Death & the City Book Two (28 page)

Although I never know which one of me does my actual clothes shopping. I have a suspicion, from some of my underwear and shoes, that lurking in my subconscious somewhere is a wannabe Porn Star. Which is probably also the reason I pick all my names from Porn Star Name Generators. My critical analysis of Alice could easily be based on my own subversive character privately scoffing that I'd do a better image job than her. I don't understand the street bag-lady style copied from celebrity slob pages at all. Maybe when being your interpretation of sexy for work, and exploiting sexuality as your profession, you play it down the rest of the time in more of a frumpy goody-two-shoes act than a normal woman would consider necessary. Like me playing down any killer bitch image in everyday life. Unless I'm going to a party dressed as Jason Vorheese, because for some reason the philosophy of going to parties has been ingrained in me since primary school with the immortal words from my Dad 'Just be yourself and you'll have a nice time' - I can't help it.

Yeah, I can't actually imagine what it would be like to look at all your shoes and knickers and think, I want to wear something nice and feel attractive today, but these are all my work uniform. I can feel invisible in stuff like that, for precisely the reason that it's NOT attached in my head to any incidents or events or obligations I've had to carry out, and can just wear them for the sake of having a good day feeling happy in myself, with the world in general. Or even, for that matter, look at stuff I've worn and relate it to a particular guy, experience or a past relationship, not having had any. Especially considering with Animal we'd swapped clothes, so technically I was wearing
HIS
Little Mermaid
outfit, and with Connor so far I'm still borrowing his t-shirts, so my own image as myself doesn't factor into things at all at that level. But in psychology terms, it accurately reflects the fact that I probably have no authentic personality anyway, so identifying with them as individuals by wearing their stuff, is probably the closest I would get to a form of genuine intimacy.

But then again, I don't get haunted by events attached to clothing. Mostly I just wash the blood out and wear it on the next school run or to bed again the next night, if it's at the top of the clean laundry pile. It's what I'm doing that counts, not what I'm wearing. I don't have any lucky pants. Not that I know of. If I did I'd sell them on iBay for a mint. 100% Genuine Lucky Pants. Guaranteed to protect you from aggressive drunks, sniper fire and creeps with crappy chat-up lines. That would be awesome.

Unlike a sex-worker, I'm not preoccupied with thoughts while dressing myself about whether or not any man I meet later on is going to have a nice time, or worrying how I compare to his other female encounters. Most likely I'll be the last woman he ever sees, if he's unlucky enough to catch sight of me, so I'm not bothering much about any impression I make on him, other than the big one in the back of his head.

It seems Alice is also thinking about clothes, because she pushes up her sunglasses, and strolls into the 'Kitty, Kitty' extortionate fashion retail outlet, which makes me want to take my own scissors into, Winona Ryder-style, and cut all the dangling threads from cheaply unfinished seams and hems whenever I'm in there. The staff all look like fashion models and chase you around the store, which plays chilled-out music, asking if you want other sizes or colours, and offering to order in anything not on their rails. If you buy a bangle you get to take it home in a giant monochrome paper bag with cord carry-handles, so you look like you've purchased the entire design line. I like something about it as well as hate a lot about it. They give away all sorts of loyalty stuff, and more special offers magically appear while you're in the process of paying. It's efficient and effortless, because the staff run circles around you until you're happy, but what you end up with is stuff that cost you a lot more than the 99p you'd get it for on iBay, direct from China or the Czech Republic. But you did get to try it on in every size and colour at their time and expense, until you found the one half-decently made that doesn't look like it came off a scarecrow who got dressed in the dark.

Alice homes directly in on their
Classic Black
range, and I get familiar spine-crawling sensations remembering my own basically black wardrobe as a teenage serial blackmailer. Twenty years later it's like seeing the fashion world selling my image as iconoclastic and
à la mode
. And I mean iconoclastic in the religious sense. Wearing black, for me, was a symbol of the time I spent in pitch darkness speeding up the recovery time of karmic debts in society. Now on the catwalk, it's used to denote style, dominatrix qualities and power. None of which I had, as I recall. What I mostly had was bruises, grass stains, bark scratches and bug bites, from hiding in trees, jumping out of them awkwardly, and running away, trying not to drop my camera. Martial arts cult ninjas, Goths and vampire fetishists all think black is
über
-cool, and makes them feel special in the same way the fashionistas do. But blood shows up on everything, including black, and once I quit blackmail it didn't matter to me whether people could see me in the dark or not. It just wouldn't be for very long if they did, this time around.

What a waste of black, my earlier self is saying, browsing through the far end of the rails to Alice. That's nowhere near practical - you'd freeze to death outdoors in it. And you'd never get up a tree wearing those. What the fuck are they - sequins? I've seen smaller salad plates than that. I bet none of these are machine washable. And why are they selling polo-necks with no jumper attached? Maybe it's a neck-brace warmer for all those fucking whiplash claim idiots waiting for their driving offence appearance in court.

I let my teenage self rant in the back of my mind. She's a prisoner who doesn't get out any more, but yet to be replaced with anything of any personal achievement value.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" a chirpy Romanian girl asks me, bracelets clinking together as she clasps her hands in an appeal of helpfulness. A black girl has cornered Alice at the far end, with the identical question.

"Yes, something practical," I hear myself say, and find I'm holding the leg of a sequinned jumpsuit. "Er, for a dinner party. I'm the hostess, I've never done it before. I want to be able to mingle and move around, and serve drinks and get food ready and stuff. Not anything flouncy, or that I'd trip over or would get in the way."

"Ah, is it black tie affair?"

"Yes, very. Very black tie. Very
James Bond
theme, in fact."

"Aha, sounds exciting. Yes, you want something sophisticated.
Femme fatale
."

"That's right," I nod, keeping one eye on Alice at the far end, who already has an armload of stuff for the changing-room.

"I think the jumpsuit is nice, but too fiddly for going to Ladies Room in middle of dinner party, have to get all naked then put back on again," the shop assistant tells me, with what sounds like direct experience. "Not very much fun after a few vodka and Champagne. I think a nice fitted Mandarin style dress, or trouser suit, with high neck and asymmetric button collar. Very practical, nothing fall out when leaning over table or pouring drinks."

Again, slightly too much information on the practicality, but she's thinking along the right lines to satisfy my hidden teen fashion angst, and subsequently give me some inner peace from all the ranting and swearing. I take the three items she offers for me to try on, and head for the changing-rooms, behind Alice.

I take the next-door cubicle to Alice's, in the boudoir-style changing-room - which basically means it has painted-on black-and-white vertical striped walls to make you look slimmer, and a red chaise-longue at the end for tired mothers-in-law or co-shoppers to sit and text on, while you play dress-up. There is a flat-screen TV above the full-length mirror showing the 'Kitty, Kitty' catwalk show on a loop, so if you don't like what you're trying on, the inspiration to try on more is right above the reflection of your own indecisive head. I unhook the gilt cord curtain retainer, and allow the heavy red velvet drape to conceal me inside.

I hear Alice humming to herself next door. Not recognising the tune, I record it as a sound sample on my phone and text it to head office, before slipping off my jacket and holding up the Mandarin-style fitted black satin trouser suit against myself, to pass the time. Phew. If I get into that and head office see it, they'll make a calendar of me for the fetish market.

Head office text back with:
Blue Oyster Cult - Don't Fear The Reaper
.
Strange. I'd have thought her more of a
Somewhere Over The Rainbow
girl. While I mull it over, I find myself changing into the stretch trouser suit on autopilot, and get a shock when I glance in the cubicle mirror. Not only does it fit, I look like a
Christian Louboutin
Barbie doll. All I'd need to go with it already would be the shoes Connor doesn't get to see me in yet unless he's nice to me. I get another text before I can change back out of it, and it's a Tweak from Alice next door on her Twaddle account.
Change of role requires change of image. From innocent farm-girl-next-door to FBI assassin. This is further undercover than I've ever been before. I have to look as smart as I think.

I wonder what I've missed if she now thinks she's an assassin for the FBI. Whether the police have sent another false lead from Canem's phone, or if she's interpreted the discommunication order I sent earlier as some new form of code. I just text head office a confused:
WTF???

While waiting for a response, I hear her step out of the cubicle and adjust my own curtain slightly, so that I can see her as she does a catwalk strut, up and down in front of the mirror. She's wearing a black pencil-skirted power-suit, of the sort head office hate, but she does look like a Hollywood stereotype secret agent. She holds up the optional wide-leg trousers, tilts her head critically, but seems to prefer the wiggle the skirt gives her to the practicality of running away at any given time. Evidently of the belief that the fastest route to killing a guy is through his gonads, same as her philosophy of finding out their secrets. I'm still of the belief that you kill them best by sneaking up on them unawares, and you find out their secrets by climbing in through the bathroom window while they're out. Seeing as most of their interesting secrets are in the bathroom cabinet anyway.

She hoists out the other outfits, and flings them over the chaise-longue, deciding to complete her trying-on session in front of the main mirror. Particularly, as I note, she has an audience in the form of a bored-looking trapped husband, perched on the chair's arm while his wife tries on party dresses. Alice seems not averse to providing him with a free strip show. I feel sorry for his wife, who is quite heftily pregnant, having to share her changing-room time with a skinny exhibitionist.

Head office text me in return.
She's not going anywhere. Show us yours.
Might stop that guy ogling just her.

I know they mean the security camera above the plasma TV screen in the changing area, so I step out of my cubicle idly and do a casual stroll past the big mirror. Getting in Alice's way, as she twirls in a black version of the Monroe silk crepe
Seven Year Itch
dress, slipping off her bra straps to see the full effect. If she doesn't buy any of this stuff, the next person to try it on will be itching all right, if she infects it with her ringworm. I take my time, texting them back.
It's quite comfy actually. But I'd ruin it doing what you want me to in it.
As I complete my circuit of the changing-room and head back to my cubicle, I catch the trapped husband's eye inadvertently and he says an embarrassed 'Hello.' I realise he's a customer I've dealt with in the past over too-much-to-drink, and just smile in return, sparing us both further embarrassment. This is why I don't live where I work. So I don't bump into people I've barred, or had argue with me, over how much is 'too much' to drink.

Head office reply to my text.
Very nice. When you go to the checkout ask what their price is on the website, and if it's on sale. Tell them you have an online gift voucher in the name Lara Leatherstone and you want to use it. The voucher code is today's date DD-MM-YYYY. Happy Easter from us xxx.

Perverts, I think. But back in the cubicle I take it off and put my own clothes back on, keeping an eye on Alice through the chink in the curtain as she tries the remainder of the outfits on. Including the impractical black halter-necked jumpsuit that Romanian Girl warned me against, which she seems to quite like. I rearrange my outfits back on the hangers, taking my time. As Alice starts to put her own clothes back on, I leave the changing-room and look for the shop assistant, giving myself a chance to get to the checkout in case she moves on without buying anything.

"Did you like?" the Romanian greets me, looking hopeful.

"Yeah, the trouser suit is just what I'm looking for, apparently," I tell her. "It's great. I wanted to check the website price, is that okay? And I have a gift voucher for online, I think."

"Ah, we can do it all through the computer at the checkout here, you can take this one today that means, if it was perfect for you. Come with me. My name is Sasha, I will be your personal shopper."