Miracle on Regent Street (30 page)

‘He
used
to be,’ she sighs, ‘but now when we go to bed he just cuddles me, turns over and goes straight to sleep. It’s like he can’t even bear to look at me.
I even turn the lights off now before I climb in so he doesn’t have to see me without my clothes on. I know I’m disgusting,’ she says quietly, ‘so I can only imagine what
he’s thinking. Perhaps I should tell him to find someone else. He’s so wonderful he deserves a beautiful wife who can fit into a pair of jeans . . .’

I put my hand over Jane’s as she starts sobbing. ‘Do you really, honestly believe that’s what he thinks?’ I say, brushing her hair off her face.

She nods and gulps as she blows her nose. ‘I wanted us to start trying for a baby this year,’ she gasps, in between her tears. ‘We talked about it months ago but since then,
nothing. It’d have to be the immaculate conception, at this rate. I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to get pregnant as then he’ll be stuck with me.’ She is
sobbing hopelessly now. Tears and snot are streaming down her head as she buries her face in my shoulder.

I stroke her head, trying to work out what to say. None of this sounds like the Stuart that I’ve seen. I can’t help but wonder if it’s Jane’s lack of confidence and her
paranoia about her body that are creating these problems between them, and not, as she imagines, her body itself.

‘Tell me something,’ I say quietly, cringing a little inside at my next question. ‘I know this is really personal, but what happened last time you had sex?’

She clasps her tissue in her fist and holds it over her mouth. ‘It was four, maybe five months ago?’ she says meekly. ‘We’d been out for dinner and I was feeling gross
because even though I’d told myself I wouldn’t, I’d had this huge piece of cheesecake for dessert. We got home and Stuart began kissing me in the hall. He’d had some wine,
we both had, but he can’t handle his drink as well as I can, probably because he’s so much lighter. Anyway, he flicked the hall lights on and he started getting . . . well . . . a bit
heated.’

She is blushing and I am trying not to. Aside from last night I’m not exactly a sex expert myself so am not entirely sure if I’m going down the right avenue here. But I have a hunch
and I’m going to follow it through. I nod and she takes a deep breath to continue.

‘I leaned across to the wall and flicked the lights off and started to go upstairs. Stuart followed me. I was wearing this dress that unzipped at the back and he undid it as I walked up
the stairs. I was wearing my Spanx underneath and I didn’t want him to see I was wearing them so as soon as I got into our bedroom I made excuses and went into our ensuite. By the time I came
out twenty minutes later in my nightie and dressing gown, he was fast asleep. He just didn’t want me . . .’ She shakes her head again.

I grasp her hands as she begins to sob, amazed at how someone can get something so wrong. ‘Can’t you see, it’s not that he didn’t want you, he thought you didn’t
want
him
! He wouldn’t care about you wearing support pants; he’s your husband and from what I can see he’s utterly infatuated by you. He just wants you to be confident, and
feel sexy and loved and relaxed in your own skin, but as far as he’s concerned you won’t even stand in front of him in your underwear!’

Jane looks at me doubtfully, then down at her body. ‘But I’ve changed so much recently. I’ve gone up two dress sizes. I mean, he has always said he loved my curves but how
could he be attracted to this?’ She pulls at the soft mounds of skin under her baggy shirt and even baggier trousers.

‘Er, because he loves you, silly?’ I laugh and punch her playfully on the arm. ‘And because when he married you the most important thing was that it wasn’t just him who
loved your body, you did too. You know, I remember when I first met you I was blown away by how gorgeous you are.’ Jane turns away and shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It’s true!
I’m no stick-thin model myself, you know,’ I say. ‘I’ve battled with wanting to be smaller, then I start working here and see you with your long, gorgeous curls and your
Rubenesque body, like some glorious Sophie Dahl-alike in that perfume ad that got banned for being too erotic and I thought, if only I looked like her.’

‘Really?’ Jane says quietly, her startling violet eyes growing glassy with tears.

‘Yep,’ I smile. ‘You just had this air of being completely at ease in your skin. The clothes you wore were all gorgeous jewel colours and it was like you just glittered, you
know?’

‘I used to feel good about myself,’ Jane says, as if remembering the girl she once was. ‘I was so proud of the fact that I wasn’t a skinny size ten.’

‘So what’s changed?’ I ask her, knowing that there must have been someone, or something, that did this to her.

Her eyes dim for a moment as she searches for the answer. ‘Well, I guess it started when I went to my school reunion last summer,’ she says slowly. ‘Someone organized it on
Facebook. I hadn’t seen any of these people since I was seventeen and was really excited about going. But when I was there it was like my weight was the only thing they could see. Not my
marriage to Stuart, or how much I loved my job, or what I was doing. Suddenly, compared to all my ex-classmates, I felt like a failure. The next day I decided to go on a diet, start working out, do
everything to be like the girls from my year group who seemed so superior to me because they could all fit into skinny jeans. Obviously it didn’t work,’ she says, looking ruefully at
me, then at the Chelsea buns. ‘Can we crack those babies open now?’ she pleads. ‘They’ve been taunting me for the past ten minutes.’

I grab the packet and we sit and munch in silence together for a few minutes.

‘It’s ironic really,’ I say thoughtfully as I swallow my final mouthful. ‘You work in an underwear department but you’re not confident enough to stand in front of
your husband in yours.’

Jane smiles sadly. ‘Well, it’s not like my lingerie department is exactly inspiring. It’s all body stockings and nylon nighties. My last customer was eighty-eight years old.
I’ve been buying my underwear at Hardy’s with my staff discount ever since I started working here. I don’t think I own anything that isn’t beige and big enough that I could
set up a camp with it.’ She smiles and in the twitch at the corner of her lips I can see a glimmer of the old Jane.

‘I’ve got it!’ I snap my fingers and dive into the fourth aisle, the one where I’ve put all the beautiful 1950s basques and suspender belts, still in their packaging.

I pop my head back round and see Jane reaching for another Chelsea bun. She looks up and she sees the beautiful, unworn vintage underwear I’m dangling from my fingers.

‘Wow!’ she breathes, then says ruefully, ‘That’ll never fit me.’

‘Trust me, Jane, these were made for you,’ I say. I hand her a basque, the stockings and a suspender belt. Then, as another thought occurs to me, I snap my fingers again and dive off
into another aisle. ‘I’ve got just the thing that’ll give you your va-va-voom back,’ I call as I delve through shelves and finally pull out what I’m looking for. I
scamper over to Jane and thrust it into her arms on top of everything else. ‘Go and get changed into these,’ I say bossily as she looks doubtfully at her armful of goods.
‘
Trust me!
’ I laugh.

She shrugs and stands up, shaking her head as she disappears behind some shelves. I sit drumming my fingers impatiently against the arm of the sofa as I wait to see Jane in her new
incarnation.

I can barely believe my eyes when she steps out from behind the shelves and stands before me.

‘B-lood-y HELL!’ I gasp.

Gone is the overweight and unconfident girl and in her place stands a statuesque woman with a perfect hour-glass figure, her incredible curves dripping out of her outfit. Which just goes to show
what good, well-cut underclothes can do. As well as the 1950s underwear, which has pulled in Jane’s small waist, supported her bust and given her such an incredible shape, I also gave her an
old Hardy’s staff uniform from a box I found when I first started here. It’s a classic 1940s wartime-green skirt with a white, button-down, puff-sleeved, collared shirt, which shows off
Jane’s impressive bust perfectly, a wide black belt that pulls in her waist, and black stockings. The skirt hugs her hips tightly and finishes just below her knees, with a small slit up the
back. She turns and tilts one leg behind her to show off the sexy seam running down the back of her stockings.

‘You look AMAZING!’ I tell her in awe.

She beams at me. ‘Where did you find this stuff?’ she marvels. ‘It’s like it was made for girls like me. I’m never going to try and squeeze into a pair of skinny
jeans again. This is
way
more fabulous.’ She puts her hands on her hips and turns her torso from side to side. ‘I feel sexy!’ she laughs. ‘What have I been doing?
Poor Stu must be wondering where the hell his wife has gone,’ she says. ‘He hasn’t seen my body for months. Come to think of it, nor have I. Do you reckon I can buy these with my
staff discount?’

I’m not sure, but I’m feeling reckless. Besides, Jane is suddenly a much better advert for her department than she was before. You can just tell she’s wearing great
underwear.

‘Sure,’ I smile. ‘I may have to charge you in shillings and pence, though,’ I laugh.

‘And I adore this uniform,’ she says, fingering the lapel and the little embroidered lapel badge, which has ‘Hardy’s’ sewn in dark green italic letters on gold
cotton. ‘I’m going to wear it for the rest of the day. It’s not like I’m going against store policy; it’s all Hardy’s stock!’ She claps her hands. ‘I
can’t wait for Stuart to see me in this. In fact, I’m going to call him and tell him to pop by in his lunch hour. He’s not going to believe his eyes!’ She grabs my hands and
squeezes them before disappearing out the door.

Alone again, I go back over to the aisle that houses all our underwear stock. Ignoring the stuff that’s already on display, I dig out the garments at the very back of the shelves. Now the
lingerie manager is looking so hot, I think it’s about time the entire department had a makeover.

Thursday 8 December

17 Shopping Days Until Christmas

I
slip out of the house quietly and get swallowed up into the morning darkness once again. I’m anxious that the month is slipping past really
quickly. Usually I’d be excited that each day that passes brings Christmas closer, but this year it brings closer Hardy’s potential closure, too. There seems to be so much to do, but so
little time.

I push off blearily on my bike, yawning. It’s so early in the morning that there are no lights on yet in any of the big Regency houses that frame the square, and as I cycle on to
Regent’s Park Road, not a single car passes by. It seems that the whole city is shrouded in sleepy darkness. Since starting these makeovers I feel like I’m operating in a completely
different time zone from anyone else. I’m out so early that no one in the house is awake. Luckily, my cooking dinner for Delilah last night placated her enough to allow me to leave early
again this morning. She knows that the job is important to me but I can see she wonders why. I don’t know how to explain how much I care about it. I might not have to take international
conference calls, or to juggle million-pound accounts, but it’s my life. In recent weeks it’s become not just a job, but a home too.