Little White Lies by Gemma Townley Page A

couples, who I think I’ve mentioned before—they come in on Sundays, and with them, shopping is sort of a bit like foreplay. The women try stuff on for the men, who get to sit on nice leather chairs and view them appraisingly; then they get to take out their gold cards and show how rich they are. It’s like a power play—just how much can the woman get the man to spend on her? Usually a lot; so long as the women choose the things their men like. Italian labels are generally quite popular—certainly nothing deconstructed or remotely shapeless. The couples are my favorites because they spend the most, they look like they’re having a good time doing it, and I don’t get any guilt trips about people maxing out their credit cards unnecessarily. Although some of the guys think that spending money in the shop allows them to pat me on the ass, or sneak a look at other girls in the changing rooms. I hate that.
    Finally, there are “Saturday girls,” who come in looking for something to wear to a hot date. They sometimes come in twos, occasionally threes, and they are the biggest nightmare. They want to try on everything, and they want the clothes to change their body shape, make their hair shine, improve their posture, and generally make them irresistible. “I mean,” I hear Julie say again and again, “good clothes can make a difference—a big difference sometimes—but they can’t work miracles.” She gets really irritated because “Saturday girls” always disagree over what looks nice and what doesn’t. So a girl will be really happy in a pair of trousers, and her friend will do that twisty thing with her mouth, so that the original girl starts to doubt whether the trousers do actually work after all, and then you hear the immortal phrase “What, does my bum look big or something?” and you know she isn’t going to buy them. I’d get irritated, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Chloe and I are definitely culprits.
    I’m not sure whether my “client” is a “can’t but what the hell” or an investment buyer—you know, one who forgot to get party clothes when she bought this season’s outfits. Which means I don’t know whether to steer her toward the luxe range or cheaper lines.
    “Do you have a particular look in mind?” I ask her. “We’ve got hundreds of dresses that would be great for a party. It just depends what sort of party.”
    “Feminine and sexy,” she says immediately. “There was a nice dress in the window . . .”
    I think I know the one she means. We got in a whole load of Marc Jacobs dresses the other day—a really lovely lemon-yellow one, which is gorgeous but you’d need a serious tan to get away with the color, and some others in sort of pinky-fleshy color. Which makes me think investment buyer—these are nearly £1,000 a go! I’m not entirely sure they’re going to work on her—she looks a bit horsey for Marc Jacobs, but you never can tell. I grab a handful and take the girl to the changing room.
    The first one doesn’t work at all—too clingy in all the wrong places. But then she puts on this amazing pink number with ribbing all the way down and a little bow at the waist—she looks like she’s a bridesmaid or something. Not exactly sexy, but definitely feminine. She sighs at her reflection.
    “So, big party?” I ask her.
    “Sort of,” she replies, not taking her eyes off the mirror. “It’s a dinner, actually. With my boyfriend. Only, I’m rather hoping that he won’t be my boyfriend by the end, if you know what I mean.”
    I look at her uncertainly. “So you’re breaking up with him?”
    “No!” she says sharply. “I want to leave as his fiancée!”
    “Of course you do!” I say quickly, cursing myself for my slip-up. “So you’re looking for a ’results’ dress, then? Well, we’ve got sexier dresses, but it depends what he goes for . . .”
    “No, this is perfect. You know, wife material,” she says, turning round to contemplate her