Mutton, page 14
‘What is the way, Gabbro?’ Sky whispers, agog. The possibility appears to have blown her mind, and she sits down heavily.
‘Totally gripping,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry that Olivine and Horno are on such non-speaks, but you’re going to have to excuse me because I have to be in town. Sky, I’m going to text you with a time for the GP appointment, so check your phone. I hope you feel better. Jack, put the stuff in the dishwasher. See you all later.’
The last thing I hear, as I pull the door to, is Sky murmuring, ‘Oh my God, Gabbro. That’s genius. Genius!’
Buying clothes used to be one of my great pleasures. And it still is, of course: who doesn’t love buying something that makes you look good and feel better? The problem is that these garments – the magical ones that suddenly make you think, ‘Cor, I’d totally do me,’ to yourself, and make you feel sorry for all your other clothes – grow increasingly elusive. I mean, they absolutely exist – it’s just that tracking them down can take an eternity, at my age. This is partly, as I have said earlier, because department stores offer too much choice. You end up taking whole trolleys’ worth of things into the changing room, and who likes changing rooms enough to be bothered to try on twenty different dresses, in the heat and unflattering lighting, especially when sales assistants lie through their teeth and tell you every single one of them looks fantastic? (Plus, underwear. Dingy is bad, sturdy is unattractive to the point of mild humiliation, but sexy is weird, like your thing is hanging around changing rooms in see-through knickers and with your nipples showing.)
It’s also because – and I don’t think there’s a solution to this – the suitable clothes are scattered all over the place. I wish they were just lined up in obedient, broadly age-appropriate pods, but no: sometimes the thing you’re after is with the young people’s clothes; sometimes it’s with the ‘occasion dressing’ – one great frock nestling among a couple of dozen mother-of-the-bride atrocities (who are these clothes for? Who decided that mothers-of-the-bride had to dress in cocoon-shaped clothes in the more nauseating colours and were only allowed to denote their playfulness through the medium of hats?).
Sometimes the thing you like is cheap, sometimes it’s expensive; sometimes it’s an ‘edgy’ brand, sometimes it’s with the nan-clothes. And you have no way of knowing where The One – the perfect dress, the pair of sodding jeans – is. (Jeans! That’s another thing. You now have to pick from literally hundreds of different brands and cuts. I remember when jeans were by Levi’s and cost £30 and everybody looked great in them.)
Increasingly, I approach clothes shopping like I’m Scott of the Antarctic – might make it, might not, might be some time – except without useful huskies to sniff out the good stuff. So I gird my loins as I approach Selfridges, and take myself off for a coffee first, which is probably a mistake: I want to soothe the nerves, not jangle them. (Reactions to coffee: yet another manifestation of one’s decrepitude. I remember the days when I necked mug after mug of black coffee without feeling – one mug in – like I’d taken industrial quantities of cocaine and might actually just short-circuit. I remember the days when I stayed up all night writing essays, fuelled by black coffee and ‘energy pills’ called Pro-Plus, and then climbed into bed and slept like a baby. Today, one coffee makes me feel enervated. Two, and I get the jitters. Three, and I’m so deranged that I could spend the rest of the day raping and pillaging, making loud martial cries.)
To make matters worse, I quite often find that the clothes I like are in fact the ones in the young bits of the shop – well, young-ish: I’m not talking Peter Pan-collared dresses in Hello Kitty prints. This means that they’re often shoddily made, plus I’m quite keen on buying clothes that aren’t made by children. The young people’s clothes actually break – seams unravel, buttons fall off, fabrics bobble, washing machines mangle sizing. If you get them from the rock-bottom-cheap shops, you can sometimes only wear them once, twice tops. And even then, a cheap dress that looks great on a twenty-year-old often looks just cheap on someone her mother’s age. Older clothes – clothes for older people – are better made, stouter, more robust, but … well, they’re clothes for older people, which is very much reflected in their design: the ‘pencil skirt’ that’s as wide as a dining table; the cardigans that fall to the hip and have huge, wing-accommodating sleeves; the trousers that are shaped exactly like elephants’ legs; the things that button up too high, a look that can only work if you’re thin as a rake and flat as a pancake.
It’s not even like you can narrow things down by sizing, because sizing’s all over the place: I’m a 12 in one label, a 16 in another, which would make me a 14, except some 14s are huge and some are tiny, so you can’t rely on that either. You have to scoop everything up in a variety of sizes, and in the process temporarily empty the racks so that if the next shopper is my size, she’ll find nothing there. Vanity sizing, it’s called, because people like to believe they’re thinner than they are. With American labels, Gaby is a size 0, or sometimes a 2: a completely nonsensical state of affairs given that Gaby is a size 8–10. But we can’t say that in case anyone (who? What manner of nutjob?) thinks, ‘Ooh, here comes the giant heffalump in her size 10 dress.’ It’s completely mad. And then of course there’s the fact that most women aren’t a size 8, which means the 12s and 14s and 16s always sell out first. Do shops replenish their stock in these sizes? They do not. More 8s than you know what to do with, but ‘We only got a few 14s and they sold out on the first day.’ And you say, ‘Maybe order more next time, given that this happens every single time in every single shop in the entire country?’ And the reply is always a shrug.
But today I’m in luck: today the God of Clothes is smiling upon me. Practically the first thing I see is a lovely dark green dress in a pencil shape, with a wiggly skirt but a modest neckline, and sleeves: an excellent example of Porn Secretary, a look I favour strongly in the right circumstances. It’s demure, but not entirely; correct, except not. Bel (Belch?) isn’t necessarily the right circumstances, but there’s nothing wrong with him, and lots wrong with me for even thinking that there was, and I’m going to give him my best shot, yes sirree Bob-Bel. I wonder briefly about underwear, but decide against buying yet more expensive lingerie, partly because I have enough at home and partly because the thought of Nood Bel pops into my head and nearly spoils my mood of Zen-like denial.
In the hosiery department, I bump into Alice, an acquaintance of fifteen years’ standing, as I am bulk-buying fishnet tights; we have a pleasant catch-up. She points at my stack of tights and says, ‘For you?’ and when I say, ‘Yes, I love fishnets and I’m not super-keen on ordinary tights,’ she says wistfully, ‘I wish I could wear fishnets.’ I stare at her in bafflement for a minute, and then say, ‘Er, why can’t you?’ trying to think of a reason, and wondering if maybe she’s very anti-depilation, or has knob-like protuberances on her lower legs, like the Gruffalo.
‘Oh,’ she laughs, ‘I could never get away with them.’
‘Get away?’ I ask, still none the wiser. ‘How do you mean? They’re a pair of tights.’
‘I just don’t think I could wear them,’ says Alice.
‘Alice!’ I say. ‘They’re a pair of tights. They’re not a, I don’t know, a pair of directional leather antlers.’
‘Yeah, but,’ Alice says. ‘All the same.’
‘I am buying them for you,’ I say. Honestly, I can’t believe my ears. ‘They’re five quid. If you like them, buy more. If you don’t, throw them in the bin, or give them away, or keep them in your drawer. They’re tights, Alice. They’re not Satan for the legs.’
‘I do so like the look of them,’ Alice says uncertainly.
‘What is this?’ I ask. ‘You’re sounding a bit mad, if you don’t mind me saying. Is this an age thing?’
‘Yes,’ Alice says sombrely. ‘It’s an age thing.’
‘Alice,’ I say, galvanized by indignation and coffee. ‘Lots of things are age things. For example, I can’t really drink much coffee any more. I wouldn’t wear hotpants. I don’t go out clubbing until three a.m. I’m really weirdly over-interested in my own poos.’
‘You too?’ says Alice interestedly. ‘I’m obsessed.’
‘However. We are talking about a pair of tights. Tights are not “an age thing”. They are tights. Just tights. If you like them, bloody wear them. God’s sake, Alice.’
‘I wish it were just tights,’ Alice says, leaning wearily against a display of Wolford Opaques, above which disembodied, hose-clad mannequin legs wave gaily in the air. ‘I don’t suppose you have time for a coffee? Or a cup of tea, if that suits you better.’
‘Why not?’ I say. ‘Let me just pay for these. What size are you?’
‘Medium,’ says Alice. ‘You don’t have to buy them for me! I can buy them for myself.’
‘But you won’t. And then you’ll always wonder. In the way that some people wonder about bisexuality. Except about tights. Here,’ I say, handing her a pair. ‘Enjoy. Go wild.’
‘Fishnets!’ says Alice, with the sort of wonderment most people would reserve for a ride on the back of a woolly mammoth. ‘My goodness. It’ll be red lipstick next!’
‘I’m taking you in hand, Alice, for the next half an hour,’ I tell her as we glide up the escalator to the café. ‘You seem to have whatever the age version of body dysmorphia is.’
‘I just get so confused,’ Alice says, as we settle down with our tea and buns. ‘I know I’m not super-old. I’m forty-three.’
‘You’re in your prime,’ I say. ‘But dressed like a granny.’
‘But I do find it really muddling, don’t you? I mean, what I am and am not supposed to look like. So I err on the side of caution.’ She gestures down at herself: black shift dress, baggy cardigan in an unattractive shade of beige, flat shoes, the whole thing richly dolloped with that hard-to-describe, intangible thing: mumsiness. ‘It’s hardly cutting edge, but at least I’m sure – well, as sure as I can be – that I’m not embarrassing my children. Or myself. I mean,’ she continues, ‘Alan – do you remember Alan, my husband?’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Alan … Alan’s started – God, I can’t even say it.’
‘What?’ I say, hoping she doesn’t say ‘having an affair’. I’m on safe ground with hosiery, but I wouldn’t really want to advise anyone on how best to rescue their marriage.
Alice takes a dignified bite of her bun. ‘He’s started skateboarding,’ she says.
She looks up and catches my eye and holds it for three seconds, at which point we both burst into laughter.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I barely know Alan. I’m not really laughing. Good for him. In, er, in a way.’
‘He’s forty-six,’ she says. ‘He wears special skate shorts. You know, those long, baggy shorts. He skates to the shops to get the milk. He’s rubbish at it.’ She starts laughing again, as do I. Soon we are crying, wheezing with laughter, becoming more hysterical with every detail Alice provides – ‘he bought a baseball cap and it cost £47, can you imagine, and he wears it with the brim to the side’; ‘he can’t really do turns, only go in a straight line, and he can’t really stop, so he sort of hops off’; ‘he’s not good enough to go on the road, so he stays on pavements’.
‘And you’re worried about tights,’ I say when I’ve recovered my composure, which takes a while. I wipe the mascara smears from under my eyes.
‘Tights,’ Alice says. ‘God, I’ve laughed so much I’ve given myself hiccups. Where was I? Oh yes. Tights. Red lipstick, which some part of me still thinks is for women who aren’t like me.’
‘It’s for hussies,’ I say.
‘I know how absurd I sound, but there’s an element of that,’ Alice says. ‘It’s for the sexually confident. Or the more sexually confident than me. Tights, lipstick, very high heels. Black flicky eyeliner. I love black flicky eyeliner, but … Make-up generally. I’ve worn the same make-up for about twenty years. It’s Bobbi Brown, mind you. I mean, I’m not tragic. But there’s tons of other stuff I have difficulty with. I really like handbags, you know, in the way that some women really like shoes. But the handbags I like – love, actually – look stupid with my clothes. Or is it that my clothes look stupid with the handbags? Anyway, they’re out of bounds to me, for whatever reason.’
‘It’s that your clothes look stupid with the handbags,’ I say helpfully. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologize,’ Alice says. ‘It’s helpful to hear, in a depressing way. I thought it was probably that way around. But I have no idea where to start.’
‘Because you’re scared of mutton,’ I state.
‘Yes,’ says Alice. ‘Exactly that. I’m scared of mutton in the way that I was scared of the big bad wolf as a child. I used to imagine his shadow, for some reason, so that he was all distorted and looming, standing on his back legs with his forelegs up, and his claws. I used to have to get away from him, because he was following me.’ She pauses. ‘A mutton wouldn’t make such a scary shadow, I’m thinking. Squatter and woollier. But still.’
‘I’m scared of mutton too,’ I tell her. ‘We all are. I’m beginning to think the best thing might be to ignore the fear.’
‘It’s terribly inhibiting, isn’t it?’ says Alice. ‘It’s made me feel sort of trapped inside my own dullness.’
‘Alan’s not feeling trapped,’ I point out. ‘Alan is embracing the ram.’
‘I know,’ says Alice, smiling fondly. ‘He looks so absolutely ridiculous. But only when he’s skating. The rest of the time – in his everyday life, at work and at home and so on – he looks fine. He looks nice. Age-appropriate. He looks like a middle-aged man in good nick. I mean, he wears suits: nobody looks bad in a suit. Men are so lucky. There’s really only a problem when he’s alone on pavements. Which I can live with. Whereas my problem is permanent. I permanently have the feeling that something’s not quite right, and that I’m impotent because I don’t know what to do about it. What do you do about it? Not you, Clara – I mean, one. What is one supposed to do?’
‘Do you remember when everyone had their “colours” done, years ago?’ I ask. ‘That was all part of the same thing. There’s a whole industry that taps into that malaise. Middle-aged women not knowing what to wear or what to look like.’
‘We were watching The Graduate the other night,’ Alice says. ‘Did you ever see it? With Dustin Hoffman as the young man who’s seduced by his girlfriend’s mother.’
‘Haven’t seen it for years,’ I say, ‘but yes, of course. Anne Bancroft, all old and sexy.’
‘Do you know how old Anne Bancroft is in that film?’ Alice asks. ‘I hadn’t seen it for ages either.’
‘Mm, mid-fifties?’ I hazard. ‘She looked amazing.’
‘Thirty-six,’ says Alice. ‘The predatory, shockingly older woman is thirty-six. Dustin Hoffman – the victim – was thirty in real life.’
‘Blimey,’ I say.
‘And I noticed all this other stuff. Everything associated with Mrs Robinson’s character is animal. Bestial. Leopard-skin underwear. Zebra stripes. Jungle-like plants. She’s got that streak in her hair, remember, like some sort of wild beast? Everything about her is carnivorous and devouring. And, yeah – thirty-six years old.’
‘See also “cougar”, my least favourite word,’ I say. ‘Same thing, though: uncontrollable, wild, not to be trusted, flesh-eating, predatory – an animal, not a human being. As opposed to a normal woman who likes shagging and who could be your mum, your sister, you.’
‘It’s mad, isn’t it?’ says Alice.
‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be attractive,’ I say firmly. ‘And – it’s subjective, obviously – there’s quite a lot wrong with giving up on the whole thing before you’ve even hit the best years of your prime.’
‘I’m going to buy some new clothes,’ says Alice. ‘Nothing too out there, but no shifts in neutral colours. And I might go and have a look at the beauty hall and try not to feel discouraged and overwhelmed.’
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘But here, take my number. The sales assistant will tell you you look amazing in anything, and it won’t be true. Photograph yourself if you’re unsure, and text it to me. I will give you a blunt opinion. Easiest way of doing it if you feel confused is to think of a look you like, and try and incorporate it.’
‘The look I like best,’ says Alice, ‘is those girls you used to see a lot, with prom dresses and tattoos all the way up their arms, but really pretty, with great make-up.’
‘That would be quite a departure,’ I say.
‘I know,’ Alice says, looking cast-down again. ‘It would be startling. I love tattoos.’
‘It’s never too late,’ I say. ‘Maybe not the full sleeve, though, to begin with. Good luck. Text me pictures.’
‘I will,’ says Alice. ‘I feel quite inspired, actually. If Alan can wear his special shorts, I don’t see why I shouldn’t wear a dress I actually like, rather than this weird uniform. Lovely to bump into you, Clara. And now I’m going shopping.’
I have an interview and two appointments in the afternoon – plus a deluge of photographs from Alice’s phone to analyse and respond to – and I don’t get home until just before six. When I get home there is no sign of Gaby; Maisy is having a sleepover at her friend Grace’s and, atypically, Jack and Sky are sitting at the kitchen table, in silence, not eating the entire contents of the fridge. They straighten up as I come into the room, standing to attention like meerkats.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, turning on the lights. ‘Why are you in the dark? You look like you’re at school and I’m the teacher.’
‘Muuuuum, fuuuuuck,’ says Jack. ‘Where have you been?’
‘What?’ I say. ‘Has something happened? Speak to me. You’re making me anxious.’
‘I’m pregnant,’ says Sky.
‘She’s pregnant,’ says Jack.
‘What? Fuck,’ I say, sitting down. ‘Fucking fuck. Oh God. Are you sure?’
