Thirty-One
Fortunately, I have never had to take a tantrum-throwing toddler clothes shopping, but dragging Sir John out for a new suit has to come pretty close. Once over his bad temper at having to get on the Tube (“What do you MEAN you haven’t ordered a car!”), his next wobble comes as we approach Selfridges, and he spies a mannequin wearing skinny jeans in the window. “Look,” he gasps, pointing as if he’s spied Dracula eating ducklings. He rounds on me. “You promised I wouldn’t look foolish.”
“Relax. That’s just the ground floor. Their suits and formalwear are all upstairs.”
It’s still a long walk when we get inside. Sir John is adamant that he won’t be seen dead in a “huddle,” a phrase he repeats several times. I’m resigned to remaining confused about this until he points at the offending garment with a forefinger of outrage (it’s had quite the airing this morning).
“That’s a hoodie, Sir John. A hoodie. And it wasn’t what I had in mind for Etienne’s.”
Upstairs, amid the soothing ambience of soft shoe leather, tie silk and dignified knitwear, Sir John is much calmer. “Where do we start?” he whispers.
“This is where we get help,” I whisper back.
“What? You didn’t mention anything about reinforcements.”
“You said it yourself. I don’t know how to dress myself, let alone you.” I collar a shop assistant, who looks reassuringly snooty. I explain we’re looking for smart but not stuffy, and she instantly takes charge, recommending that we begin with some well-fitting shirts and then consider jumpers and chinos. I take a step back, relieved to have a professional in control.
Sir John appears mollified by her no-nonsense attitude and falls into line immediately, meekly accepting various garments and striding into the changing room without complaint. I see, with a bitter pang, that this place has proper changing rooms, not merely a prank curtain in a corner of shame from which people can tumble, underwear-clad, and flap about like a fish out of water in front of an ex and his new flame.
When Sir John emerges, the transformation is astounding. He looks years younger, thanks to the better-fitting apparel picked out by the assistant to match his eyes and complexion, as opposed to his previous haphazard approach to colour coordination.
“You look great!” I exclaim, restraining myself from giving the round of applause I so desperately want to, as I know that would lead to a large sulk.
The bloom of the moment is only slightly undermined when the assistant agrees, “Your granddaughter’s right. You look lovely.”
“She’s not my granddaughter,” he replies indignantly, heading back to the changing room. “We just live together.”
That leaves the shop assistant and me standing in a very awkward silence for what feels like forever.
I break it with a nervous cough. “I’m his lodger,” I tentatively start to explain.
She gives me a rigid smile that basically means, “I don’t believe you, but it’s none of my business. And even if I did believe you, this is still weird,” but says nothing.
I try again, “I’m actually dating the brother of one of the managers here. Emma?”
The assistant’s smile goes all the way to her eyes this time. “Oh, you’re Ryan’s girlfriend! Emma mentioned you. I think she added you to her friends and family discount the other week?”
I feel relieved. Not only have I escaped the suspicion of golddigger to an eighty-four-year-old sugar daddy, but Emma has also followed through on her discount promise. However, immediately after that first thought, another followed, pointing out how much that discount is on false pretences. Basically, as well as deluding people I care about, I’m branching into fraud. Receiving goods on false pretences.
“Emma’s around here somewhere today,” the assistant continues. “I think she’s in the office catching up on emails. I’ll let her know you’ve popped in.”
“Oh, no need to trouble her,” I say sincerely, thinking once again about that clothes fraud and the additional layer of guilt I’ve mined.
“Not a problem,” the assistant insists. “I’ll send her out.” She disappears through a door behind the till.
“Great, thanks,” I murmur weakly after her.
Sir John comes out of the changing room with the successful first tries. I grab his elbow.
“Sir John, look… Ryan’s sister is going to pop out and say hello. She may not get my name right…” I start to whisper in a panic.
“For goodness sake, speak up, girl!” Sir John booms back. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
“I’m just saying she may call me…”
“Anastasia, hello.” Too late. Ryan’s sister is walking out from behind the till.
“Hi, Emma,” I say quickly, “This is my landlord, Sir John Fenton. Sir John, Emma is Ryan’s sister.”
“Emma, how do you do?” Sir John says in his grandest and most courteous “meeting the constituents” voice.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir John. Ryan mentioned you live in a beautiful part of Hampstead. How long have you been there now, Anastasia?”
My insides feel like they’re being squeezed in a frozen fist with an iron grip. I wish she would stop saying my name. Surely, it’s not necessary to keep doing it. It’s not like she’s a teacher and I’m one of twenty-eight unruly children.
“What’s all this Anastasia business, Alex?” Sir John chortles.
The frozen fist clenches.
“Oh… I.”
Emma looks confused, “I thought you always go by Anastasia?”
Sir John laughs again, “Alex, do you have delusions of being a lost Imperial princess?”
“Well, er… You know my ancestry…” My throat feels like it’s narrowed to the diameter of a penny, and I can only manage a gurgle in lieu of the end of a sentence.
“Pretty close to that, isn’t it?” Emma interjects. “Ryan told us about your family history, leaving the Crimea in the revolution.”
As my mind flatlines, I emit another gurgle in response.
Sir John, however, has me covered and gives an even heartier laugh, “Yes, who could forget all those exotic Taylors, leaving their dachas to escape the Bolsheviks.”
Seeing Emma’s confusion, Sir John helpfully elaborates, “Alex’s family are Cheshire through and through. Her parents were telling me all about it. You can trace both sides back to the 19th century; they were all just a few villages apart. Can’t you Alex?” He turns to look at me. But the eyes I can really feel on me are Emma’s. I keep my own on the floor as I feel a fiery blush sweep across my face. “That’s only one branch of the family,” I start to mutter, but trail off as my voice fails me altogether.
Emma is very still. “Alex. Taylor,” she murmurs as if testing the sounds for the first time to see how well they go together. After a pause, she says, “Well, anyway, I’m going to leave you both to do some shopping. It was good to meet you, Sir John. Nice to see you… Alex.” She turns and walks away.
Sir John, busily calculating 30% off his pile of potential purchases, asks absentmindedly.
“What was all that nonsense about Anastasia? What an odd girl.”
“Nothing, Sir John. It doesn’t matter,” I answer, my face white.