I’m having a hard time as it is ignoring the pizza crust.
‘But I don’t know which one to try on!’ I wail pathetically.
‘So try them all,’ Delilah shrugs. ‘I’ve got all night. Will’s out with the boys and won’t be back till the early hours. Again,’ she adds, leaning over
to take a sip of wine. She throws her arms above her head. ‘Come on, sis. Let the show begin!’
Reluctantly I head for the bathroom. I should be excited about this, but I can’t help but feel I’m about to disappoint Delilah and let these beautiful clothes down, even though each
one of these garments was bought because I knew instinctively when I saw it that it would make me feel different, special, beautiful, visible for once in my life. But suddenly the thought of
putting something on that could make me stand out is petrifying. I have faded into the background for so long I’m not sure I can handle the spotlight. Even one in my own bedroom with just my
sister as an audience. How pathetic is that? I glance down at the dress I’m holding and notice that I’m shaking a little. Here in my hand is the fabric of a life I’ve only ever
dreamed of stepping into. Each stitch is a story of what could have been.
Then I remember the unyielding feeling I had that something special could happen to me when I put on the Gainsbourg. And it did. I met Joel. And I know that when Joel saw me in that top, he
really saw me as an effervescent, lively, attractive girl who was worth getting to know. That top saved me from the obscurity I’ve become so used to. And I want – no, I need
– to have that feeling again.
I strip off my jeans and hoodie quickly before I change my mind, and lift the plastic delicately over the garment and off the hanger. It is one of my best vintage finds, a beautiful 1950s Larry
Aldrich dress, which I discovered after trawling through endless American vintage clothing websites one rainy Sunday afternoon whilst I was trying to give Delilah, Will and the kids some
‘family time’. It is beautiful, soft, sage-green silk chiffon with shoulders that can be gathered or fanned out over the tops of your arms, and a plunging neckline that is softened at
the bust by a delicate corsage. There is a ruched satin waistband that accentuates that particular part of my figure well, and then the skirt itself is full and sweeping and falls to a flattering
mid-calf length. It is demure yet sexy, classic yet different, simple but with exquisite extras. It is perfect.
I feel nervous as I unhook my bra and step into the dress. The chiffon brushes against my skin and I get goosebumps all over my body as I wriggle it up over my hips and bust. There is no need
for my normal slimming underwear as the dress is internally structured to support and disguise, simultaneously lifting and hiding any (or, in my case, many) lumps and bumps. I pull my hair off my
neck and twist it into a bun, holding it against the back of my head as I step over to the mirror that hangs over the basin. I stand on tiptoes to try to get a better look of the whole effect. I
don’t want to show Delilah until I’m sure I don’t look ridiculous. The chiffon overlay hides a multitude of sins, drawing the eye to the natural curve of my waist that I am
actually proud of, whilst hiding my hips and thighs, which I am not. Then the chiffon cascades down towards my knees in a stream of sensuously soft material, and with it, the eye heads down to my
calves and ankles, bypassing my most unflattering bits. I slip my feet into a pair of peep-toed vintage silver Gina heels and take a deep breath as I look at myself in the mirror.
Not bad.
I step out of the bathroom. Delilah has her head buried in the latest issue of Vogue . I clear my throat to get her attention and she lifts her eyes and stares at me unblinkingly. Her
mouth opens and shuts, but no words come out. I am not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.
‘Lila?’ I squeak. ‘Say something . . .
‘But I don’t know which one to try on!’ I wail pathetically.
‘So try them all,’ Delilah shrugs. ‘I’ve got all night. Will’s out with the boys and won’t be back till the early hours. Again,’ she adds, leaning over
to take a sip of wine. She throws her arms above her head. ‘Come on, sis. Let the show begin!’
Reluctantly I head for the bathroom. I should be excited about this, but I can’t help but feel I’m about to disappoint Delilah and let these beautiful clothes down, even though each
one of these garments was bought because I knew instinctively when I saw it that it would make me feel different, special, beautiful, visible for once in my life. But suddenly the thought of
putting something on that could make me stand out is petrifying. I have faded into the background for so long I’m not sure I can handle the spotlight. Even one in my own bedroom with just my
sister as an audience. How pathetic is that? I glance down at the dress I’m holding and notice that I’m shaking a little. Here in my hand is the fabric of a life I’ve only ever
dreamed of stepping into. Each stitch is a story of what could have been.
Then I remember the unyielding feeling I had that something special could happen to me when I put on the Gainsbourg. And it did. I met Joel. And I know that when Joel saw me in that top, he
really saw me as an effervescent, lively, attractive girl who was worth getting to know. That top saved me from the obscurity I’ve become so used to. And I want – no, I need
– to have that feeling again.
I strip off my jeans and hoodie quickly before I change my mind, and lift the plastic delicately over the garment and off the hanger. It is one of my best vintage finds, a beautiful 1950s Larry
Aldrich dress, which I discovered after trawling through endless American vintage clothing websites one rainy Sunday afternoon whilst I was trying to give Delilah, Will and the kids some
‘family time’. It is beautiful, soft, sage-green silk chiffon with shoulders that can be gathered or fanned out over the tops of your arms, and a plunging neckline that is softened at
the bust by a delicate corsage. There is a ruched satin waistband that accentuates that particular part of my figure well, and then the skirt itself is full and sweeping and falls to a flattering
mid-calf length. It is demure yet sexy, classic yet different, simple but with exquisite extras. It is perfect.
I feel nervous as I unhook my bra and step into the dress. The chiffon brushes against my skin and I get goosebumps all over my body as I wriggle it up over my hips and bust. There is no need
for my normal slimming underwear as the dress is internally structured to support and disguise, simultaneously lifting and hiding any (or, in my case, many) lumps and bumps. I pull my hair off my
neck and twist it into a bun, holding it against the back of my head as I step over to the mirror that hangs over the basin. I stand on tiptoes to try to get a better look of the whole effect. I
don’t want to show Delilah until I’m sure I don’t look ridiculous. The chiffon overlay hides a multitude of sins, drawing the eye to the natural curve of my waist that I am
actually proud of, whilst hiding my hips and thighs, which I am not. Then the chiffon cascades down towards my knees in a stream of sensuously soft material, and with it, the eye heads down to my
calves and ankles, bypassing my most unflattering bits. I slip my feet into a pair of peep-toed vintage silver Gina heels and take a deep breath as I look at myself in the mirror.
Not bad.
I step out of the bathroom. Delilah has her head buried in the latest issue of Vogue . I clear my throat to get her attention and she lifts her eyes and stares at me unblinkingly. Her
mouth opens and shuts, but no words come out. I am not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.
‘Lila?’ I squeak. ‘Say something . . .
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