A man of few words. I had to google “mofo” and must confess to being slightly alarmed by the result. Still, what did I know of the wild ways of rock stars? They used an unfamiliar argot that he’d teach me in due course, no doubt. Could the lessons start tonight? It was hard to believe that, in a matter of a few hours, I’d be in his presence. Ah, the thrill of anticipation!
I had a missive for him in my shopper which I hadn’t sent yet. Another sign that fate was smiling on me today. Earlier in the week, I’d copied out a verse for him, one I’d always loved, using a Bic Biro. What a cost-effective miracle of engineering this instrument is! I’d selected the card with care: it was blank, and the front displayed an etching of a most endearing hare—long ears, powerful legs and a surprisingly assertive face. It was gazing upward at the moon and stars, its expression impossible to fathom.
Greeting cards are preposterously expensive, given that they are fabricated from a small piece of printed cardboard. You get an envelope with it, I suppose, but still. You would have to work for almost half an hour in a minimum-wage occupation in order to earn enough to purchase a nice greeting card and a second-class stamp. This was a revelation; I’d never actually sent a card to anyone before. Now that I would be seeing him tonight, however, I had no need to attach a postage stamp. I could present my humble gift in person.
Emily Dickinson’s beautiful poem is called “Wild Nights—Wild Nights!” and combines two elements of which I am inordinately fond: punctuation, and the theme of finding, at long last, a soul mate.
Lovely. I read the poem over again, licked the glue of the envelope with care—it was deliciously bitter—and then wrote his name on the front in my best handwriting. I hesitated as I put it back in my shopper. Was tonight really the best night for poetry? My reluctance was strange; the card was bought and paid for, after all. I wondered, however, whether I might be better off waiting to see what happened at the gig before taking things to an epistolary level. There was no need to be reckless.
Five o’clock took forever to arrive. I traveled on the underground into town for speed, and went into the closest department store to the station, the same one where I’d purchased my laptop. It was 5:20 p.m., and the store would close in less than an hour. Womenswear was on the first floor (when did Ladieswear become Womenswear? I wondered) and I took the escalator, being unable to find the stairs. The shop floor was vast, and I decided to request assistance. The first woman I saw was matronly, and did not seem well placed to dispense fashion advice. The second was in her late teens or early twenties, and therefore too callow to advise me. The third, in the manner of Goldilocks, was just right—around my age, well groomed, sensible-looking. I approached with caution.
“Excuse me, I wonder if I could possibly ask for your assistance?” I said.
She stopped folding sweaters and turned to me, smiling insincerely.
“I’m attending a concert at a fashionable venue, and I wondered if you might assist me with the selection of an appropriate ensemble?”
Her smile broadened and looked more genuine.
“Well, we do offer a personal shopper service,” she said. “I could make you an appointment, if you like?”
“Oh no,” I said, “it’s for this evening. I really do need something right now, I’m afraid.” She looked me up and down.
“Where is it that you’re going?”
“The Cuttings,” I said proudly. She stuck out her bottom lip, nodded once, slowly.
“What are you, a twelve?” I nodded, impressed that she had been able to size me up so accurately by sight alone. She checked her watch.
“Follow me,” she said. It seemed that there were a variety of stores within the store, and she took me to the least prepossessing outlet. “OK, off the top of my head,” she said, “these . . .” a pair of ridiculously slender black denim trousers “. . . with this . . .” a black top, similar to a T-shirt but in faux silk, with a keyhole of fabric missing from the back.
“Really?” I said. “I was thinking more along the lines of a nice dress, or a skirt and blouse.” She looked me up and down again.
“Trust me,” she said.
The changing room was small and smelled of unwashed feet and air freshener. The jeans looked too small but, miraculously, they stretched around me and I was able to fasten them. The top was loose, with a high neck. I felt appropriately covered up, if nothing else, although I couldn’t see the cutout section at the back. I looked exactly like everyone else. I supposed that was the point. I kept the outfit on, pulled off the tags and placed them on the floor, then folded up my work clothes and put them into my shopper. I picked up the tags for the woman to process on her cash register.
She was hovering outside when I emerged. “What do you think?” she said. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll take them,” I said, handing her the bar codes.
I had forgotten about the security devices clipped onto the clothes, however, and we had quite a struggle to remove them. I had to come behind the desk, in the end, and kneel backward beside her so she could detach them using the magnetic machine fixed to the counter. We ended up laughing about it, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in a shop before. After I’d paid, trying not to think about how much money I’d spent, she came out from behind the desk again.
“D’you mind if I say something? It’s just . . . shoes.”
I looked down. I was wearing my work shoes, the flat, black, comfortable pair with the Velcro fastenings.
“What’s your name?” she said. I was bemused. Why was my name relevant to a footwear purchase? She was waiting, expecting an answer.
“It’s Eleanor,” I admitted with great reluctance, having considered giving a false name or nom de plume. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her my surname.
“The thing is, Eleanor, you need an ankle boot with skinny jeans, really,” she said, as seriously as though she were a hospital consultant giving medical advice. “D’you want to come over to Footwear and take a look?” I hesitated. “I’m not on commission or anything,” she said quietly, “I just . . . I just think it’ll really finish off the outfit if you’ve got the right shoes.”
“Accessories maketh the woman, eh?” I said. She didn’t smile.
She showed me boots that made me laugh out loud, so ridiculous were they in both heel height and narrowness of fit. Finally, we agreed on a pair that were sufficiently stylish but in which I could also walk without risk of spinal injury, thereby meeting both of our requirements. Sixty-five pounds! Good grief, I thought, as I handed over my card again. Some people have to live on that for a week.
I shoved my black shoes into my shopper. I saw her eyeing that too, then looking over at the handbag section. “Oh, I’m afraid not,” I said, “I’ve exhausted my funds for the time being.”
“Ah, well,” she said, “just stash it in the cloakroom and you’ll be fine.” I had no idea what she meant, but time’s winged chariot was hurrying near.
“Thank you very much indeed for your assistance, Claire,” I said, leaning forward to read her name badge. “It’s been invaluable.”
“You’re welcome, Eleanor,” she said. “One last thing: the store closes in ten minutes, but if you’re quick, you can nip down and get a wee makeover before you head out—Beauty’s on the ground floor beside the exit. Go to Bobbi Brown, tell them Claire sent you.”
With that she was off, the till already spewing out its reckoning of the day’s takings, bolstered in part by my own not inconsiderable contribution.
I asked to speak to Bobbi, and the woman at the makeup counter giggled.
“We’ve got a right one here,” she said, to no one in particular.
There were so many mirrors, I wondered if that might encourage a person to talk to themselves.