found wanting, given the expanding needs of her life.
“Sorry, honey,” I say, giving her a big hug.
“No, it’s fine, really, thank God you saved me from making a
very expensive mistake,” she says, smiling at me, although her eyes still look
sad. We move on to look at the smaller versions, but I can tell her heart isn’t
really in it when she finally puts a reserve on one and arranges the delivery
date, three weeks before the birth. The assistant actually scowls at me as we
say ‘thank you’ and pay.
“Okay,” says Emma, visibly brightening as we leave the maternity
section, “now it’s all about you. How long have we got?” she asks, glancing
down at her watch.
“About an hour and a half,” I say, knowing that if I’m not
home before nine I’ll get grief from Greg, and I don’t want to start anything
with the trip now a mere week away. I look at her anxiously. “Is that long
enough?”
“Sure,” she says with confidence, “you know how you know
everything there is to know about prams and everything to do with babies and
children? Well, I’m like the Yoda of shopping for dresses.”
I laugh as she pulls me towards the party dresses in the
store. It isn’t a section I habitually frequent, and one glance at the price
tags tells me why. She’s all business now.
“Right,” she says matter-of-factly, as she begins grabbing
dresses from the rails, muttering about the importance of emphasising my legs
and bust. The fabrics are luxurious, and the price tags tell me I’m well out
of my league.
“You have to be kidding,” I say as I catch sight of a red
dress she had selected that looked like it was more suited to her than me.
“Trust me,” she says, as if she’s talking to a difficult
child. After about twenty minutes she has about eight dresses for me to try
and thrusts them into my arms before manhandling me towards the changing room.
She isn’t content to just leave me to try them on my own, insisting to the unconcerned
attendant that she’s required to supervise me and positioning herself on a
small chair just outside the changing room.
As I reluctantly peel off my regulation cardigan, shirt and
black slacks that had become my staple uniform for work, I’m amazed to see the
dresses she chose are all in a size smaller than my usual. Maybe the gym is
having an effect after all, if Emma is noticing it. I pull the first item on,
a fitted little black dress to the knee with long sleeves and a plunging V-neck.
I reach behind to do up the zip, then turn to examine myself in the mirror and
gasp. The person standing looking back at me doesn’t look like me at all.
Once I get beyond my spectacular cleavage, I can’t believe I actually have a
waist for perhaps the first time in my adult life. I may not be tall, but
somehow the work at the gym has started to tone my body and reduce my inches,
producing a figure that, while by no means perfect, is well-proportioned and
shapely. Damn , I think, I look like a woman . Oh my God, I’m
going to start singing Shania Twain songs in a minute.
My reverie is broken by the grating of the curtain rings on
the bar as Emma unceremoniously rips the curtain back.
“What’s taking so lo–, bloody hell, Lil, you look fucking
fantastic!”
I smile at her, a big mega-watt grin, both at her uncharacteristic
use of the ‘F’ word and because for once I actually agree with her. I do look
good. At least for me , I auto-correct.
Emma is still talking: “The structure of that dress is great.
It gives you lots of support, not that you really need it with your gym
efforts. They’ve really paid off, Lil, I am so proud of you. All we need to
do is get you some ‘fuck me’ shoes and the right underwear, sexy but
supportive, and you will be good to go.”
“‘Fuck me’ shoes,” I echo faintly.
“Yes, you know, ‘bar to car’ shoes. Good for looking good
in, but totally impossible if you actually have
“Sorry, honey,” I say, giving her a big hug.
“No, it’s fine, really, thank God you saved me from making a
very expensive mistake,” she says, smiling at me, although her eyes still look
sad. We move on to look at the smaller versions, but I can tell her heart isn’t
really in it when she finally puts a reserve on one and arranges the delivery
date, three weeks before the birth. The assistant actually scowls at me as we
say ‘thank you’ and pay.
“Okay,” says Emma, visibly brightening as we leave the maternity
section, “now it’s all about you. How long have we got?” she asks, glancing
down at her watch.
“About an hour and a half,” I say, knowing that if I’m not
home before nine I’ll get grief from Greg, and I don’t want to start anything
with the trip now a mere week away. I look at her anxiously. “Is that long
enough?”
“Sure,” she says with confidence, “you know how you know
everything there is to know about prams and everything to do with babies and
children? Well, I’m like the Yoda of shopping for dresses.”
I laugh as she pulls me towards the party dresses in the
store. It isn’t a section I habitually frequent, and one glance at the price
tags tells me why. She’s all business now.
“Right,” she says matter-of-factly, as she begins grabbing
dresses from the rails, muttering about the importance of emphasising my legs
and bust. The fabrics are luxurious, and the price tags tell me I’m well out
of my league.
“You have to be kidding,” I say as I catch sight of a red
dress she had selected that looked like it was more suited to her than me.
“Trust me,” she says, as if she’s talking to a difficult
child. After about twenty minutes she has about eight dresses for me to try
and thrusts them into my arms before manhandling me towards the changing room.
She isn’t content to just leave me to try them on my own, insisting to the unconcerned
attendant that she’s required to supervise me and positioning herself on a
small chair just outside the changing room.
As I reluctantly peel off my regulation cardigan, shirt and
black slacks that had become my staple uniform for work, I’m amazed to see the
dresses she chose are all in a size smaller than my usual. Maybe the gym is
having an effect after all, if Emma is noticing it. I pull the first item on,
a fitted little black dress to the knee with long sleeves and a plunging V-neck.
I reach behind to do up the zip, then turn to examine myself in the mirror and
gasp. The person standing looking back at me doesn’t look like me at all.
Once I get beyond my spectacular cleavage, I can’t believe I actually have a
waist for perhaps the first time in my adult life. I may not be tall, but
somehow the work at the gym has started to tone my body and reduce my inches,
producing a figure that, while by no means perfect, is well-proportioned and
shapely. Damn , I think, I look like a woman . Oh my God, I’m
going to start singing Shania Twain songs in a minute.
My reverie is broken by the grating of the curtain rings on
the bar as Emma unceremoniously rips the curtain back.
“What’s taking so lo–, bloody hell, Lil, you look fucking
fantastic!”
I smile at her, a big mega-watt grin, both at her uncharacteristic
use of the ‘F’ word and because for once I actually agree with her. I do look
good. At least for me , I auto-correct.
Emma is still talking: “The structure of that dress is great.
It gives you lots of support, not that you really need it with your gym
efforts. They’ve really paid off, Lil, I am so proud of you. All we need to
do is get you some ‘fuck me’ shoes and the right underwear, sexy but
supportive, and you will be good to go.”
“‘Fuck me’ shoes,” I echo faintly.
“Yes, you know, ‘bar to car’ shoes. Good for looking good
in, but totally impossible if you actually have
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