Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
EVIE
Bloomingdale’s. I stood and looked up at the signage at the front of the store, another one of those little fizzy thrills going through me.
I’d been in New York for a couple of days now, and I still got a thrill every time I set foot out of the hotel.
My grin must have been visible from the moon.
Honestly, my system was on permanent high-excitement alert.
I checked my watch. Ten minutes to find the floor where I was meeting my personal stylist. Personal stylist. Me.
I was running a little late after having breakfast with Mrs Evans and Monty this morning.
It had become a regular event, as she seemed to like the company and I certainly enjoyed hers.
Her devotion to her little dog was an obvious sign that she was a good human.
I hurried through the perfume department like the white rabbit, accepting a quick spritz from one of the glossy girls on duty before rushing on to the lift. I did not want to be late for my very important date. Alicia had fixed everything up.
‘Hey there, you must be Evie Green. I recognise you from your picture. I’m so happy to meet you.’
‘Hi, you must be Debbie.’
‘One and the same.’ The blonde woman with perfect teeth gave me a friendly smile, and the tension in my shoulders receded just a little. I’d been worried that she might be a bit snooty and snobbish. I think I may have watched Pretty Woman one too many times.
Debbie wore smart black trousers and a fuchsia-pink silk shirt and exuded enviable effortless chic at the same time as looking kind and motherly.
She was probably in her early forties and looked as if she should be chairing an important meeting at one of the investment banks I occasionally visited in my job.
At work, no one cared what I wore, and I’d never really made much effort.
I didn’t see the point and had stopped making any effort a long time ago.
‘Well, we are going to have some fun.’ She shot me an encouraging smile. ‘But first, let me get you a drink and we can sit down and have a chat about the look you’re trying to create.’
I stared at her. ‘Sorry?’
‘What style are you looking for?’
I shrugged my shoulders in bemusement. ‘I … I don’t know.’
‘Don’t worry, honey.’ She patted me on the arm and steered me over to a small seating area. ‘Coffee, tea or a hot chocolate?’
As she got the drinks, I sat down in one of the little leather tub chairs.
I’d never even thought about having a style.
Was it something you ‘created’? That was news to me.
I just pulled on clothes every morning without an awful lot of thought.
I bought things on impulse, although nine times out of ten they never fitted that well or looked that good, but I never got round to taking them back so I ended up wearing them and having a wardrobe full of crap.
My mum had liked to dress up whenever she could.
And she’d loved a dress. The smarter the better.
Even when she was feeling poorly she would insist on wearing one of her favourite dresses – although they hung from her thin frame – because it made her feel better.
I’d buried her in her favourite Roland Mouret knock-off, with its signature neckline.
Suddenly I felt guilty that I’d not made any effort with my appearance.
I could see why now – it was my way of kicking back, internalising my anger.
Because it hadn’t done Mum any good, had it?
Looking well-dressed and smart hadn’t made any difference to her in the end.
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a financial journalist on a weekly magazine.
’ I stood up a little straighter. I’m good at my job, really good.
I’ve even won an award. A lot of people think money and economics are boring but it fascinates me.
Although I’ve had to work twice as hard to get where I am, because I’m female and whatever the HR positive stats attempt to say, finance is still very much a man’s world.
I can cite a ton of examples where I’ve been underrated, overlooked or ignored.
Like the time I was left sitting outside an office for over an hour because my interviewee, when he saw me, assumed I was a temp awaiting a brief and went back to his office.
Or the time a banking executive only talked to a colleague (male of course) and avoided every one of my questions.
‘So, a lot of desk time,’ observed Debbie, with a warm smile. ‘Do you meet many people? Do you work in an office or at home?’
‘Sometimes I go and interview investment bankers, fund managers – that sort of thing. I work one day a week at home. The rest of the time, I’m in the office. It’s better … otherwise I end up spending all my time in my bedroom.’
She nodded. ‘And how would you dress for those meetings and for the office?’
I glance down at my navy chinos and sloppy sweatshirt and shrug. ‘A bit like this, really. Maybe I might put on a shirt.’
She frowns. ‘But aren’t they all in suits and ties?’
‘Yeah, but they’re finance people. I’m a journalist.’
‘Okay,’ she says, nodding, ‘And what about out of work. What do you like to do?’
‘Socialise with friends. Go to the pub. Go out to eat. Go for walks. That sort of thing.’
‘Do you have a partner?’
I shook my head.
‘So, what about dating?’ Her eyes crinkled with a quick smile. ‘Do you want some dating outfits? Knock their socks off?’
I laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. It’s really hard meeting people these days.
’ Even harder after I’d had so many dodgy, trolling messages after my video went viral, along with more dick pics than I could shake a stick at and a lot of people telling me how ugly and stupid I was.
My shoulders sagged. That video had really exposed me, and although I put on a brave face and had embraced a fight-back through @EvieAtThePlaza, my confidence had taken a serious knocking and I was nervous about the response.
I hadn’t read any of the comments on the posts yet.
‘Do you want to meet someone?’ she asked, which surprised me.
‘I guess. I mean I’m not desperate.’ I shrugged again.
‘I’m not really into long-term commitment but I’m happy to have some fun.
’ Life was too short to tie yourself down to one person or make too much of an investment in them.
People could go boom or bust at any moment.
There were no guarantees, so it was best to steer clear of too much long-term planning.
You could lose someone so easily. Like I did my mum.
The best way of investing in yourself and your own personal equity was to protect yourself from known risks. Love was far too high-risk.
‘Okay,’ said Debbie again and I realised that it was her non-judgemental way of disagreeing with me.
‘Are you married?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but we’re not talking about me. I want to find out about you, so that I can find out what you want to wear.’
‘Sounds a bit like therapy,’ I said, thinking of the grief-counselling sessions I’d gone to before I’d given up. After three, I couldn’t see how they could possibly help. Maybe I should give them another try.
Her smile was kind this time. ‘I like to think that I can help people.’
Help people? I didn’t need help. I just wanted to… What?
I really had no idea. I’d kind of deliberately not thought about clothes because that was something my mum had done.
I’d hear her voice in my head. We disagreed about clothes being important.
I thought people should take me as I am, she thought it was important and it hadn’t been, not in the end.
It had made no difference to her treatment, to her health. She’d died anyway.
Debbie gave my current choice of clothes a passing glance and her mouth tightened. ‘Can I be honest with you?’
‘If you must,’ I said with a smile. ‘You sound like my mum.’
She smiled. ‘We sometimes know what we’re talking about.’
I nodded, wishing that I could listen to my mum again. Wishing that she could dole out her wisdom. Even if I disagreed, I’d still love to have heard her one more time.
‘Of course, you don’t have to listen to me but the fact that you’re here makes me think that maybe you want to listen.’
‘You do know this was set up by the PR lady at The Plaza.’
‘Yes. I know Alicia. She’s a smart cookie. I also know that you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t a little curious or interested. You’re a journalist. Isn’t it your job to be curious about things? To dig beneath the surface to find out more?’
I stared at Debbie, ashamed to realise that I’d underestimated her.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said, lifting my chin. I took pride in my job, and it was clear that it was also the case with her.
‘Well, honey. I’m a great believer in clothes make the person.
Your clothes tell me that either you don’t care what people think of you or that you’re too arrogant to worry about making a good impression.
I don’t think the latter is the case. What worries me is why don’t you care? Don’t you value yourself?’
I shrugged again. Embarrassed.
She walked in a circle around me, weighing me up.
‘Your shoes are scuffed and need polishing – and the heels need repairing – and your trousers are so loose and baggy they don’t flatter you at all. And that jumper should go in the bin.’
I stared at her. Where had cosy, comfortable Debbie gone?
She smiled and softened. ‘I know comfort is important, but so is making a positive impression. I bet you already know as a journalist that people make an impression of you based on the first seven seconds of meeting you. And that they come to eleven conclusions about you, including your education level, economic level, success level and trustworthiness. Additional research suggests that a first impression is made within a tenth of a second.’
I nodded. I did know all this stuff although it was never front of mind. I’d forgotten more of it than I paid attention to.
‘I think you’re a bit lost,’ said Debbie, her eyes locking on mine, with a sympathetic gaze.
My stomach lurched as if I’d fallen out of a plane and tears pricked my eyes. I was horrified to realise that she might just be right.