Литагент HarperCollins - The Reunion

‘Tummy in, tits out,’ I say, collapsing into uncontrollable giggles.

‘Works every time,’ laughs Jeanine, and then more seriously: ‘What are you going to wear?’

‘That’s exactly the problem. I don’t have anything. I know that’s what all women say, but I really don’t have anything!’

‘I’ll come round to yours after work. Then we’ll have dinner, you’ll cook, and after that we’ll pop into town. It’s late night shopping so that’s perfect.’

‘But our date is tonight.’

There’s silence at the other end of the line.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘then I’d better take some time off now.’

I stare in amazement at the receiver. ‘I only need some suggestions over the phone.’

‘That’s never going to work. I need to see your wardrobe, perhaps there is something hidden in there. Otherwise we’ll go shopping, that’s always fun.’ She sounds so determined and delighted that I don’t protest.

‘You’re fab,’ I say.

‘I know. I’m just going to go and see if I can get the time off. If there’s a problem, I’ll call you.’

Half an hour later she rings at my door. ‘Let’s take a look at this wardrobe of yours!’ her voice resounds up the stairs.

Jeanine follows me inside, making a beeline for my bedroom. The sight of the mess on my bed stops her in her tracks.

‘Oh my God.’ She stares at the mountain of faded T-shirts, worn jeans and neat but boring suits. With thumb and forefinger, she lifts up a pair of shapeless leggings I’d bought at the height of my depression because they were so comfortable. Even getting to the shops at that time was an ordeal.

The situation isn’t that embarrassing until she pulls open my drawers and peers in at a pile of baggy knickers. Two white bras—or at least they started off white—nestle next to them. In the places where the fabric is worn, the underwire pokes out.

‘What’s that?’ Jeanine asks.

I explain that it’s my underwear.

Jeanine wrinkles her nose.

‘They,’ she exclaims, ‘are a disgrace. You were right, you desperately need help. Throw all this rubbish away, we’re going to buy you a whole new set of everything.’

‘Of everything? Have you any idea how much that will cost?’

‘Then you’ll be overdrawn for a little while. This can’t go on. What kind of nightwear have you got?’

My long T-shirt with The Bank’s logo comes to mind, but I daren’t mention it.

‘Oh, a pair of pyjamas,’ I say.

‘Pyjamas?’

‘Yes. Don’t you have any?’ I say in a defensive tone. ‘Or do you go to bed in a slip in the winter?’

‘It isn’t winter, it’s almost summer and anyway your bed is not outside. Of course I’ve got some flannel pyjamas, but I’ve also got a slip. It’s part of a woman’s basic kit. Come on, I’ve seen enough. We’re going shopping.’

Tingling with excitement, I sit next to Jeanine in the tram and let line 13 take me to the Dam. I have a date, I even have a friend to go clothes shopping with, I fit in.

We get out at the Nieuwezids Voorburgwal and allow ourselves to be drawn into the throng in the Kalverstraat.

I haven’t been here for ages. When did I lose interest in my appearance? How could it have happened? You feel so much better when you’re looking good. And there’s one thing I know for certain, I don’t look good in my boring work outfits. Who taught me that you mustn’t look good in the office? That you should wear a black skirt and a white blouse?

‘First, lingerie.’ Jeanine pulls me along.

We go into a lingerie shop, which is a first for me. As long as I can remember I’ve bought my underwear in Hema. We glide between rails full of sweet pastel-coloured satin on the one side and daring red and black knickers and bras on the other.

Jeanine picks up a hanger, which seems to me to hold only scraps of transparent lace, but on closer inspection they turn out to be a tiny pair of underpants and a matching bra.

‘This!’ she insists. ‘And this too!’ In a single move she draws a transparent pink slip from the rack. I look at it hesitantly.

‘Isn’t that a bit slutty?’ I ask.

‘Sexy is the word,’ Jeanine corrects me. ‘Just try it on. This is the kind of thing you have to see on.’ She pushes me towards the changing rooms and while I undress and slip the negligee over my head, she throws a couple more matching sets in. A while later she slides into the cubicle. ‘So? Does it fit?’

I look at myself in the mirror and see a pastel-coloured sex kitten.

‘I’m not sure, Jeanine. It’s not really me.’

‘You don’t have to dress as who you are but as who you want to be. It looks wonderful on you, Sabine. You have to take it.’

I can’t do much in the face of such persuasion. I take them to the checkout. As I’m putting in my PIN, I look anxiously at the total, but quickly press the Okay button and put my card away.

‘So,’ says Jeanine. ‘What’s next?’

We go from shop to shop and it’s a great success. The plastic bags cut into my hand as we hunt for shoes to match the clothes I’ve bought. If only I was tanned, but I’ve spent the whole month lying around getting pale in my flat. What possessed me? From now on I’m going to the Amsterdam forest or to the beach at Zandvoort every single afternoon.

Around six o’clock we collapse exhausted into the tram.

‘I’m going straight home, I’ve had it,’ says Jeanine as we stand in front of my door. ‘Thank God I don’t have to go out tonight.’

‘I’ve had it too,’ I moan.

‘Have a shower and massage your feet. And call me tomorrow, I want to know everything.’

We say goodbye and I climb the stairs to my apartment with a heavy tread. Exhausted from carrying all the bags, I open the door and kick it closed behind me, dropping all of my purchases onto the hall floor. I take off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa. Shop until you drop, the British say. Now I understand why.

I give my feet a strong massage and when I feel that I can walk again, I have a lukewarm shower. I feel much better afterwards. I clip the labels from the underwear sets, skirts and tops, and try everything on once again. It’s true; lingerie does make you feel special. Nobody knows that you are wearing it, except you. I strike a pose, hands on hips, toss my hair back and look into the mirror with the arrogant stare of a model.

A femme fatale, until I let my hands drop and my fat rolls remind me that one or two things need to happen. But the new skirt disguises them. In the end I’m pleased with the result.

I blow-dry my newly washed, fresh-smelling hair and put it up. I’m still doing my make-up when I hear a loud honking.

Olaf is in a black Peugeot, the windows wound down, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His fingers drum on the roof of the car, marking time to Robbie Williams’ latest single. He hasn’t bothered to dress up, he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

My own metamorphosis suddenly seems rather over the top. Isn’t that pink a bit too sweet? These strappy high-heeled shoes might be great, but my top is tight around my breasts and the straps keep falling down.

I give myself a last once over in the mirror, apply a coat of mascara and put on a pair of crystal earrings. My hair looks good. Nice to have it all out of my face. It’s a shame that I’m so pale but the self-tanner I used made one of my legs look like a carrot, so I didn’t dare try it on my face. I didn’t do the other leg either, so I’m now walking round with one orangey leg. In the restaurant my legs will be under the table though, and in the car I’ll cross my white leg over the orange one.

The horn echoes against the walls of the houses. Olaf spots me and sticks his head out of the window. ‘Are you ready?’ he shouts.