaged?” I say with genuine surprise. Normally this type of gossip is what my mother fills our telephone conversations with.

“Yes! Didn’t I tell you? Oh, he’s a lovely chap. Wendy’s always gushing about him. The Hudsons are a lovely family themselves, don’t you think?”

I know where this is going. I can see straight through Mum’s pursed-lip smile. Of course she’s upset that eleven-months-younger-than-me Bryony is getting engaged first. And who better to set me up with than her successful and available older brother? Which I decided was never going to happen after witnessing Tim’ public dental hygiene routine.

“They’re the best, Mum.” I mirror her tight smile. “Anyway, look, I’ve really got to go. I’m due back at work.” I pretend to look down at the watch I’m not wearing.

“So we’ll see you on Friday, then?”

“Um…I’m not sure if I’ve got plans with Zara.”

“Bring her along!” suggests Phil, and I glare at him.

The last thing I need is for Zara to witness my total humiliation as Mum tries to set me up with Tim “successful London lawyer” Hudson.

I have this theory that Mum and Auntie Wendy have been secretly planning a wedding between Tim and me for years. And now that Bryony’s getting married, what better time to present their plans?

Shit. What if they’ve got a double wedding or something equally hideous and tacky in mind?

I’ll be sharing the attention with Bryony as we waltz down the aisle in matching white dresses, hand sewn by our mothers.

The thought makes me shudder, and I quickly snap back to reality. As if I’d even consider marrying Tim. I’m only twenty-four! I’d have to be at least thirty and facing a serious groom shortage before I reached such a desperate stage.

“What a wonderful idea, Phil,” Mum gushes. “I’m sure there’ll be somebody coming along who might catch Zara’s eye, too!”

My mother seems to think that single girls only attend parties if they’re looking for a man.

“I think Zara said she’s busy on Friday night. She’s just taken on a really big job.”

“Didn’t you say you had plans with her?” Mum asks in puzzlement.

“Provisional plans,” I correct hurriedly. “I think she said she
might
have work to do. But sometimes she never knows, being freelance.”

“Oh.” Mum rubs her chin. “So will we see you there or not?”

I should say
no.
I should have something fantastically important to do that I can’t get out of. But my mind is blank.

“Um…”

“Wonderful!” Mum throws her arms around me again before I’ve thought of anything to say.

And now it’s going to be even harder to get out of.

Chapter Three

So, since the first point on Olivia Bright’s list didn’t exactly go to plan, I’ve decided I’m going to spend my morning at work the next day thinking hard on the second one.

What is it again? Oh, yes. Volunteering to find my dream job.

Trouble is, I have absolutely no idea what my dream job is.

When I was little, I wanted to be a vet. Until I realised that I actually hate dogs. There’s no way that I could stand all that yapping and having to wash their disgusting, matted fur. At least cats clean themselves. Although I’m not a big fan of cats, either.

Okay. What else is there? What skills do I have? I got a B in GCSE drama when I was at school. But I don’t suppose there are many volunteer acting jobs going. Not the glamorous film set type, anyway, where you get to meet Brad and Angelina.

Then there’s always the course I did in fashion design. The only problem is I was completely useless at operating a sewing machine.

Oh, God. I’m going to work in HR admin forever, aren’t I? And Nora will still be my boss when she’s ninety-two and getting around the office with a Zimmer frame.

I’m in need of a bit of retail therapy by lunchtime, so I head straight to the handbag section in New Look. While I’m standing, mesmerised by the beautiful beading on the new range of clutch bags, I remember that they sell underwear here. And it’s a reasonably upmarket place, isn’t it?