Miracle on Regent Street (11 page)

Buoyed by her enthusiasm, I nod and smile, feeling excitement bubble in my chest, despite myself. Whatever Delilah’s got must be catching.

Maybe my meeting Joel
was
meant to be. And if that’s the case I have to do everything I can to make him believe that he’s dating Carly. Because if
I’m
being
Carly, she can concentrate on saving the store and I can concentrate on saving my love life. Everyone’s a winner. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.

It feels a lot better than admitting I’m just a fraud.

I suddenly know just what I have to do to help me become Carly. I slip off my stool.

‘Will you come and help me choose an outfit for my date?’ I ask breathlessly. I look at her meaningfully. ‘I think it’s time I opened The Wardrobe.’

Delilah’s mouth forms an oval shape and she claps her hands excitedly. ‘Let me just grab the wine bottle,’ she says, and dashes to the fridge. ‘I’ve been waiting
for this moment for a long, long time.’

Me too
, I think.
Me too.

‘Y
ou are
such
a freak, OCD-Evie,’ Delilah says, using her old nickname for me as I swing open my bedroom door. I was the only
child of my parents who inherited my mum’s neat-freak gene. Delilah, Jonah and Noah are all self-confessed slobs. Delilah puts the plate of pizza on the floor, grabs a slice and leans against
the doorframe, alternating little bites with large sips of wine. ‘How are we related again?’ she laughs. ‘It looks like Mary Poppins lives here!’

I glance around the room, trying to see it through Delilah’s eyes. I guess it is pretty tidy. At the far end under the eaves there’s my bed covered with a silvery-white flocked quilt
folded back carefully to reveal a cloud of plumped pillows underneath. I can’t help being annoyed to notice that there is a large crease over the left-hand side of the bed. I resist the urge
to go and smooth it. My white bedside tables are devoid of anything other than matching white lamps and a copy of Charles Dickens’s
The Old Curiosity Shop
, which I am rereading for
about the zillionth time. The pale, blond floorboards practically squeak underfoot they have been so well polished, and in the middle of the floor is a soft cream sheepskin rug that Delilah bought
for me when I moved in.

At the opposite end of the room, on the left-hand wall underneath one of the three large dormer windows, is a squishy cream sofa, and a flat screen TV in the corner, which sits in front of the
white fitted wardrobes. But these aren’t The Wardrobe; they just house my everyday clothes as well as Delilah’s out-of-season clothes and piles of things Lola and Raffy have grown out
of. I have only half a rail and two shelves and a drawer in here. But I don’t need much space, just room for my four pairs of black work trousers (Topshop) four white shirts (Gap) and a
drawer for my white, black and nude underwear (all M&S). Then there’s a collection of hooded jumpers, T-shirts, long-sleeved tops and jeans (also Gap), which I wear when I’m looking
after the kids. All are perfectly folded and either carefully hung or stacked on the shelves in the wardrobe, as if they’re displayed on a shop floor. Force of habit, I guess.

But The Wardrobe is what Delilah and I are drawn to now. We pad across the room and perch on the side of the bed, clutching our wine glasses, munching on pizza and staring at the beautiful
distressed white Provençal double armoire that stands grandly against the wall to the right of my bed. It looks almost regal with its distinguished hand-carved body sitting on its ornate
feet. It seems to gaze down at me imperiously as if it’s annoyed that its mistress is such a plain, dowdy character. I bought it from Porte de Clignancourt in Paris, the weekend that Jamie
dumped me. It was our five-year anniversary and it was meant to be my first piece of grown-up furniture for our Parisienne flat together. I remember thinking when I bought it that the armoire would
have the power to change my life, I just didn’t realize it was about to change for the worse.

Despite my love of fashion, after Jamie and I broke up I couldn’t face trying to look nice. I comfort ate and cried and lay around in my jogging bottoms, feeling unloved. So when I got the
job at Hardy’s and moved to Delilah’s, the empty wardrobe became a reminder of the person I was before: a happy, positive, loved but horribly impressionable young woman. And I realized
that it was time to fill it with a new me: the person I wanted to be. Independent, ambitious, unpredictable, unforgettable even. But I didn’t have the confidence to be that person. So instead
I filled it with the clothes of my dreams, waiting for the day when I’d feel ready to wear them.

‘So, you’re really ready to do this, then?’ Delilah says at last.

I nod slowly. But the truth is I’m not ready. I’m not ready at all. I probably never will be. I’m just doing this in a desperate attempt to be different because I’m sick
of being myself. I remind myself of this as I take a deep breath, stand up and walk towards The Wardrobe. I place my hand gently on the key in the lock and turn it slowly. I close my eyes, open the
door and then open my eyes again.

Inside is a row of immaculate vintage pieces that I’ve painstakingly collected over the past two years, all unworn and covered in plastic, each one an embodiment of the girl I want to be.
Vintage clothes are different: they’re original. They have history, a sense of magic about them. Besides all that, I love the fact that these clothes have lived a life before. I feel that
simply by having them in my wardrobe, that life might just rub off on me. I don’t need to wear them. Once I buy them I immediately have them all dry-cleaned – a little luxury –
and then they get locked away in the wardrobe. It’s not like I can wear them in my day-to-day life. My job in the stockroom and evenings spent looking after Delilah’s kids puts paid to
that. But I’ve carried on purchasing them anyway. There’s something from every decade of fashion that I adore: 1920s silvery-white flapper-style beaded dresses; shimmering nude,
pale-pink and oyster-coloured bias-cut satin floor-length gowns from the 1930s, which I’ve accessorized by wrapping faux fur shrugs and strings of pearls carefully round the necks of the
hangers. There are gorgeous 1940s floral print tea dresses; pastel 1950s prom gowns with corsages and layers of tulle; pencil skirts and beautifully tailored trousers, silk shirts in fabulous jewel
colours and armfuls of gorgeous brightly coloured 1960s mini shift dresses.

Over the past two years these clothes have become like my own personal priceless art collection. They hang in my wardrobe, perfectly curated in order of colour, style and length, but they never
get taken off their hangers, or out of their plastic. They’re just there for my viewing pleasure.

‘Wow,’ Delilah breathes as she takes in the row of glistening transparent plastic before us. ‘Can I see some of them?’

I inhale sharply. Even though Delilah has always known about The Wardrobe, I’ve never shown her any of the clothes. I’ve always locked them away as soon as I bought them, before she
had a chance to sneak a peek. She’d beg and plead, but I’ve always been adamant about keeping them private. Showing them felt akin to telling someone your dreams after you wake up; to
you they’re deeply meaningful and personal but they probably seem boring or bizarre to anyone else.

But today is different. I realize that if I’m going to pretend to be a stylish, beautiful personal shopper, these clothes are my only chance. I can’t afford Carly’s designer
clothes, and besides, they just wouldn’t suit me like these do. I love the way that each garment feels like it’s been made especially for me, accentuating my waist, hiding my hips and
making the most of every curve I’ve got. I may be pretending to be Carly, but deep down, I still want Joel to be attracted to
me
.

I step forward and lift a hanger off the rail, holding the plastic against my body for a moment, hoping that it will be enough. Fat chance.

Delilah shakes her head. ‘Put it on.’

‘I can’t,’ I reply, shaking my head vehemently.

‘Why not?’

‘I swore to myself I’d only wear these clothes for an Occasion.’

‘Well,’ she says patiently as she throws her pizza crust on her plate before stretching out on the bed, ‘this is the “Trying on Outfits for the First Date you’ve
had in a Very Long Time” Occasion. Come on, Evie, you’ve got to do it some time, and who better to do it with than me?’ She smiles encouragingly and I bite my lip. She’s
right. If I’m going to do this, I need a practice run.

‘But I don’t know where Joel might take me or what we might do!’ I protest, trying to buy myself more time. And part of me is still scared that he’ll never call. That our
delicious meeting will forever languish in my memory of Things That Might Have Been. ‘Why don’t I just take some of them out of the plastic to show you, and leave it at that?’ I
add hopefully.

Delilah grins. ‘No chance. You’ve brought me this far, you can’t back out now. This is better than a night at the movies. I wish I had popcorn,’ and she snuggles down
into my bed. I can’t help but be thankful that her kitchen is on the bottom floor so there’s little chance of her bothering to go back down to get snacks. The thought of her munching
messy popcorn on my bed is horrifying. I’m having a hard time as it is ignoring the pizza crust.

‘But I don’t know which one to try on!’ I wail pathetically.

‘So try them all,’ Delilah shrugs. ‘I’ve got all night. Will’s out with the boys and won’t be back till the early hours. Again,’ she adds, leaning over
to take a sip of wine. She throws her arms above her head. ‘Come on, sis. Let the show begin!’

Reluctantly I head for the bathroom. I should be excited about this, but I can’t help but feel I’m about to disappoint Delilah and let these beautiful clothes down, even though each
one of these garments was bought because I knew instinctively when I saw it that it would make me feel different, special, beautiful,
visible
for once in my life. But suddenly the thought of
putting something on that could make me stand out is petrifying. I have faded into the background for so long I’m not sure I can handle the spotlight. Even one in my own bedroom with just my
sister as an audience. How pathetic is that? I glance down at the dress I’m holding and notice that I’m shaking a little. Here in my hand is the fabric of a life I’ve only ever
dreamed of stepping into. Each stitch is a story of what could have been.

Then I remember the unyielding feeling I had that something special could happen to me when I put on the Gainsbourg. And it did. I met Joel. And I know that when Joel saw me in that top, he
really saw me as an effervescent, lively, attractive girl who was worth getting to know. That top saved me from the obscurity I’ve become so used to. And I want – no, I
need
–
to have that feeling again.

I strip off my jeans and hoodie quickly before I change my mind, and lift the plastic delicately over the garment and off the hanger. It is one of my best vintage finds, a beautiful 1950s Larry
Aldrich dress, which I discovered after trawling through endless American vintage clothing websites one rainy Sunday afternoon whilst I was trying to give Delilah, Will and the kids some
‘family time’. It is beautiful, soft, sage-green silk chiffon with shoulders that can be gathered or fanned out over the tops of your arms, and a plunging neckline that is softened at
the bust by a delicate corsage. There is a ruched satin waistband that accentuates that particular part of my figure well, and then the skirt itself is full and sweeping and falls to a flattering
mid-calf length. It is demure yet sexy, classic yet different, simple but with exquisite extras. It is perfect.

I feel nervous as I unhook my bra and step into the dress. The chiffon brushes against my skin and I get goosebumps all over my body as I wriggle it up over my hips and bust. There is no need
for my normal slimming underwear as the dress is internally structured to support and disguise, simultaneously lifting and hiding any (or, in my case, many) lumps and bumps. I pull my hair off my
neck and twist it into a bun, holding it against the back of my head as I step over to the mirror that hangs over the basin. I stand on tiptoes to try to get a better look of the whole effect. I
don’t want to show Delilah until I’m sure I don’t look ridiculous. The chiffon overlay hides a multitude of sins, drawing the eye to the natural curve of my waist that I am
actually proud of, whilst hiding my hips and thighs, which I am not. Then the chiffon cascades down towards my knees in a stream of sensuously soft material, and with it, the eye heads down to my
calves and ankles, bypassing my most unflattering bits. I slip my feet into a pair of peep-toed vintage silver Gina heels and take a deep breath as I look at myself in the mirror.

Not bad.

I step out of the bathroom. Delilah has her head buried in the latest issue of
Vogue
. I clear my throat to get her attention and she lifts her eyes and stares at me unblinkingly. Her
mouth opens and shuts, but no words come out. I am not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.