anyone steal my limelight!”
“Are you serious? Laura would skin me alive!” I say, unenthusiastically.
“Oh, forget about Laura,” Julie says dismissively. “She’s just a sad, bitter woman. Find yourself something nice and come out and get pissed. So long as you get to the dry cleaners by Tuesday afternoon, Laura’ll never twig. Come on—she bloody well owes us.”
I look around the shop. Since I started working here, I’ve spent loads of boring hours looking at all the amazing clothes in the shop and imagining what they’d look like on me. But they seem to belong to another world—a world of City bonuses where £400 for a pair of trousers seems normal.
As Julie cashes up, I wander round the shop pulling out dresses and skirts and staring at them in a new light. I wonder what I’d look like in these Chloe trousers? Or in this Alberta Ferretti dress? I bet if I’d been wearing this when I saw Alistair on the stairs last time, he’d have invited me to his party! I grab a handful of clothes and take them to the dressing room, then try each piece on slowly, preening in front of the mirror. The trouble is they’re all so beautiful there’s no way I can choose between them. The Alberta Ferretti dress is out of this world—but far too delicate for a night out in a bar. The Chloe trousers are sublime, the Gucci skirt squeezes my bottom into half its usual size, and I also try on an amazing backless Dolce and Gabbana dress that I’m sure I’ve seen Carrie wearing in
Sex and the City
—it has a built-in bra that shows, like you can’t be bothered to buy a backless bra to go with the dress or something. It doesn’t even look like me in the mirror—it looks like some cool woman who goes out dancing every night.
But I’m just not sure I can do it. I mean, I know it would only be borrowing, but it still doesn’t feel right. I’d be nervous all night in case something happened to it. Julie and Lucy may do it all the time, but I’m not sure I can. Maybe I’m not quite Natalie from Ladbroke Grove yet.
“What’s wrong? Couldn’t you find anything?” Julie asks as I walk back onto the shop floor, in my jeans, black T-shirt, and high heels. “Look, I’ll find you something, if you want. Something super-sexy!”
“Actually, I think I’m okay like this,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as I can. I’m guessing that Julie doesn’t think I look “super-sexy” like this.
She looks at me strangely, and for a moment I think she’s going to go into bossy mode and force me to wear something else, but luckily there’s a loud knocking on the door before she can say anything. It’s Lucy. Lucy used to be a university student and work here as a Saturday girl, but she ended up spending so much money on clothes that she had to go full-time to pay off all her debts. So now tries to do both and is always trying to get on stockroom duty so she can catch up on essays and stuff. The thing is, clothes look so good on her I can completely understand why she spends so much money on them—she looks like Helena Christensen or something with these amazingly long legs and skin that always looks like she’s just got back from holiday. Julie says she uses fake tan, but I’ve never managed to look like that even with the help of some St. Tropez.
“Hiya,” she trills as Julie unlocks the door for her. “Give me five minutes; I know exactly what I’m wearing.”
Julie walks over to the shop stereo and puts on some loud hip-hop. She disappears into the stockroom with Lucy and emerges a few minutes later looking utterly amazing in the Vivienne Westwood dress that makes her waist look almost nonexistent. I look down at my own outfit and wonder if I made the right decision. But the truth is I could never look like Julie, anyway—or Lucy for that matter. I mean, I scrub up okay, don’t get me wrong—back home I’m even considered pretty attractive. But the stakes are higher down here. Unfortunately I’m not
“Are you serious? Laura would skin me alive!” I say, unenthusiastically.
“Oh, forget about Laura,” Julie says dismissively. “She’s just a sad, bitter woman. Find yourself something nice and come out and get pissed. So long as you get to the dry cleaners by Tuesday afternoon, Laura’ll never twig. Come on—she bloody well owes us.”
I look around the shop. Since I started working here, I’ve spent loads of boring hours looking at all the amazing clothes in the shop and imagining what they’d look like on me. But they seem to belong to another world—a world of City bonuses where £400 for a pair of trousers seems normal.
As Julie cashes up, I wander round the shop pulling out dresses and skirts and staring at them in a new light. I wonder what I’d look like in these Chloe trousers? Or in this Alberta Ferretti dress? I bet if I’d been wearing this when I saw Alistair on the stairs last time, he’d have invited me to his party! I grab a handful of clothes and take them to the dressing room, then try each piece on slowly, preening in front of the mirror. The trouble is they’re all so beautiful there’s no way I can choose between them. The Alberta Ferretti dress is out of this world—but far too delicate for a night out in a bar. The Chloe trousers are sublime, the Gucci skirt squeezes my bottom into half its usual size, and I also try on an amazing backless Dolce and Gabbana dress that I’m sure I’ve seen Carrie wearing in
Sex and the City
—it has a built-in bra that shows, like you can’t be bothered to buy a backless bra to go with the dress or something. It doesn’t even look like me in the mirror—it looks like some cool woman who goes out dancing every night.
But I’m just not sure I can do it. I mean, I know it would only be borrowing, but it still doesn’t feel right. I’d be nervous all night in case something happened to it. Julie and Lucy may do it all the time, but I’m not sure I can. Maybe I’m not quite Natalie from Ladbroke Grove yet.
“What’s wrong? Couldn’t you find anything?” Julie asks as I walk back onto the shop floor, in my jeans, black T-shirt, and high heels. “Look, I’ll find you something, if you want. Something super-sexy!”
“Actually, I think I’m okay like this,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as I can. I’m guessing that Julie doesn’t think I look “super-sexy” like this.
She looks at me strangely, and for a moment I think she’s going to go into bossy mode and force me to wear something else, but luckily there’s a loud knocking on the door before she can say anything. It’s Lucy. Lucy used to be a university student and work here as a Saturday girl, but she ended up spending so much money on clothes that she had to go full-time to pay off all her debts. So now tries to do both and is always trying to get on stockroom duty so she can catch up on essays and stuff. The thing is, clothes look so good on her I can completely understand why she spends so much money on them—she looks like Helena Christensen or something with these amazingly long legs and skin that always looks like she’s just got back from holiday. Julie says she uses fake tan, but I’ve never managed to look like that even with the help of some St. Tropez.
“Hiya,” she trills as Julie unlocks the door for her. “Give me five minutes; I know exactly what I’m wearing.”
Julie walks over to the shop stereo and puts on some loud hip-hop. She disappears into the stockroom with Lucy and emerges a few minutes later looking utterly amazing in the Vivienne Westwood dress that makes her waist look almost nonexistent. I look down at my own outfit and wonder if I made the right decision. But the truth is I could never look like Julie, anyway—or Lucy for that matter. I mean, I scrub up okay, don’t get me wrong—back home I’m even considered pretty attractive. But the stakes are higher down here. Unfortunately I’m not
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