Chapter 35
8 November 2023
Chris:
we are so proud of you dort.
*image*
Chris:
family photo. youll notice that there is now a guinea pig at our house as well—turns out the two your nan got from the market were a breeding pair and they multiply a bit like rabbits. we have given a bunch away but matty wouldn’t be separated from this one so, meet marshmallow. henry is unimpressed and sleeps on your bed every night.
‘Nope, you cannot wear that,’ Corey says. She throws her head back against Jenny and sighs. The interview is tomorrow and I’ve spent every minute since I left Michael and Robert working on my writing tasks, until Corey decided to take an afternoon off and insist I model my outfit.
I look down at my grey interview dress and matching jacket that Nan bought me. The Veronica Maine dress is the nicest thing I have with me from home—and the nicest outfit I’ve ever owned before I met Pam at Goodwill. It has thick straps and a neckline that works with a shirt underneath for the colder weather, or on its own for the summer. The cut is ruched across my stomach, and it works with or without tights.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ I ask.
‘This is a super cool, super literary New York office you’re going into. Believe me, I’ve been into lots and they do not do straight corporate. Besides, you’re neither straight nor corporate.’
I shrug the jacket off and toss it at her. ‘No, I’ve been in dog-scented jeans, t-shirts, and Cons for most of the time you’ve known me. This is my chance to be more corporate.’
‘No, you’re super cool retro chic. Why don’t you go visit your friend at Goodwill and see if she can hook you up? We can head down there now and then go get some lunch?’
‘I don’t need a new interview outfit, I need to work on the writing task. And brush up on my general knowledge. How am I going to do general knowledge in America? I couldn’t even match American classics to their authors for The Strand.’ My chest grows tight.
Corey goes straight to my backpack and gets my Ventolin. She tosses it to me. ‘Everyone needs a new outfit, and you need to get out of your head for a bit. How much of the writing task have you done so far?’
I take a few puffs. ‘I’ve done it all but the personal statement,’ I admit. ‘But I’ve changed my suggested writers at work so many times. I can’t work out whether suggesting a biography of Aunty Doris Pilkington Garimara for an article is a genius move or not.’
‘Pushing the Native agenda on them is genius,’ she says. ‘Come on, let’s go to Goodwill and have some fun. And lunch is on me.’
Pam is waiting for us when we arrive at Goodwill—in a wild move, Corey has called ahead while I was changing back into the least doggy-scented of my jeans and getting ready to brave the cold.
Pam, who is dressed in a wild, form-fitting leopard-print dress and glittery boots with a few inches of hot-pink stockings showing between the end of her dress and the top of the boots, ushers me straight into the change room, where there’s a mountain of clothes. I glance at the racks of bright colours and patterns and my heart sinks. I thrust back the curtain to see both Pam and Corey standing there, arms folded over their chests like they were both expecting a fight.
‘Pam, you know I trust you, but we’ve talked about my preference for preppy not pin-up, right? I love your look, but I cannot pull this,’ I gesture at a purple ’50s wiggle dress with a plunging neckline, ‘off at all. Or I could, but my boobs would be the centre of attention, not my editorial skills.’
Corey snorts. ‘Put it on,’ she says. ‘We can always find you a camisole or something, if it’s too boob-tacular.’
I stamp my foot on the floor, exactly the way Matty does when he’s having a tantrum. ‘But I hate low-cut things.’
‘Okay cool,’ Corey says, waving me off. ‘Well, me and Pam are going to go have lunch and you can go back to your writing cave and stress about what you’re going to wear.’
I glance back and forth between them. ‘Fine, but you two are the worst friends.’
Deciding to eliminate the boob dress first, I strip down to my underwear and step into the purple dress. It’s a battle to pull it up and I discover that the dress lining is boned and that there’s no way my industrial-strength black bra is going to fit underneath it. Sighing again, I shrug out of the bra and pull up the dress, wiggling until I get it all into place.
Before I can turn to look at my reflection, the curtain whisks across and Pam is in the change room fussing with the way the dress is sitting. ‘Anyone would think this is a boutique and you were on commission,’ I grumble.
She tsks, pushing her thick-rimmed glasses back up her nose. ‘Goodwill is a better boutique than any of those fancy places. And look, if you and my regulars don’t take the good stuff, I buy it and flip it on eBay for five times the cost.’
I want to ask her if that’s ethical, but Corey interjects: ‘She’s an entrepreneur!’
Pam shakes her head. ‘I’m just a victim of the high cost of living trying to hustle in the big city.’ She makes one last adjustment of the dress and steps back. Corey’s eyes widen.
‘Fuck me.’
I look in the mirror and the dress is stunning. Something about the boning hasn’t changed my shape, rather enhanced all my curves and emphasised them so I have an hourglass figure to rival any buxom pin-up. My boobs are high, the cleavage expansive, but I don’t feel like everything is wobbling and bobbling when I take a turn through the store.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think I’d get a camisole underneath with this boning and it’s far too sexy for The Paris Review .’
Corey nods. ‘Yeah, that is a date night dress.’
My mind flashes to Sienna and my cheeks warm at the thought of her seeing me in this.
In the end I settle for a knee-length black-and-white plaid pinafore over a white Peter Pan collared blouse. The dress sounds juvenile, but it somehow scoops under my boobs and drops in an A-line skirt that is both preppy and sophisticated.
‘Black tights and black ankle boots with a bit of a heel will be perfect with that. You can borrow my Louboutin if you like,’ Corey says.
I whip my head to her. ‘I would like,’ I practically pant. ‘But your feet are smaller than mine.’
Corey grins. ‘They were freebies from work and they’re your size. I wear them with thick socks.’
‘Wait,’ Pam says, fishing out a soft black leather messenger bag that has obviously been loved but not worn out. ‘I think you need this too. Oh, and this.’ She reaches under the counter and passes me a black velvet hairband with a bow on the side.
‘Very Blair Waldorf,’ Corey says, nodding her approval.
‘If Blair was a twenty-something Aboriginal girl,’ I say.
‘I take it that’s a long way of saying “proper New Yorker”?’ Pam asks.
‘Exactly,’ I reply.