Jane Green - Bookends

‘You realize she’ll probably walk out now,’ I chuckled evilly. ‘She’ll probably think you’re trying to tell her she stinks to high heaven, and she’ll be so offended she’ll be gone by the time you get home, doubtless taking half your clothes with her.’

‘Oh God,’ groaned Lucy. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Only if you’re really lucky.’

‘Anyway, the point is, Cath, that obviously nothing happened between them, and I would love to ask him round, and please, please, please say that you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Oh God, Lucy. How can you emotionally blackmail me like this?’

‘Does that mean I can ask him?’

‘Okay,’ I grumbled. ‘But don’t think this means I’ve given you my blessing.’

‘Fine,’ she said, and the grin on her face was huge as she picked up the keys and I followed her out the door. ‘I’m ringing him as soon as I get home.’

Now you know and I know that clothes have never exactly been a big thing for me, but I think I do kind of owe it to James to make something of an effort after the last time he laid eyes on me.

In fact, every time I think about opening the door and seeing him standing there, and more importantly him seeing me, with my wild woman of Borneo hair and my smudged mascara, bleary eyes and grey skin, I feel positively ashamed.

And perhaps this is yet another symptom of what Si has started calling The Portia Effect, because, let’s face it, the last time I made an effort with my hair, with make-up, with clothes, was probably about ten years ago.

But tonight I want to show James that I can look nice, and maybe, if I try really hard, I’ll manage to wipe the image of me from the other morning out of his mind and replace it with one infinitely better.

So I did something this morning that I haven’t done for years. I took a day off from the shop – only possible because Si is now dying of jealousy and wants to get in on the act and couldn’t wait to take my place, even for a day – walked out of my flat at ten o’clock in the morning, jumped on the bus to Oxford Circus, turned a blind eye to the Saturday crowds and hit the shops, even though I didn’t have a clue what I was looking for.

But in the first shop I went into I found a pair of grey flannel trousers that would have made Si proud, and then a few doors up I had to stop and admire a sophisticated window display that was so alluring it made even me want to step inside.

I walked past, hesitated, then stepped back and caught the eye of one of the sales assistants, who smiled at me, encouraging me to go in.

‘Can I help you?’ he said, and I found myself gesturing to the window display.

‘The sweaters,’ I said. ‘How much are they?’

Clever sales assistant that he was, he pretended to ignore the question, and instead strode to the back of the shop and brought over an array of gorgeous pastel sweaters that were so soft, so feminine, I was almost upset that he disturbed the pile of perfection by unfolding them and laying them out on the table for me to admire.

‘Why don’t you just try one on?’ he said with a smile, picking up the one I’d been tentatively fingering – as soft as butter, a delicate baby pink, it was the most beautiful sweater I’d ever seen. And remember, I’m not a person who goes in for sweaters. Or any clothes, for that matter.

I walked into the changing room as if in a dream, and when I pulled the sweater over my head and came out, even I had to admit that it was probably the nicest thing I’d ever worn in my entire life. There was something about the colour, about the softness, that made me feel soft, made me feel feminine, and even with my old black leggings that had definitely seen better days it still looked lovely.

‘Do you have trousers to go with?’ the sales assistant asked, not even bothering to ask whether I was going to take the sweater, probably presuming that it looked so good, how could I not.

I pointed to my bag and told him I’d just bought some, and he insisted on having a look.

‘Let’s see them together,’ he insisted, and for a moment – being bossed around by a gorgeous sales assistant who had far, far better taste than I could ever hope to have – it was just like having Si with me, and how could I resist?

They looked amazing. And what’s more, the sales assistant approved, which was about as much as I could ever have hoped for. I couldn’t believe how much this simple sweater cost, but I figured that it would be worth it after all. Because, to be honest, what would be the point in revealing your new image in the same old overstretched black sweater that you’ve worn almost daily for the last five years?

I went, I tried, I paid through the nose. And I was intending to go straight back home, really I was, but as I was walking down the street a young, trendy-looking girl stopped me and pressed a paper flyer into my hand.

‘We’re doing a special offer,’ she said brightly. ‘At Snippers. Everything’s half price today and you get a free consultation.’

On any other day I would have smiled vaguely at her and walked straight past, crumpling the paper into a tiny ball as I walked, and tossing it into the nearest rubbish bin, but today I stopped in front of her, listened, and then looked at the flyer. ‘Bored with the same haircut?’ it proclaimed. ‘Looking for a new image? At Snippers we have a team of top experienced hairstylists ready to show you the new YOU!’

What’s a girl supposed to do when something like that is thrust into her hand, and she’s been thinking about taming the frizz for, ooh, at least a week now? Up the steps of Snippers I went, and into the hands of – hopefully – top experienced hairstylist, Pezz.

‘Mmm,’ he said, picking up handfuls of hair and looking distinctly unimpressed. ‘Yays, I see. Eet is very deefeecult to handle, no?’

I nodded meekly.

‘You would like to have seelky smooth hair, no?’

I shrugged, then realized from Pezz’s impassive face that this was evidently the wrong answer and proceeded to nod vigorously instead.

‘We will give you the hair of Jennifer Lopez,’ he said triumphantly, looking pensive again. ‘Maybe you don’t like the colour of theese hairs, hmm?’

Actually I hadn’t stopped to think. Other than to note that far more grey hairs seemed to be appearing by the day, I really wasn’t that bothered. Pezz, on the other hand, evidently was.

‘I am theenking vegetable rinse, yes? I theenk nice reech brown. Strong warm tones weeth leettle beet of red, hmm?’ Is it just me, or is his accent becoming more and more unintelligible? It seems that as Pezz becomes excited, his accent deteriorates, but I’ve never been the type to sit and chat with hairdressers about holidays and DIY, so I refuse to worry about it.

I accept the offer of a cappuccino, eat the two tiny little biscuits in about two seconds flat, and then settle back in the chair with a sizeable stack of crappy magazines that I’d never be seen dead reading anywhere else.

Two hours later – Christ, this is seriously decadent of me – and I’m sitting in the chair at Snippers looking into the face of someone who does look like me, only a far better version.

Because I would never have believed that my hair could be silky, smooth and actually shiny ! My hair is shiny ! But Pezz has worked wonders, and good God, I seem to have got a chestnut mane falling to slightly below my shoulders.

It looks amazing. I can’t stop smiling at myself. The only problem is, and I only realize this as I keep looking at myself in the mirror, it’s exactly the same as Portia’s. Shit. And how the hell am I supposed to pass this off as coincidence?

But by the time I get the tube home, I’m allowing myself a damn sight more than a little smile. I’m actually getting a few looks. From men. Oh my God! Oh not many, not enough to start making headline news, but – and at first I thought this was my imagination – there have definitely been two men who have walked past me and have held my eyes for far longer than was absolutely necessary.