Part 1
It’s definitely not an illusion - younger women
have been noticing me in the street. Not sure why but for the past few days I’ve
been picking up expressions that are a curious mixture of pity and incredulity.
My best guess is that it’s something to do with clothes.
Dressing isn’t usually high on my list of
priorities because I’m a stay-at-home dad with a sideline in novels and most of
my time is spent running between schools. The week has been trickier than usual with my wife
away on a business trip and no-one at home to give advice except the kids.
I’m not complaining. Rosie has this proper job; right now she’s at the firm’s annual conference in France which is a big deal and this year her standing is high enough for me to be invited to the dinner after the final session. Work for her but a treat for me and I’m looking forward to doing something a little different. From nowhere I seem to have developed a manageable ambition: for this one weekend, I won’t be scruffy.
I’m not complaining. Rosie has this proper job; right now she’s at the firm’s annual conference in France which is a big deal and this year her standing is high enough for me to be invited to the dinner after the final session. Work for her but a treat for me and I’m looking forward to doing something a little different. From nowhere I seem to have developed a manageable ambition: for this one weekend, I won’t be scruffy.
Okay, soon I’ll be on the train to Paris. I’ve
made arrangements for a neighbour to look after the dogs and grandparents are installed
to take care of the children. Doesn’t matter what I wear for the journey but when
I arrive I’ll get myself looking smart.
All goes well until I get to the last school
drop-off where I discover I’ve forgotten to tie my son’s laces. As I bend down, the unwelcome sound of my
trousers tearing announces that I’m in trouble. Now, I may be shabby and untidy
but you wouldn’t normally catch me wearing ripped jeans. As a matter of
principle I can’t stand this business of rich people pretending to be poor. As
discretely as I can, I check on the state of my 501s. There’s a flash of colour.
Forget the naked expression of knees, the crotch of my jeans has gone and it’s
only boxer shorts that are saving the world from an outrageous display. Today
of all days.
A deep breath. It’s okay. I make the
decision not to panic. The train leaves at midday so there’s plenty of time for
me to stop off and buy a new pair. I don’t know how long Levis have been making
501s but when I discovered buying clothes-by-number it made life a whole lot
easier. I’m so relaxed I can still get a
coffee with the mums. I didn’t imagine it this way but we see each other all
the time and I’ve made a friends over the years.
Part 2
This morning the conversation is much the same
as always. How was the weekend? Homework piling up but thank god it’s nearly
holidays. Last month our world was disturbed by a couple of beta-mums arguing
in the street. It’s taken a while but everything
has settled down. I’m used to being the only man at school gatherings and these
ladies are kind. Am I doing anything interesting? They know I was once a doctor
but I’ve never told anyone about my writing. Off to Paris, I tell them, for
dinner with my wife. It’s a party at the Opera.
“Ooh, sounds romantic,” the usual teasing.
Only three of us left in the café.
Black tie, big outing for me.
“What’s she wearing?”
I know enough about shoes and designers to
get by. And I tell them about all the arrangements; I came by cab this morning
because I’ll going directly to the station once I’ve bought a pair of jeans. I’ve
been careful while I sit, they don’t need to know the reason.
“Jeans? What kind?”
“501s, same as always,” I’m feeling so
relaxed, almost like a holiday.
One of the ladies grabs my arm to make sure
I don’t get up. A quick look across to her friend and I can see they’re in
agreement. She signals to the waiter to bring another round of coffees.
“We have to talk.”
I’m sitting across the table, watching the
nudges going back and forth. I’ve got to get to the shop soon, I don’t want to
miss the train.
“It’s
not as simple as you think,” no.1 is telling me. This is Pam, makeup in
archeographic layers and a mass of curly hair.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “I know my
size. I’ve been wearing the same thing for years.”
I know it’s come out wrong, just today I have
a deadline.
“Don’t rush into anything,” the smaller one
suggests. Tilda. Maybe I should have said petite.
“I’m only buying jeans, it’s a uniform,” I
hear myself saying. This is starting to feel like an interrogation. Or maybe more
like therapy; these are things I don’t need to share.
“Exactly,” Tilly says. “That’s the
problem.”
“Like those Chinese peasants in the
Cultural Revolution,” Pam grimaces. “Seriously, I can’t understand why straight
men are so resistant to having fun. You guys would feel better if you’d let go
and be a bit gay.”
They’re losing me now. The point is that I
don’t want to think about clothes. I’d go to a movie or play tennis if I wanted
to enjoy myself. Even better, I could have slow a breakfast and read the
papers. That’s a luxury I really miss.
“It’s fine, I’ll wear chinos,” I tell them.
“What kind? What colour?... You can’t wear
a shirt like that, and what about shoes? You’ll have to change completely. Come
on, stand up. Let’s have a look at you.”
It’s already embarrassing. I get up very carefully.
Pamela doesn’t quite roll her eyes but it’s
close. She turns to her friend, my friend too, or so I thought.
“Tills, I’m late. Send him to Selfridges,
at least there’ll be someone on hand to help. Obviously the wrong day but since
it’s is an emergency…”
Tilly just smiles. She’s a little calmer,
quite pretty, with four children. The youngest is with my eldest… Funny, I’ve
just realised she never talks about life before her kids and I don’t know if
she works. At the moment all I’m sure about is that she’s laughing, and clearly
it’s at me.
“If you could see your face,” she reaches
into her bag for a tissue to dry her eyes. “It’s not so bad and Pam’s
completely over the top but I agree with her about the 501s. For most women, urban
cowboy is not a good look. If you asked Rosie, I’m sure she’d agree.”
She looks at me carefully. I can see she’s
trying to gauge my reaction.
“There’ll be more choice at Selfridges. 2nd
floor, they have concessions,” she can see I’m wavering.
“If I don’t go for Levi’s, I won’t know
what to do.”
“You know your size,” she reminds me. “Have
a look, just go and see.”
Part 3
That was nearly an hour ago. Now I’m
preparing to navigate a circle of purgatory without a clue about where to start.
The Men’s department in Selfridges is huge, the size of an aircraft hangar and
there aren’t many customers. The various stalls are supposed to have their own
music but every one of them is playing a variation of the same thing. Boom Boom Boom, Let’s go back to my room. I
can’t believe Tilly and Pam sent me here. It’s not just the music, every
manikin is dressed in blue denim. I’ve counted 15 brands so far. To be truthful,
they look identical.
I walk around for a bit without making
progress. I want to phone Rose but I’m still hanging on to the idea of
surprising her with a demonstration of elegant independence. Anyway, I know she
can’t take random calls unless it’s a real emergency. Like the day with the
cashmere jumpers and our washing machine. There was nothing she could do but I
knew it was better to confess immediately – today’s problem isn’t quite in the
same category.
I’m still wandering around without a coherent
plan. Weirdly, when I look up, I find myself standing at the Levi’s counter. It
must be fate and I find myself experiencing a minor revelation. The brands all
look the same and nobody’s going to see me on the train. Which means I can just
buy 501s! Great. There’s no reason for me to tell anyone. Not Rosie, not Tilly
and not Pam. I can’t help smiling because it’s such an obvious solution. Next
time, when I’m not in a rush, I’ll be able to work on their advice. Selfridges
isn’t so bad after all. Quite convenient to have everything in one place.
At the till, behind the counter, there are
two men and a woman who must be in management because she’s asking questions
and making notes on a clipboard. One of the guys looks pretty normal even if
he’s a little older than the usual sales assistant. The other? Well, obviously
he’s normal too but his version of ordinariness includes a shaven head, bushy
beard and tattoos for added colour. Also he’s wearing a cut-off shirt suitable
for a bodybuilder’s demonstration. I’m sure he’s happy with his look but it’s
not friendly or welcoming. Basically it’s a style that tells people like me
that we should shop online. I can’t think about that now. Levis, 501, in
regular denim is what I need. I time my approach to the counter so that I’ll be
served by the more conventional-looking salesperson.
“No problem,” he says. “Noooo problem.
Always plenty of stock. I’m wearing 501s too.”
The man is looking for my size and telling
me this brand is fundamentally superior. He’s elegant and stylish, works in this
huge store at the cutting edge of fashion so the school-gate crew obviously don’t
know everything.
“Do you only wear Levi’s?” I find myself
asking. I’m wondering if managers disapprove when salesmen don’t wear jeans to
match their stall. It’s obvious my comment is too flippant. My guide has a
different world view and I can see it’s no accident that he ended up in this
particular line of work. Levi’s, he explains again, are special and he can
chart every major life event by the trousers he was wearing. It’s clear he’s a
true believer.
If I’m honest, the devotion seems a little
over the top. Before he’s done I’ve heard everything including the next stage
of his life’s journey.
“I chose this pair today because…” he’s talking
but I’m not listening anymore. He doesn’t seem to notice so it must be okay.
He’s found my jeans and leads me towards the changing cubicles.
“I don’t need to try them on,” I tell him.
“I always buy these.”
Apparently that’s not the way things are
done. The fabric is constantly being redesigned and there could be individual
variations.
It’s okay, I’m not late – this is what I’m
thinking – and the man is trying. People protest about poor service and, here I
am, getting detailed advice.
“Thanks,” I follow him to the fitting room.
“I like the heavy fabric. In fact, I’m sure I’ve had a pair like this before. The
only problem was that when I washed them they shrank in a funny way.”
“You what?” the look is pure incredulity.
“I washed them?” I say more hesitantly. I’m
a parent, life is full of messy events and I don’t need the world decoding my
exploits through random stains on a trouser leg.
He takes the jeans back.
“No,” I say. “I want them. I’ll try them
on. I have a train to catch.”
“I am sorry, sir, my fault entirely,” he’s
talking very carefully. By now we’re back at the shelves and he’s rifling through
the folded stacks until he finds another pair. “Try these. 522. Can you find
your way to the dressing room?”
Part 4
What is going on? Midmorning in a changing booth
when I should be on the way to Paris. There are mirrors everywhere, the
lighting is brutal and my world seems to be spinning out of control. Even the once-friendly
salesman is treating me with contempt. I take off my old jeans and pull on the
new pair.
522s look okay but my confidence has
disappeared. Am I supposed to step out and show the sales guy? Is that what
people do?
I look at my phone. I’ll call Rose. I’m about
to press her number when I realise how bad that could be. She might be in the
middle of a speech, her phone will ring… As the avenues close off, a new idea
pops into my head. I take the phone, search for Tilly’s number, looking at
myself in the mirror with the phone to my ear. I’ve never spoken to the mums
about personal problems. I imagine it happens a lot between women but as a man
I’m not really in that deep.
“Alan? How are you? Everything okay?” she
already knows it’s me. We all have each other’s numbers stored in case of an
emergency.
“Um, Tilly, are you busy?” I say nervously.
“I could do with some advice.”
Obviously I’m trying to play it down but a conversation
like this is very unusual. In the past we’ve spoken about missing homework or
lost jumpers. Last time it was probably a cricket bat.
“Fire away,” she says. “Did you get what
you need?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask about. You’re
not near still near Oxford Street are you?”
“Yup,” she says. “Killing time before I
meet my mother-in-law.”
“Is there any chance you could help me? I’m
a little stuck.”
There’s no sound at the other end of the
line.
I take a quick glance at the screen to make
sure we’re still connected.
“Alan… You’re in Selfridges? Is that right?”
“You said no Levis but I’ve got myself
caught,” I whisper into the phone. “The salesman is a bit strange.”
“You want me to come to the changing room
to see if your new jeans fit?” her voice is muffled, could be laughing. “I feel
like I’m 16 and my boyfriend’s best mate has tried to kiss me behind the bike shed.”
What?
“You’re a nice guy, Alan, but what do you
think my husband would say?”
“Oh.” Yes, can I see now. It’s a bit
tricky.
“Even picturing you in the changing room… it’s
only jeans, you’ll be fine.”
“Yes, right. Sorry to have been so stupid.”
“You’re sweet. Your wife is lucky to have
you,” she’s still laughing as she signs off.
You know what? I’m going to get the 501s
and be on my way. Then I remember the style police won’t authorise a sale. That
means I have to go with the 522s. They look okay and anyway I want a pair that
can be washed. The phone rings as I start taking the jeans off because I haven’t
paid yet. It’s awkward trying to hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder
while I hop around. The phone falls, I reach, catch it, juggle for a moment.
Leave it on the chair.
“Hold on, give me a moment and I’ll put you
on speaker.”
The legs in this skinny style are tighter
than the 501s and it’s a bit of a struggle. There’s no sound from the phone. Must’ve
gone, lost the connection.
Finally, they’re off. I’ll have to put the
old, ripped pair on to pay, then I can come back to change. The only trouble is
that when I reach for the trousers, my phone is on top and there’s a head looking
at me on the screen.
FaceTime?
“Tilly? How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to know you need help,” she won’t stop smiling. “Don’t
worry, Alan, you know I’m never going to talk about this and neither are you.”
I don’t even need to nod. I can’t believe
this. Here I am, in this luminous cubicle with floor to ceiling mirrors on
three sides.
“Good legs, Al,” she says just to remind me
how exposed I should be feeling.
Oh god, oh god, is all I can think.
“Well?” she’s waiting for me to do
something.
“I am so sorry. Let me get dressed and I’ll
call you back.” There’s no way this could be more embarrassing. I can see from
the screen that she’s in a café, cup of coffee in her hand.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’s telling me. “I’m
forty-four, that’s older than you, and I’ve got four kids so you know there’s nothing
I haven’t seen. Now, put the jeans on and take off your shirt otherwise we won’t
know if they fit.”
I could break the connection.
“What did you think I was going to do when
you asked me to come down to help you? Hang around outside and listen to your
description through the door? If I came, I’d be in there with you.”
I’m think I must have frozen. It’s not
clear how much time has passed.
“Alan,” she says eventually. “I thought you
had to catch a train.”
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