The Personal Shopper (14 page)

The walls were decked with pure silk kimonos, tiny-waisted lace wedding gowns and photographs of some of the dresses on the days so long ago when they were brand new.

Bringing Megan and Taylor down here wasn’t a mistake, she was relieved to see.

Taylor was already flicking through the size 8s and 10s
 
with a keen eye and Megan was engrossed in the jewellery display where multi-stranded pearl chokers and sparkling dangling earrings competed with intricate enamelled brooches for attention.

‘Look at this.’ Megan was pointing to a posy of enamelled bluebells. ‘This is the prettiest brooch I’ve ever seen and it’s thirty pounds!’ she exclaimed, as if she
 
hadn’t realized anything could cost less than £100. ‘Taylor, you have to have it.’

Annie knew she could get much nicer ones for under £10 at her local rummage haunts. But that was the kind of info wasted on Megan. Megan was suspicious of anything cheap. She liked to pay more, to make sure she had the very best.

As Annie stood outside the pink velvet curtain of the fitting room, Taylor tried dresses on with a more serious intent than she had before.

She fitted everything she tried. It was disconcerting. She had the teeny little waistline needed to squeeze into 1950s suits and 1960s prom dresses.

She looked dangerously close to declaring: ‘This is the one,’ in a boat-necked slim taffeta dress, turquoise with big silver buttons, which made her look like an old-time Hollywood starlet.

‘Oh that is pretty,’ was Megan’s verdict. ‘With silver shoes maybe . . .’

‘Hmmm . . .’ Taylor was twisting in front of the mirror, sticking out her hips, critically observing the shape of her tiny little behind, not quite 100 per cent happy.

‘We’ve still got a few more.’ Annie handed over a deep sea blue satin Chinese-style dress, which she thought was very promising.

‘Oh!’ Taylor held it out. ‘Very nice. It looks a bit big, though.’

Only Taylor could look at size 8 satin and worry about it being too big.

‘It doesn’t have any stretch to it,’ Annie reminded her. ‘Anyway, it can always be taken in.’

Taylor took it into the fitting room and after several minutes of wriggling and wrestling with hooks and eyes, she opened the curtain with something of a flourish.

‘What do you think?’ She looked at Annie first then her mum. Annie suspected Taylor loved it, but wanted to sound them out first.

How could she not love it? She looked incredible.

She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail which suited the dress even more. It had a high mandarin collar; she’d buttoned it all the way to the top, and a row of tiny satin-covered buttons led all the way down to the knee where the dress stopped. It skimmed her body from her small chest over her tiny waist and narrow hips. The sleeves did not end at upper arm, like most Chinese dresses. These in an unusually modern way stopped just past the elbow.

‘It’s quite like the shape of your dress, Mum, without the open neck and ruffle.’

‘Yes,’ Megan agreed. She seemed quite mesmerized by the effect too. To her, the dress still looked girlish and charming. To Taylor it was dangerously sophisticated. So
 
it was perfect for the wedding, and yet, of course, quite devastatingly sexy.

‘Can you sit down in it?’ Annie wondered. Taylor aimed slowly for the stool in the corner of the dressing room.

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ she assured them.

‘What do you think of it?’ Annie wanted to know.

Taylor stood up and looked at herself in the mirror: she twisted and turned, she put her hands on her hips, she squinted at her rear again, she stood up on tiptoes to mimic the effect of heels. Finally, she declared: ‘I love it. I don’t care if I never get another penny of pocket money this year . . . I have to have it . . . oh and a bag and shoes to go with it,
obviously
.’ She peeped up at her mama with a wheedling little smile.

Megan gave a nod: ‘OK, back upstairs, we’ll go and look at shoes.’

Annie made an excuse to take her safely back to her
 
office for a few minutes where she hoovered up her entire stash of emergency chocolate. And she’d thought choosing outfits with Lana was hard work.

***

‘She didn’t want a
Matthew Williamson
?!’ Lana wanted to make sure she’d heard that bit right.

‘Balled it up and chucked it on the floor!’ Annie elaborated, passing thirds of garlic bread over to Owen who’d already ravenously polished off everything else on his plate.

‘No!’ Lana sounded quite thrilled by this sacrilege. ‘On the floor!’

‘Miu Miu was rejected, Marc Jacobs she wouldn’t even try on, Chloé was “so over” – God, she was a nightmare. Imagine being able to afford any designer dress you could imagine, plus the bag, the shoes and real jewels to go with it, and being so miserable! Such a waste.’ Annie forked up the last rubbery mouthful and chewed . . . for quite a long time. She’d got home so late, there hadn’t been any time to shop – even in the
extortionate
corner shop – and she’d relied on finding something,
anything
in the fridge. But the inside of the Smeg (unbelievable discount deal, but it was orange and did have a dent on the side) had been like a scene from the dating game: cold and lonely.

One fat tomato, too pale and too chilled. One slice of
 
bacon left in its greasy packet, two potatoes, a third of
 
an
 
onion wrapped in clingfilm, half a mini goat’s cheese, possibly past its sell-by date, but also garlic, a
 
packet of garlic bread and, yes! Result! A boxful of eggs.

‘Supper, Mum?’ Owen had come into the kitchen to ask. Looking so gangly and thin, she’d felt the urge to
 
give him a Mars bar there and then.

‘Spanish omelette and garlic bread!’ she’d announced, inspired. But the three of them knew that her omelettes were never ‘fluffy’ like Dinah’s, they were tough. Why was that?

‘So, have you had a chance to think about what you’d like to wear to Grandma’s retirement party?’ Annie asked Lana, while they were on the subject of teen dress traumas.

Something about Lana’s smile in response to this question made Annie slightly anxious: it was a hesitant smile, a secretive smile with a hint of triumph in there too.

Uh-oh.

Lana didn’t shop with her mother any more, which was a source of both relief and sadness to Annie. If she wanted to make herself really wistful, she would think of the hours she’d once spent with little Lana trying on dresses at H&M, picking out pink blouses, stripy tights and spangled hairclips, Lana pirouetting with happiness. All
day long Annie styled others while the one person she’d always loved to dress found it ‘too much pressure’ to go shopping with her.

Since Annie and Lana’s last changing room tantrum over a five-inch-long miniskirt for school, Lana now only shopped with other members of the Syrup Six – Annie liked that nickname, it had stuck in her mind ever since Mr Leon, no, must-remember-to-call-him-Ed, had told her about it.

‘Have you bought something?’ Annie tried to sound pleased. ‘Come on then, show me.’

She didn’t really feel she’d been adequately prepared for the sheer, backless, slashed-to-the-upper-thigh frothy black lace creation hanging on the front of Lana’s wardrobe, still with its Primark price tag proudly attached. Scratchy black nylon lace . . . nice . . . if Lana went anywhere near a candle in that thing, she’d be toast.

For a moment, Annie tried to imagine what Megan’s response to it would be. Megan would probably faint, or run screaming from the room, spraying pure Fracas Parfum all around to decontaminate herself.

‘Oh, well… yes,
’ Annie began, trying to muster as much calm as she could from the torrent of maternal negativity pulsing through her brain.

No use, she couldn’t help blurting out: ‘You’re fourteen, Lana! But you’ve gone straight from velvet with bows
 
to
 
see-through lace. Weren’t we meant to have the taffeta years in between? You know, sweet, crackly taffeta dresses with netting underneath, worn with pale tights and ballet pumps?’ Even as Annie said it, she knew it sounded unlikely.

But she’d love to see Lana shine in bright blue: an iridescent silk that exactly matched the colour of her astonishing eyes.

Annie – who had brown eyes, who had coveted Roddy from the moment he’d set his swimming-pool-blue
 
eyes on her – could be overwhelmed by Lana’s eyes. Sometimes she couldn’t break her gaze from them, sometimes she couldn’t do battle with the girl training this blue laser beam on her, sometimes she had to give in completely to those eyes.

Lana had sensed this weakness of course, and in an argument she did everything she could to make eye contact with her mother.

‘This is the dress I want to wear,’ she said fiercely.

‘But why?’ Annie asked.

‘Because I like it.’

‘Why?’ Annie insisted.

‘Because it’s cool . . . and I think I look good in it.’

‘Does it make you look a lot older?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do you want boys to think you’re older?’

‘Maybe.’ Her arms crossed and she huffed.

Annie was now tempted to shout all sorts of unhelpful, bossy mum warnings:
‘You’ll look so slutt
y in this!’ ‘This is your granny’s party!
’ and so on, but instead, she sat down on Lana’s bed and tried to restrain herself.

‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear, Lana,’ she began, ‘but there’s no need to be in such a rush to grow up. Honestly. Take your time. You have years of growing up ahead of you. Try to enjoy it.’

Lana just gave an exasperated sigh. Again, Annie bit her tongue: ‘Why don’t you put the dress on for me?’ she asked. ‘Let me see how it looks.’

‘No!’

‘Oh please . . . go on. I’ll be totally constructive. On my best behaviour, I promise.’

Once Lana was standing in front of her, hands on lace-clad hips, face in a defiant pout, Annie knew she had to proceed with caution, utmost caution, or she would never, ever be allowed to shop with Lana ever.

The dress looked . . . well . . . being totally honest . . . looking as neutrally as possible . . .

‘Turn around, baby . . .’ she instructed, ‘I like the back. Your back looks lovely. You’ll have to wear one of those backless bra contraptions . . .’

‘I’ve already bought one,’ Lana said grumpily.

‘And what about shoes?’

Lana slipped on her wine-coloured suede slingbacks. They looked fine.

‘Hmmm.’ Annie tried to keep her professional eye on this. Not her maternal eye which was, just like Megan’s earlier today, finding it hard to move past the cleavage on display, the acre of creamy teen thigh.

Lana had a good figure, Annie couldn’t help but proudly notice, with Roddy’s pale skin and poker-straight black hair which on Lana hung down well below her shoulders.

‘Did it come in any other colours?’ Annie wondered.

‘Muuuum!’ Lana warned, but then volunteered the information: ‘Navy blue and purple.’

‘And you wouldn’t consider maybe . . .’

Lana just glared.

‘Just a second, I have something that could . . .’ Annie went out of the room, took deep breaths and counted to ten. After a few minutes, she came back in with a large, overblown fake rose, almost the exact shade of Lana’s shoes.

‘Can we try it pinned to the front?’ Annie asked. ‘It’s just . . . I’m not sure you’ll want Granny’s boyfriends talking to your boobs all night long, will you?’