Chapter 2
Chapter Two
READ BETWEEN THE LINES
I normally didn’t bother leaving the library during my lunch break, preferring to eat in the back room, in case I was needed.
But with the imminent arrival of Brian, I decided to make an exception.
The Oxford Community Library would need to manage for an hour without me while I made an emergency foray to the shops.
After staring into the abyss, otherwise known as my wardrobe, and coming up with zero inspiration, I’d spent the last few evenings doing some panic internet shopping.
My bank account was taking a beating, especially as I’d forked out extra for fast delivery, but none of the clothes I’d purchased had felt right.
Somehow it had got to Friday, and I still hadn’t found the perfect outfit for our first date, hence the last-minute dash to the shops.
At least my workplace was handily situated in a side street just behind the Ashmolean Museum and only minutes from a wealth of retail options.
After extracting a promise from Moira to summon me back if it all kicked off, I hurried out of the library, crossed the road near the Randolph Hotel and dived into the chaos that was Cornmarket Street.
It seemed like half the world and his wife were out and about this lunchtime, making the most of the spring sunshine to enjoy some retail therapy.
They all looked much more relaxed than I’m sure I did.
The only thing worse than having no date clothes was wearing ones purchased in a panic. The fear was real.
Weaving my way through the crowds, I paused briefly in front of a shoe shop window, before sternly telling myself I shouldn’t get distracted by metallic pink Mary Janes with contrast pearl-effect buckles, especially when I didn’t have an outfit to match them with yet.
Of course, I knew that it shouldn’t really matter what I wore to meet Brian for the first time, and that, if our relationship was meant to be – like I assumed it was – I could turn up in sackcloth and ashes and it wouldn’t make a jot of difference.
But as a matter of personal pride, I wanted to look my best and, more importantly, I knew a good outfit would give me a much-needed confidence boost. It wasn’t that I was completely wracked with anxiety about our first date, although there was definitely a jangling sensation of nervousness alongside the dreamy anticipation, but it felt like there was a lot riding on it.
We’d been exchanging messages back and forth for a while now, sharing confidences, and opening up to each other in a way I’d never experienced before.
It felt like we were developing something truly special.
Try as I might not to get carried away, the eternally optimistic voice of hope at the back of my mind kept repeating that Brian could very well be The One, and that many years in the future, the pair of us would look back at this momentous first date and reminisce happily about how it had changed our lives forever.
I did not want us to look back and remember how I’d turned up looking like the result of an explosion in a fashion factory.
The decision fatigue hit me properly on the third floor of a department store, weighed down by armfuls of clothes, none of which I liked.
There were just so many outfits to choose from, and I didn’t have a clue where to pitch my dress level.
I didn’t want to look like I’d gone to excessive amounts of effort, but equally I couldn’t exactly turn up at a fancy restaurant in my current work attire of smart(ish) jeans and Converse, could I?
They’d probably take one look at me and refuse entry, then I’d have to ask them to summon Brian over to vouch for me.
I really didn’t want his first sight of me to be as I was being escorted from the premises by the ma?tre d’.
I wandered aimlessly between the racks of brightly coloured jumpsuits and flouncy dresses, trying, and failing, to picture myself in any of them.
The models in the pictures on the walls looked effortlessly chic, the clothing complementing their confident, happy-go-lucky demeanour, whereas I was afraid that these outfits would wear me, rather than the other way round.
‘Can I help you?’ asked an eager assistant, homing in on my general air of agitation.
In normal circumstances, I would have smiled and beat a hasty retreat, but today I reluctantly acknowledged that I needed all the help I could get and nodded in a slightly dazed way.
‘What’s the occasion?’ she asked kindly.
‘It’s a first date. But it’s a different kind of first date because we’ve been talking for two months so we’re potentially a bit further on than the phrase “first date” would suggest. He’s in the military so he’s been out of the country for ages, but now he’s coming back at last, so it’s kind of a big deal.
But I don’t want him to think that I think it’s a big deal.
’ I spoke so fast that I’m sure some of my words merged into each other.
‘Sorry, I bet you wish you hadn’t asked. ’
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I get where you’re coming from. You want to look cool and in control, gorgeous, but without seeming like you’re trying too hard. In other words, the Holy Grail of fits.’
My heart sank. Was she trying to let me down gently by pointing out that I needed a miracle? Clearly, I was asking too much. But her next words gave me some hope.
‘I got you. I reckon I have the perfect option.’
She bustled around the racks, picking out a sunny yellow tea dress with a delicate white polka dot pattern, and a denim jacket to go with it.
‘You can dress it up with heels, or go for more of a smart-casual look with the Converse you’re already wearing. They’re great, really on trend. Either option, you’re guaranteed to hit the right tone.’
‘Even for somewhere quite fancy?’ I asked.
‘Undoubtedly. It’s boho chic.’
She sounded so confident, that I found myself believing her.
I allowed myself to be shown into the changing room, cringing at the number of mirrors and how bright the lighting was.
There was nowhere to hide. I reluctantly removed my shoes, peeled off my jeans and top, pulled the dress on and nervously examined my reflection from all angles.
The yellow fabric was a much bolder colour than I’d normally go for, but something about it made me smile.
I experimentally gathered my hair up into a loose bun at the nape of my neck, but then let it free again, remembering the librarian stereotype I so hated.
I’d stick with my usual approach of giving it a good brush before I went out and hoping for the best. I’d need to take a little more time with the make-up, of course.
Perhaps Moira could help me with my eyeliner, so I didn’t mess it up.
She was always so elegant with her perfect flicks of kohl extending from her lids.
I turned slowly on the spot and then a little more quickly, enjoying the feel of the silky fabric floating around my legs, then pulled on the jacket and put my shoes back on to get the full effect.
Somehow my well-worn Converse looked a lot smarter paired with a dress.
And, most importantly, I wouldn’t spend the evening worrying about getting blisters or turning my ankle, both distinct possibilities if I went down the heels route.
Maybe, just maybe I could pull this off. But was I getting swept up in the shop assistant’s enthusiasm? I needed a second opinion.
Moira answered my FaceTime call on the first ring, almost as if she’d been expecting me.
‘How goes it?’
‘Good, I think. I reckon I’ve found the perfect get-up, and I need to see if you agree.
Or rather, the assistant found it for me.
I’ve not dared to check the price tags yet, so potentially this call is a bit premature.
I really should have considered that before trying the stuff on. Keep your fingers crossed.’
I reached down the back of my neck with my right hand, keeping hold of the phone with my left, and then contorted myself so I could read the tag in the mirror behind me. Maybe a high price was the reason why the assistant was so keen for me to go for this dress.
‘Phew, unless my backwards reading skills have failed me, I won’t have to eat beans on toast for the rest of the year.
Well, as long as I actually do my returns,’ I mumbled, correcting myself.
‘Probably the less said about them the better. I’m rapidly becoming the postman’s least favourite address to deliver to. ’
‘Stop moving off topic,’ said Moira. ‘Can we get to the point, please, young Kat? We’ve established the outfit is within budget, excellent news, hooray and all that, but so far I’ve seen nothing of it, just a close-up of your face as you pull weird expressions.
I’m not complaining, mind, but it’s not achieving the object of the call, is it?
Stop with your delaying tactics and let me see the thing. ’
‘Fine, I’ll show you now. Excuse the dodgy camera work. And promise you’ll give me your honest opinion.’
‘When have I ever not?’ she demanded.
She had a point there. Moira was blunt almost to a fault, but it was always from a place of kindness.
If Moira said I looked okay, then I knew I could believe her.
I moved the phone further away and tried manoeuvring it so she could see my full-length reflection.
I clearly needed to work on my mirror selfie skills.
‘Hold it to the right, you’re blocking the key cleavage area,’ was her first comment.
I reluctantly did as I was told, feeling even more self-conscious.
‘Nice. I can see why the assistant picked it out. That colour shows off your complexion perfectly, and it reflects those honey undertones in your hair.’