“Oh, I see.”
“The saleslady said green would set off my hair,” she adds hopelessly. “She went to find me some shoes to match.”
“The green is … lovely.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “Very striking.”
“It’s OK, you don’t have to lie. I know I look terrible.” Her shoulders slump.
“No!” I say quickly. “You just … it’s a tiny bit full for you … perhaps a bit fussy.…” I tug at the layers of chiffon, wanting to trim them all off with a pair of scissors. I mean, when you’re fifteen, you don’t want to be dressed up like a Christmas cracker. You want to be in something simple and beautiful, like—
And then it hits me.
“Wait here,” I say, and hurry back to the underwear section. It takes me about twenty seconds to grab a selection of silk slips, lace slips, “shaping” slips, and a “luxury satin slip with boned bodice,” all in black.
“Where did you get those?” The girl’s eyes light up as I arrive back in the evening-wear section.
“They were in another section,” I say vaguely. “Have a go! They’re all in small. I’m Becky, by the way.”
“Anita.” She smiles, revealing train-track braces.
While she’s rustling around behind the curtain, I search for accessories and find a black beaded sash plus a simple clutch bag in dark pink.
“What do you think?” Anita emerges shyly from the changing room, utterly transformed. She’s in a strappy lace slip that makes her look about three sizes smaller and shows off her long legs. Her milky skin looks amazing against the black lace, and her short, stubby hair seems to make more sense too.
“Amazing! Just let me do your hair.…” There’s a basket of complimentary water bottles on the counter, and, quickly opening one, I wet my hands. I smooth down her hair until it looks sleek and gamine, cinch her waist in with the beaded sash, and give her the pink clutch to hold.
“There!” I say proudly. “You look fabulous. Now, stand with some attitude. Look at yourself. Don’t you just rock?”
Once she’s got a pair of heels on, she’ll look a million dollars. I sigh happily as I watch her shoulders relax and a sparkle come to her eye. God, I love dressing people up.
“So I found the shoes in your size …” comes a trilling voice behind me, and I turn to see a woman in her sixties approaching Anita. I met her when I came for the interview before, and her name’s … Rhoda? No, Rhona. It’s on her name badge.
“Dear!” She gives a shocked laugh as she sees the teenage girl. “What happened to the gown?”
The girl’s eyes slide uneasily to me, and I step in quickly.
“Hi, Rhona!” I say. “I’m Becky; we met before—I’m starting work here soon. I was just helping Anita with her look. Doesn’t that slip look great worn as a dress?”
“Well, goodness!” Rhona’s rigid smile doesn’t move an inch, but her eyes fix me with daggers. “How imaginative. Anita, sweetheart, I’d love to see you in the green full-length.”
“No,” says Anita stubbornly. “I’m wearing this one. I like it.”
She disappears behind the curtain and I step toward Rhona, lowering my voice.
“It’s OK,” I say. “You don’t need to see her in the green. It didn’t work. Too big. Too old. But then I suddenly thought of the slips and—bingo!”
“That’s hardly the point,” says Rhona, bristling. “You know what the commission on that green gown is? You know what the commission on a slip is?”
“Well, who cares?” I say indignantly. “The point is, she looks lovely!”
“I’m sure she looked far lovelier in the green gown. I mean, a slip.” Rhona looks disapproving. “To a prom. A slip.”
I bite my lip. I can’t say what I really think.
“Look, we’re going to be working together, so … shall we agree to disagree?” I hold out my hand placatingly, but before Rhona can take it, there’s an exclamation from behind me and two arms twine themselves round my neck.
“Becky!”
“Danny!” I wheel round to see his pale-blue eyes shining at me through heavy eyeliner. “Wow! You look very … um … New Romantic.”
Danny never puts on any weight or looks a day older despite leading the least healthy lifestyle on the planet. Today his hair is dyed black and gelled into a kind of droopy quiff; he’s wearing a single dangly earring and tight jeans tucked into winklepicker boots.