Christmas Shopaholic(6)
No one seems able to speak. Luke’s jaw has actually dropped. Suze takes a step back, and she blinks about twenty times.
“Wow,” she manages at last. “That’s…”
“Is there a part missing?” inquires Luke, deadpan. “In the front-ish area?”
“No!” I say boldly. “It’s the look.”
“Well, I think you look amazing.” Suze rallies. “It’s really cool, Bex.”
“Thank you. What?” I add, turning to Luke.
“No. Nothing. Great. Let’s go.” His mouth twitches a tiny bit. “I’m sure your parents will be blown away.”
* * *
—
Luigi’s is one of those lovely warm, cozy restaurants that hit you with the scent of garlic and wine as soon as you enter. Our table is waiting for us—although Mum and Dad aren’t there yet—and as I let my coat slither from my shoulders, I feel insanely cool. This jumpsuit is fantastic. I should get it in every single color! I can see my reflection in the windows as I walk along, and I can’t help shimmying like a model, watching the satin ripple and shine.
I even mentally itemize my outfit as if I’m in a magazine, which is an old habit of mine. Coat: Topshop. Jumpsuit: ASOS. Shoes: See by Chloé. Bracelet: model’s own (can’t remember where I got it).
A teenage girl sitting with her parents is gaping at me, wide-eyed, and I smile kindly back. I remember what it was like to be a suburban teenager, looking enviously at sophisticated women with amazing clothes. An old man nearby splutters his soup as I pass, but he’s probably never even heard of Miranda Kerr, so he doesn’t count.
I have sticky “fashion tape” attaching the jumpsuit to my skin, so I’m not too worried about anything popping out; I’m just loving my fashion-forward moment. As our waiter draws out my chair, I smile at him gracefully before sinking down into it and…
Shit.
Shit. Oh my God.
It gapes. When you sit. It gapes.
To my blood-chilling horror, as soon as I sat down, the satin ripped away from my fashion tape (which is not “fully secure in all emergencies”; they’re liars). The entire neckline has concertina-ed into a kind of horizontal letterbox shape, and you can see my…
Oh God, oh God…
My hands have instinctively grabbed the neckline back into place, but I’ve only got ten fingers. There’s still far too much flesh and tape and silicone on view. The waiter, after one aghast glance at my chest area, hastily dropped the leather-bound menus on the table and backed away. I’m frozen, my whole body stiff with stress. Did anyone notice? Is the entire restaurant staring at me? What do I do now?
I lift my eyes desperately, to see Luke regarding me quizzically.
“Is that the look?” he says. “Sorry, I know I’m not as fashion-literate as I might be.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” I mutter furiously.
It’s a cocktail-party jumpsuit, I’ve realized. Not a sitting-down jumpsuit. They should have made this clear on the website. They should have added a caption: Suitable only for standing/posing with shoulders well back/laughing at witty quips.
“Luke, I need your jacket,” I add in an agitated undertone. “Quick, pass it over.”
“Don’t have one.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”
He what?
“How can you not have a jacket?” I demand. “You always have a jacket!”
“Because you told me not to wear one,” Luke replies calmly.
“What?” I stare at him. “No, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. Last time we went out for supper you said, ‘You always wear a jacket, Luke. It’s so boring. Why don’t you mix it up a bit?’?”
Oh, right. Actually, that does ring a bit of a bell. Maybe I did say that.
“Well, I hereby retract it,” I say frantically. “You should always wear a jacket, in case I have a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Always wear a jacket.” Luke pretends to make a note on his phone. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Give me your napkin. Quick!”
Thankfully, the napkins are really big and made of posh red damask material. I knot three together to make a kind of bikini top, tie it tightly around myself, then look up breathlessly. On the plus side, I’m decent. On the minus side, what do I look like?
“Super hot,” says Luke, as though reading my mind.
“Shut up.” I glare at him.
“I’m serious. You do look hot.” He grins at me. “Bravo.”
“Darling!” Dad’s voice greets me, and I turn to see my parents coming through the restaurant. Dad’s wearing a linen jacket with a paisley handkerchief in his top pocket, and Mum is in a pink floral two-piece, which I recognize from the wardrobe of Janice, our neighbor.
Mum and Janice are always swapping clothes to “refresh” their wardrobes. Janice is about two sizes smaller than Mum, but it doesn’t put them off—Mum just leaves half the buttons undone, while Janice cinches everything in with a belt.
“Becky, love! How are you? How’s Minnie?” Mum hugs me tight, then peers down at me. “That’s an unusual outfit! Is that what they call a ‘handkerchief top’?”
“Er…kind of.” I avoid Luke’s gaze and add quickly, “Shall we have a drink?”