laughs. “Lexi, I’ve never even
seen
you with a cocktail! You and Eric are both so serious about wine.”
Wine?
That can’t be right. All I know about wine is that it comes from Oddbins.
“You look confused,” Rosalie says anxiously. “I’m bombarding you with too much information. Forget the gossip.” She pushes aside her sheet of paper, on which I can see she’s written a list of names with “bitch” and “sweetheart” next to them. “What would you like to do?”
“Maybe we could just do whatever we normally do together?”
“Absolutely!” Rosalie ponders for a moment, then her brow clears. “We should go to the gym.”
“The gym,” I echo, trying to sound enthused. “Of course. So…I go to the gym a lot?”
“Sweetie, you’re addicted! You run for an hour every other morning at six a.m.”
Six a.m.? Running?
I never run. It’s painful and it makes your boobs bounce around. I once did a mile-long fun run with Fi and Carolyn, and I nearly died. Although at least I was better than Fi, who gave up running after two minutes and walked the rest of the way, smoking a cigarette, and then got into a row with the organizers and was banned from any future Cancer Research fund-raisers.
“But don’t worry, we’ll do something lovely and restful today,” Rosalie says reassuringly. “A massage, or a nice gentle stretch class. Just grab your exercise clothes and we’ll go!”
“Okay!” I hesitate. “Actually, this is a bit embarrassing…but I don’t know where my clothes are. All the cupboards in our bedroom are full of Eric’s suits. I can’t find any of mine.”
Rosalie looks utterly pole-axed. “You don’t know where your
clothes
are?” Tears suddenly spring to her huge blue eyes and she fans her face. “I’m sorry,” she gulps. “But it’s just come home to me how horrific and scary this must be for you. To have forgotten your entire wardrobe.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself, then squeezes my hand. “Come with me, sweetie. I’ll show you.”
So the reason I couldn’t find my clothes is they’re not in a wardrobe, they’re in a whole other room, behind a concealed door which looks like a mirror. And the reason they need a whole other room is because there’s
so bloody many of them
.
As I stare at the racks I feel faint. I’ve never seen so many clothes, not outside a shop. Crisp white shirts, tailored black trousers, suits in shades of mushroom and taupe. Chiffony evening wear. Tights rolled up in their own special drawer. Folded silky knickers with La Perla labels. I can’t see anything that doesn’t look brand-new and immaculate. There are no baggy jeans, no sloppy sweaters, no comfy old pj’s.
I leaf through a row of jackets, all pretty much identical apart from the buttons. I can’t believe I’ve spent so much money on clothes and they’re all versions of beige.
“What do you think?” Rosalie is watching me, her eyes sparkling.
“Amazing!”
“Ann has a great eye.” She nods sagely. “Ann, your personal shopper.”
“I have a personal shopper?”
“Just for the main pieces each season…” Rosalie pulls out a dark blue dress with spaghetti straps and the tiniest ruffle around the hem. “Look, this is the dress you wore when we first met. I remember thinking, ‘Ah,
this
is the girl Eric’s smitten with.’ It was the talk of the party! And let me tell you, Lexi, there were a
lot
of disappointed girls out there when you two got married….” She reaches for a long black evening dress. “This is the dress you wore to my murder mystery evening.” She holds it up against me. “With a little fur shrug and pearls…Don’t you remember?”
“Not really.”
“What about this Catherine Walker? You
must
remember that…or your Roland Mouret…” Rosalie is whipping out dress after dress, none of which looks remotely familiar. She reaches a pale garment carrier and stops with a gasp. “Your wedding dress!” Slowly, reverently,
seen
you with a cocktail! You and Eric are both so serious about wine.”
Wine?
That can’t be right. All I know about wine is that it comes from Oddbins.
“You look confused,” Rosalie says anxiously. “I’m bombarding you with too much information. Forget the gossip.” She pushes aside her sheet of paper, on which I can see she’s written a list of names with “bitch” and “sweetheart” next to them. “What would you like to do?”
“Maybe we could just do whatever we normally do together?”
“Absolutely!” Rosalie ponders for a moment, then her brow clears. “We should go to the gym.”
“The gym,” I echo, trying to sound enthused. “Of course. So…I go to the gym a lot?”
“Sweetie, you’re addicted! You run for an hour every other morning at six a.m.”
Six a.m.? Running?
I never run. It’s painful and it makes your boobs bounce around. I once did a mile-long fun run with Fi and Carolyn, and I nearly died. Although at least I was better than Fi, who gave up running after two minutes and walked the rest of the way, smoking a cigarette, and then got into a row with the organizers and was banned from any future Cancer Research fund-raisers.
“But don’t worry, we’ll do something lovely and restful today,” Rosalie says reassuringly. “A massage, or a nice gentle stretch class. Just grab your exercise clothes and we’ll go!”
“Okay!” I hesitate. “Actually, this is a bit embarrassing…but I don’t know where my clothes are. All the cupboards in our bedroom are full of Eric’s suits. I can’t find any of mine.”
Rosalie looks utterly pole-axed. “You don’t know where your
clothes
are?” Tears suddenly spring to her huge blue eyes and she fans her face. “I’m sorry,” she gulps. “But it’s just come home to me how horrific and scary this must be for you. To have forgotten your entire wardrobe.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself, then squeezes my hand. “Come with me, sweetie. I’ll show you.”
So the reason I couldn’t find my clothes is they’re not in a wardrobe, they’re in a whole other room, behind a concealed door which looks like a mirror. And the reason they need a whole other room is because there’s
so bloody many of them
.
As I stare at the racks I feel faint. I’ve never seen so many clothes, not outside a shop. Crisp white shirts, tailored black trousers, suits in shades of mushroom and taupe. Chiffony evening wear. Tights rolled up in their own special drawer. Folded silky knickers with La Perla labels. I can’t see anything that doesn’t look brand-new and immaculate. There are no baggy jeans, no sloppy sweaters, no comfy old pj’s.
I leaf through a row of jackets, all pretty much identical apart from the buttons. I can’t believe I’ve spent so much money on clothes and they’re all versions of beige.
“What do you think?” Rosalie is watching me, her eyes sparkling.
“Amazing!”
“Ann has a great eye.” She nods sagely. “Ann, your personal shopper.”
“I have a personal shopper?”
“Just for the main pieces each season…” Rosalie pulls out a dark blue dress with spaghetti straps and the tiniest ruffle around the hem. “Look, this is the dress you wore when we first met. I remember thinking, ‘Ah,
this
is the girl Eric’s smitten with.’ It was the talk of the party! And let me tell you, Lexi, there were a
lot
of disappointed girls out there when you two got married….” She reaches for a long black evening dress. “This is the dress you wore to my murder mystery evening.” She holds it up against me. “With a little fur shrug and pearls…Don’t you remember?”
“Not really.”
“What about this Catherine Walker? You
must
remember that…or your Roland Mouret…” Rosalie is whipping out dress after dress, none of which looks remotely familiar. She reaches a pale garment carrier and stops with a gasp. “Your wedding dress!” Slowly, reverently,
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