please?’
She just shakes her head silently. Then she clambers off the bed and steps towards me. She holds my arms and stares at me from my head to my toes, which are in need of a lick of nail polish, I
realize. I try and scrunch them in my shoes to hide them.
‘It’s too much, isn’t it?’ I mumble. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t wear this on a first date, obviously. It’s more for if I ever get invited to a big event, you
know, like, like . . . the Oscars or something, which, you know, obviously could totally happen because that’s how my life rolls . . .’ I force a laugh. Delilah is still staring.
‘Anyway, I’m going to get changed now . . .’
‘Will you just SHUSH for a moment?’ Delilah says impatiently, and a smile bobs over the corners of her lips. ‘I am trying to savour the moment when my little sister turned into
a woman. Look at you, Evie!’ She twizzles me around and pushes me in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the armoire door. ‘You look beautiful!’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say bashfully. I look passable, yes, pretty even, but beautiful? Never. I love my sister and all, but even I know she’s over-exaggerating. But
that’s OK. I realize that what she’s trying to say is that I look better than I’ve ever looked before, which frankly, is all I’m aiming for.
I gaze at my reflection with the same eye I use on our shop-floor displays every morning when I’m assessing what I’d do to make them better, if someone would just let me. I try to be
critical but even I have to admit that this is probably the best I’ve ever looked. The sage colour of the dress enhances my pale skin so it looks soft and creamy, and does the same for my
mousy hair. It has a really lovely sheen to it this evening. My ankles look small and delicate, my thighs are well hidden under the full skirt, as are the tops of my arms. And my boobs –
well, frankly, this dress makes them look fabulous. Usually I hide them under baggy clothes, but the hidden corsetry has lifted them, which forces me to stand tall and throw my shoulders back.
‘Oh, Evie, it’s so nice to see you happy with the way you look,’ Delilah says. ‘I hate the fact that you’re always so hard on yourself. So,’ she claps her
hands, ‘are we decided?’
‘Decided on what?’
‘Your outfit, of course.’
‘Um, no,’ I reply in horror.
‘Evie, you have to wear this for your date, you just have to. It’s PERFECT.’
I stare at her in horror. ‘But I don’t know where we’re going. I’ll look a right fool turning up to a pub or somewhere in this.’
‘Oh.’ She looks downcast for a moment and then her eyes light up again. ‘Well, let’s try an outfit on for every possible scenario then!’ She claps her hands in
delight, then dives into my wardrobe, peers under some of the plastic and pulls out a blush-spotted chiffon blouse and hands it to me. ‘Try this with those navy cigarette pants, Evie. Go,
GO!’
I skulk off to the ensuite. I know not to argue with Delilah when she’s like this.
An hour later and I’ve tried on four more outfits for four very different dates: a black ruched long-sleeved wrap dress with a plunging neckline for a chic city dinner
date; a 1940s fur-trimmed tweed jacket with a soft, cream cowl-neck jumper, denim skirt and knee-length brown 1970s boots for a Sunday afternoon countryside amble; a gorgeous horse-printed wrap
dress with heeled brogues and a camel cape for a trip on the London Eye (‘He’s American,’ Delilah exclaimed. ‘He’s bound to choose somewhere like that!’); and
lastly, and because Delilah begged me to, I also tried on one of the 1930s bias-cut satin gowns for a sexy night in a hotel in Paris. Even though it brought back memories of Jamie. Delilah sighed
and said she hasn’t been to Paris, or had sex, for a long, long time and she needed to live vicariously, so I relented.
Another hour later and we’re officially drunk. I’ve put It’s
She just shakes her head silently. Then she clambers off the bed and steps towards me. She holds my arms and stares at me from my head to my toes, which are in need of a lick of nail polish, I
realize. I try and scrunch them in my shoes to hide them.
‘It’s too much, isn’t it?’ I mumble. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t wear this on a first date, obviously. It’s more for if I ever get invited to a big event, you
know, like, like . . . the Oscars or something, which, you know, obviously could totally happen because that’s how my life rolls . . .’ I force a laugh. Delilah is still staring.
‘Anyway, I’m going to get changed now . . .’
‘Will you just SHUSH for a moment?’ Delilah says impatiently, and a smile bobs over the corners of her lips. ‘I am trying to savour the moment when my little sister turned into
a woman. Look at you, Evie!’ She twizzles me around and pushes me in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the armoire door. ‘You look beautiful!’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say bashfully. I look passable, yes, pretty even, but beautiful? Never. I love my sister and all, but even I know she’s over-exaggerating. But
that’s OK. I realize that what she’s trying to say is that I look better than I’ve ever looked before, which frankly, is all I’m aiming for.
I gaze at my reflection with the same eye I use on our shop-floor displays every morning when I’m assessing what I’d do to make them better, if someone would just let me. I try to be
critical but even I have to admit that this is probably the best I’ve ever looked. The sage colour of the dress enhances my pale skin so it looks soft and creamy, and does the same for my
mousy hair. It has a really lovely sheen to it this evening. My ankles look small and delicate, my thighs are well hidden under the full skirt, as are the tops of my arms. And my boobs –
well, frankly, this dress makes them look fabulous. Usually I hide them under baggy clothes, but the hidden corsetry has lifted them, which forces me to stand tall and throw my shoulders back.
‘Oh, Evie, it’s so nice to see you happy with the way you look,’ Delilah says. ‘I hate the fact that you’re always so hard on yourself. So,’ she claps her
hands, ‘are we decided?’
‘Decided on what?’
‘Your outfit, of course.’
‘Um, no,’ I reply in horror.
‘Evie, you have to wear this for your date, you just have to. It’s PERFECT.’
I stare at her in horror. ‘But I don’t know where we’re going. I’ll look a right fool turning up to a pub or somewhere in this.’
‘Oh.’ She looks downcast for a moment and then her eyes light up again. ‘Well, let’s try an outfit on for every possible scenario then!’ She claps her hands in
delight, then dives into my wardrobe, peers under some of the plastic and pulls out a blush-spotted chiffon blouse and hands it to me. ‘Try this with those navy cigarette pants, Evie. Go,
GO!’
I skulk off to the ensuite. I know not to argue with Delilah when she’s like this.
An hour later and I’ve tried on four more outfits for four very different dates: a black ruched long-sleeved wrap dress with a plunging neckline for a chic city dinner
date; a 1940s fur-trimmed tweed jacket with a soft, cream cowl-neck jumper, denim skirt and knee-length brown 1970s boots for a Sunday afternoon countryside amble; a gorgeous horse-printed wrap
dress with heeled brogues and a camel cape for a trip on the London Eye (‘He’s American,’ Delilah exclaimed. ‘He’s bound to choose somewhere like that!’); and
lastly, and because Delilah begged me to, I also tried on one of the 1930s bias-cut satin gowns for a sexy night in a hotel in Paris. Even though it brought back memories of Jamie. Delilah sighed
and said she hasn’t been to Paris, or had sex, for a long, long time and she needed to live vicariously, so I relented.
Another hour later and we’re officially drunk. I’ve put It’s
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