and accepted the size twelve from her friend's hands.
She got them on over her bottom but she couldn't pull up the zip.
'They're miles too small,' she gasped as she struggled with it.
Suzanne was standing there grinning at her. 'No they aren't. Lie down on your back, you'll get them done up then.'
Camellia giggled at this ridiculous suggestion,but she complied. She hoped no one would come in the changing rooms and see her lying there wrestling with a zip. 'I can't do this every time I go to the loo!' she squealed.
'They'll stretch, silly.' Suzanne was losing patience. 'You've got them done up now. Stand up!'
Camellia got up cautiously. She felt as if she were in a steel corset – she could hardly walk, let alone run or sit down.
'They look fabulous,' Suzanne insisted. 'Come out here and look at yourself.'
Camellia allowed herself to be led out to the mirror, blushing as a couple of customers stared at her.
But when she saw her reflection she gasped in astonishment. 'I look so skinny!' she exclaimed.
Jeans were a symbolic badge: they proclaimed I'm part of it all'. Camellia couldn't count the times she'd wished she could wear them. But now, seeing her bottom looking even sexier than Suzanne's, her stomach flat with no flab hanging over the waist, it felt like a miracle.
'How many times do I have to remind you of that?' Suzanne grinned good-naturedly. 'The only thing fat about you is your head. Now what are you going to wear with them?'
'Madeline said a sloppy jumper.' Camellia put her head on one side enquiringly. 'What do you think?'
'Only beatniks wear sloppy jumpers,' Suzanne snorted with disgust. 'You want something which shows your nice boobs. There's some really nice stripy Banlon tops over there. You'd look great in a red and black one.'
'They're too expensive,' Camellia frowned. T can only afford about three quid.'
Suzanne looked out the cubicle to check no one was listening. 'Nick one,' she whispered. 'Stick it in your pants when you go home.'
Camellia stared open-mouthed. She couldn't believe she'd heard that. 'I can't do that!'
'Most of the girls do it,' Suzanne smirked, 'including me, but don't you go splitting on us mind.'
Camellia bought the jeans and got her staff discount and they were sent down to the staff entrance for her to pick up as she went home. But Suzanne's suggestion kept niggling at her once she was back at work behind her counter. The top didn't matter that much to her; heaven knows she had enough sloppy jumpers which would do. Yet the desire to be in step with Suzanne clouded the moral issue. It would be so easy: the top would fold up to no bigger than a scarf. Suzanne claimed she had once even worn a jacket under her coat. The security man on the staff entrance always checked their bags, but he'd never been known to frisk anyone. If she chickened out wouldn't Suzanne think she was feeble?
As the afternoon wore on Camellia kept nipping over to the fashion department to look at the top. The one she fancied cost f6.19.11p red and black with long sleeves and a scoop neck. The more she looked at it, the more she wanted it.
A rush of late afternoon shoppers made her forget about it. She sold a very expensive Italian bag and a purse to one difficult customer, then sold five cheaper bags one after the other. She wished Peter Robinson's gave their assistants commission: it was hardly surprising most of the girls didn't take much trouble with the customers.
At around five, Suzanne slipped over to her again.
'Someone's just left one in the changing room she whispered. 'Go on in there and get it.'
Camellia had no excuse now, not even a customer to prevent her. To refuse might push her back amongst the other wallflowers who spent their lunchtimes alone. She took her time walking to the changing rooms, hoping someone would have hung it back on the rails.
But it was still there, a small crumple of red and black on a stool. When she picked it up she found it was the right size.
Taking a
She got them on over her bottom but she couldn't pull up the zip.
'They're miles too small,' she gasped as she struggled with it.
Suzanne was standing there grinning at her. 'No they aren't. Lie down on your back, you'll get them done up then.'
Camellia giggled at this ridiculous suggestion,but she complied. She hoped no one would come in the changing rooms and see her lying there wrestling with a zip. 'I can't do this every time I go to the loo!' she squealed.
'They'll stretch, silly.' Suzanne was losing patience. 'You've got them done up now. Stand up!'
Camellia got up cautiously. She felt as if she were in a steel corset – she could hardly walk, let alone run or sit down.
'They look fabulous,' Suzanne insisted. 'Come out here and look at yourself.'
Camellia allowed herself to be led out to the mirror, blushing as a couple of customers stared at her.
But when she saw her reflection she gasped in astonishment. 'I look so skinny!' she exclaimed.
Jeans were a symbolic badge: they proclaimed I'm part of it all'. Camellia couldn't count the times she'd wished she could wear them. But now, seeing her bottom looking even sexier than Suzanne's, her stomach flat with no flab hanging over the waist, it felt like a miracle.
'How many times do I have to remind you of that?' Suzanne grinned good-naturedly. 'The only thing fat about you is your head. Now what are you going to wear with them?'
'Madeline said a sloppy jumper.' Camellia put her head on one side enquiringly. 'What do you think?'
'Only beatniks wear sloppy jumpers,' Suzanne snorted with disgust. 'You want something which shows your nice boobs. There's some really nice stripy Banlon tops over there. You'd look great in a red and black one.'
'They're too expensive,' Camellia frowned. T can only afford about three quid.'
Suzanne looked out the cubicle to check no one was listening. 'Nick one,' she whispered. 'Stick it in your pants when you go home.'
Camellia stared open-mouthed. She couldn't believe she'd heard that. 'I can't do that!'
'Most of the girls do it,' Suzanne smirked, 'including me, but don't you go splitting on us mind.'
Camellia bought the jeans and got her staff discount and they were sent down to the staff entrance for her to pick up as she went home. But Suzanne's suggestion kept niggling at her once she was back at work behind her counter. The top didn't matter that much to her; heaven knows she had enough sloppy jumpers which would do. Yet the desire to be in step with Suzanne clouded the moral issue. It would be so easy: the top would fold up to no bigger than a scarf. Suzanne claimed she had once even worn a jacket under her coat. The security man on the staff entrance always checked their bags, but he'd never been known to frisk anyone. If she chickened out wouldn't Suzanne think she was feeble?
As the afternoon wore on Camellia kept nipping over to the fashion department to look at the top. The one she fancied cost f6.19.11p red and black with long sleeves and a scoop neck. The more she looked at it, the more she wanted it.
A rush of late afternoon shoppers made her forget about it. She sold a very expensive Italian bag and a purse to one difficult customer, then sold five cheaper bags one after the other. She wished Peter Robinson's gave their assistants commission: it was hardly surprising most of the girls didn't take much trouble with the customers.
At around five, Suzanne slipped over to her again.
'Someone's just left one in the changing room she whispered. 'Go on in there and get it.'
Camellia had no excuse now, not even a customer to prevent her. To refuse might push her back amongst the other wallflowers who spent their lunchtimes alone. She took her time walking to the changing rooms, hoping someone would have hung it back on the rails.
But it was still there, a small crumple of red and black on a stool. When she picked it up she found it was the right size.
Taking a
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