her in triumph.
Audrey Hepburn stares at the wrap dress. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes! It’s a wrap dress!’
‘But darling …’ She’s looking appalled. ‘It’s just a piece of material. It has no line. No structure.’
‘It doesn’t need to! It’s universally flattering! It skims over your curves. It creates a waist.’
I realize that I’m simply parroting everything I’ve ever read about wrap dresses, which is why I spent a small fortune on it in the first place. And now I come to remember it, this dress didn’t skim over my curves or create a waist; all it did was hang rather limply off my negligible chest and threaten to expose unflattering amounts of upper thigh every time I took more than three steps in succession. But it’s the most expensive dress I’ve ever owned, which is why I’ve hung onto it instead of consigning it to the charity bin.
From the expression on Audrey’s face right now, it really needs to be consigned to the charity bin. Or, more likely, the rubbish bin.
‘Fine,’ I say, putting the wrap dress down. ‘You win. I won’t wear this one.’
‘I think,’ she says kindly, ‘that would best.’
And then she practically disappears into the box, head down like a dabbling duck, leaving nothing much of herself visible except for the embroidered train of her ball gown. It’s a moment later when she pops back up again with a triumphant look on her face and a black dress in one hand.
‘Now, this looks much more the sort of thing!’
The dress she’s holding is a rather sober shift with a boat neckline and a tricky-to-pull-off hemline that sits, if I recall, at mid-calf. I bought it from Primark without bothering to try it on, in the futile hope – funnily enough – that it would make me look like Audrey Hepburn.
Needless to say, it didn’t, and, even more needless to say, it’s never seen the light of day since the depressing trying-on session when I got home and took it out of its carrier bag.
‘Are you sure?’ I look at the dress with a lot less enthusiasm than she’s displaying. ‘It’s just a cheapo thing from Primark.’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m familiar with Mr Primark’s work …’
‘No, no, it’s not a Mr, it’s just a—’
‘But I think this will do very nicely indeed!’ She holds the dress up against me. ‘All you need is that rather smart trench-coat of yours, slung over your shoulders, and a few well-chosen accessories. That neckline, for example, is simply crying out for a sweet little diamond pendant, or an elegant string of pearls.’
‘Right, well, I’ll call my bank in Zurich, then get them to crack open the largest of my safety deposit boxes and have a selection flown over to me by private jet.’
‘Unfortunately I don’t think there’s going to be time for that,’ she says, in deadly earnest. ‘But didn’t I see you with a pearl and diamond necklace when I first met you?’
‘I highly doubt that … oh, you mean Nora’s wedding pendant?’
‘All I know is that you put it in your little box over here.’ Audrey is swooshing over to the kitchen counter, where my bead-box is still sitting, and opening it up. ‘Oh, this will be wonderful on you!’
‘I don’t know. It’s for my best friend, on her wedding day. And I’m not even sure I’ve quite finished it yet.’
She’s ignoring me, placing the necklace around my neck and doing up the clasp. ‘Like I thought,’ she says. ‘Wonderful.’
It does feel rather nice, I have to admit, with the cool weight of the diamanté charm against my skin, and the silky smoothness of the vintage pearl beads … Well, I’ll just have to justify it as a trial run for Nora’s special present: helping me decide whether the necklace should stay as it is, or if it needs that double layer of pearl beads after all.
‘Now, the right shoes, of course, always make or break any outfit. Do you have a nice simple pump?’ Audrey asks me. ‘Something with a kitten heel, perhaps?’
‘Oh, no. I’m not wearing a kitten heel. Not when I’m going to spend the evening with a bunch of six-foot-in-their-bare-feet models.’ I haven’t forgotten the way Rhea towered over me at FitLondon this morning; there might be all kinds of reasons why I feel small and insignificant at this party tonight, but I’m not about to let my shoes be one of them. ‘I’m wearing these,’ I say, delving back into the box and rooting around for the only pair of really glamorous shoes I own, a pair of silvery sandals with an ankle strap and a teetering platform heel.
This time Audrey actually looks ill.
‘But you could break your ankle in those! And surely … well, a kitten heel would be so much more chic …’
‘That’s what you said before you mangled my fringe last night,’ I tell her, glad of the fact that she only exists in my imagination, because I’m not sure this is an argument I’d feel confident having if I really were talking to one of the most ineffably stylish women that has ever existed. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t care less if they’re chic or not – they make me look five inches taller and half a stone lighter. I’m wearing them. Now, do you think I need any Spanx?’
‘Oh!’ Her hands fly to her cheeks, which are burning red all of a sudden. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s going to be entirely up to the proclivities of the gentleman you’re going out with this evening! And really, Libby, what you want to do in the privacy of the bedroom is really none of my—’
‘Spanx knickers!’ I say, even more mortified by the misunderstanding than she is. ‘It’s a kind of underwear … look, never mind. I really need to start getting ready.’
‘Of course.’ She looks relieved by the change of subject. ‘What time is he picking you up?’
‘He’s not. I’ll meet him at the party.’
‘Why on earth isn’t he coming to collect you?’
‘For one thing, because I told him I wasn’t coming. And for another thing, because it’s London. In the twenty-first century.’
‘That’s no excuse!’ She looks genuinely upset. ‘When a man takes you out for the evening, he should come to collect you at your door! With a bouquet of your favourite flowers!’
Again, I’m starting to see what life really is like if you’re a beautiful movie star.
‘Libby …’ She’s peering at me, curious now. ‘Has a man never brought you flowers before a date?’
‘No.’
I don’t add – because she’s a figment of my subconscious, and my subconscious already knows this – that I’ve never really been on a date before. That all my so-called relationships (Horrible Daniel, Unreliable Iain, Brief-but-Mistaken Martin) have started in the same fuzzy, ill-defined way that they went on and the same fuzzy, ill-defined way they all finally ended. A few too many drinks and
