Page 15 of Love or Your Money Back
CHAPTER
Faith and Doyles department store turns out to be one of those beautiful, grand Victorian buildings that pop up in London like unexpected celebrities.
You turn a corner and then, whoosh. There they are.
No fuss. This is just me, here. An astonishing piece of history, next to electric cars and dropped coffee cups.
But there’s no time to enjoy the building.
For some people, shopping is a leisure activity. Let’s go shopping
, they say. Like it’s a pleasant use of time, rather than a huge, overwhelming inconvenience.
I am not a natural shopper and department stores are foreign lands to me. I enter the ladies' clothing section in sore need of a guide. Luckily, a skinny, blonde sales assistant inserts herself into my eyeline the moment I touch the first clothing rail.
‘Can I help you?’ She has a scarily smooth forehead and looks like she lives on diet pills and Coke Zero.
‘Yes, I need clothes.’ I try to sound confident.
The lady blinks several times. Her overly smooth forehead looks like it wants to crinkle, but can’t.
‘I’m looking for a husband,’ I clarify.
‘You … want to find a husband?’
‘I know you don’t sell husbands.’ I try for a laugh, using my cane for support. ‘I’m rebranding myself.’
The assistant takes a micro-glance at my disability device, eyes widening. ‘Oh! You’re disabled?’
‘You’re not supposed to use the term disabled anymore,’ I say. ‘You’re supposed to say, people with a disability.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ The assistant pulls on a fake smile. ‘Well, we don’t have the facilities for the
people with disabilities
on this floor. We’ve had accidents before. Urine
accidents and … look, the only large toilets are in homewares in the basement. Maybe you’d be better off in H&M. They have more provision for, you know, the disabled.’
‘But I don’t want to go to H&M,’ I say. ‘It’s not expensive enough.’
‘Listen madam, I’M NOT CLEARING UP PISS AGAIN!’
There’s a long, awkward silence.
‘Sorry.’ The assistant pats her cheeks. ‘It’s just, as you can see, we have carpets here, not wipe-clean floors like H&M. The smell hangs around for days. And we don’t have the right clothes here for people with special
needs. Hardly any Velcro –’
‘Katerina?’
I flinch at a familiar, shrill voice.
Aunt Sylvia appears from behind a rail, arms loaded with pink clothing. ‘Darling, it is
you. I thought I heard your voice.’ She turns to the assistant. ‘Chloe, this is my niece
. Isn’t she beautiful?’
Chloe looks distressed. ‘Hi Sylvia. This is your niece?’
‘Yes. Stunning, isn’t she?’
‘I was just telling her that we don’t have the facilities for the disabled people.’
‘We don’t use the word disabled anymore, Chloe,’ says Aunty Sylvia. ‘My niece has told me that many, many times.’
‘Oh. Yes. I meant the people with a disability –’
‘Katerina, what are you doing here?’ Sylvia trills. ‘In a clothing store! You never visit clothing stores. You should have told me you were having a girls’ day out. I would have arranged an afternoon tea and a pink taxi cab.’
‘I’m repackaging myself,’ I say.
‘So she can find a husband.’ Chloe gives Sylvia a smirk.
Sylvia turns to Chloe, arms crossed. ‘Chloe, I hope you’re being kind to my niece.
Because she is an astonishing human being who has climbed many metaphorical mountains.
Far more metaphorical mountains than a girl who spends her day running around with a tape measure, chirping about staff discounts and nail infills.
And by the way, a girl your age does not need so much Botox.
Or eyebrows like an Egyptian hieroglyphic.
There’s a difference between nodding at fashion and being a slave to it. ’
Chloe looks frightened. ‘I’m sorry. I just –’
‘Don’t be sorry. Be helpful.’ Sylvia gives a little hand clap.
‘You can wait on us, Chloe. We need clothes with frills around all key areas. Think cleavage and calves. Everything you have in a size ten.’ Sylvia gives my bust a pointed look.
‘I know you’re more of a 12-14 darling, but you can slim down for it.
It will give you something to aspire to. ’
‘How are you getting along in there, Katerina?’ Sylvia gives a sharp knock on my changing room door.
‘I’m just not sure if frills are me.’ I turn back and forth in the mirror. My reflection has a haunted quality.
‘Well, come out and let me see.’
I step out of the dressing room, smoothing down persistent, pink ruffles.
‘Oh, don’t you look lovely?’ Sylvia gushes. ‘So feminine! I love florals, don’t you? Now try these shoes. They’ll go perfectly.’ Sylvia proffers a pair of pink shoes decorated with hundreds of silk roses.
The shoes look like they belong on an old lady’s mantelpiece, but what do I know? Sylvia married two different men before she fell in love with Aunt Cara. She’s an expert husband trapper.
‘Those shoes aren’t my usual style,’ I admit. ‘But I’ll go with your advice. After all, you’re the marriage expert, not me.’