Rules of the Road. Ciara Geraghty

I leave my bra and knickers on. She didn’t mean me to remove them? Did she?

      No. I’m sure she didn’t.

      Besides, they don’t sell underwear in charity shops.

      Or maybe they do now?

      But no, they couldn’t. It’s all second-hand stuff isn’t it?

      Even I draw the line at hand-me-down knickers.

      ‘Eh, I don’t need underwear,’ I call from behind the heavy velvet curtains that separate me from the sales assistant.

      She does not respond, although I know she heard me because she paused in her conversation with herself.

      ‘Are you decent?’ she is good enough to ask, and I am about to tell her that I am standing here in my bra and knickers, only so that she is prepared for it, when she flings back the curtains and surveys me. While the bra and knickers are Marks & Spencer, they are fairly old. Even Marks & Spencer’s underwear gives out eventually.

      Mine haven’t given out exactly. They’re just … a bit tired looking.

      ‘Let’s start with this skirt and top,’ Jennifer says, looking at me in the mirror. I look too and see what she sees. My tired old knickers and bra, my sagging breasts and stretch-marked belly and pasty skin and hairy legs. I see it all. The full glare of me – long and skinny with mousy hair and washed-out blue eyes – in the full-length mirror cruelly lit by bright, Hollywood-style bulbs.

      All the better to see you, my dear.

      I wrestle myself into the skirt (dry-clean only) and a run-in-the-wash top even though I’ll never buy them because they’re not my colour – a raucous green and purple – and they’re not my style – the skirt’s too short and the top is too, I don’t know, too green and purple.

      Still, at least I’m covered up now.

      ‘Well?’ asks the young woman.

      Something sharp on the waistband of the too-short skirt digs into my skin, and the V of the top’s neckline turns out to be a very long V so that I would spend all my time looking down, checking that I am still decent.

      I feel a panic-buy coming on.

      ‘I’ll take them,’ I say. I need to get out of here. I know it could be worse. I could be in one of those awful boutiques where the women comment on my height and say, ‘I know just the thing,’ even though you’ve already told them that you’re only browsing and the just the thing turns out to be a scarf for eighty euros that you won’t ever wear because you don’t ever wear scarves.

      Jennifer folds her arms and examines my face. ‘Why would you take them?’ she asks.

      ‘Eh … I … because they’re lovely?’

      ‘No they’re not.’

      ‘Then why did you give them to me to try on?’

      ‘It was a test.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘Which you failed.’

      Jennifer smiles, and I notice a speck of bright-red lipstick on one of her front teeth which makes me feel a tiny bit better.

      ‘Okay,’ she says, unfolding her arms and rubbing her hands together. ‘We are going to practise, okay?’

      I nod. I’ve no idea what she means.

      I suddenly wonder if this is one of those television programmes where they make fools of people like me. But she’s looking right at me so I can’t scan the shop for hidden cameras.

      ‘I’m going to show you an outfit, and you’re going to tell me exactly what you think of it. And I’ll know if you’re lying.’ She glares at me like I’ve already told a lie, so I say, ‘Okay,’ and she smiles then and there’s the speck of lipstick again, and so we begin.

      If it were a quiz, it would be the quick-fire round.

      She holds up outfit after outfit. She’s calling them ensembles. They’re not just tops and skirts or tops and trousers. She adds jewellery. Belts. Hats. Shoes. Jackets. Arranges me so that I’m facing the full-length mirror and holds the first ensemble against me.

      ‘Well, it’s … it’s really lovely but—’

      ‘I just need one word,’ explains Jennifer, with end-of-tether patience. ‘An adjective preferably. Okay?’

      ‘Okay. But … before you begin, could I just quickly ask … do you have anything navy?’

      ‘Navy?’ she says. ‘What for?’

      ‘Well, because, you know, I like navy, and—’

      ‘Nobody likes navy,’ she says. She holds the ensemble – none of which is navy – up again.

      ‘Garish,’ I manage.

      ‘Oh. Right. Well done. This one?’

      ‘Tacky.’

      ‘Is that not the same as garish?’

      ‘No. Tacky refers mainly to poor taste and quality whereas garish could be good quality but lurid.’

      ‘Impressive. This one?’

      ‘Itchy.’

      ‘This one?’

      ‘Skimpy.’

      ‘This one?’

      ‘Fussy.’

      ‘This one?’

      ‘Scanty.’

      ‘This one?’

      ‘Dressy.’

      Jennifer runs out of clothes before I run out of adjectives. She lets her now-empty arms hang by her sides, appraises me anew. I can tell she is surprised, and I feel ridiculously pleased about this. Emboldened, I point at a summer dress that I will never wear because it is a linen dress. A linen dress, the colour of early morning mist, that will both crease and stain easily. A linen halter-neck dress that will stop just short of my bony knees, and then there’s the rest of my legs, south of my bony knees, which I’d have to shave, and …

      ‘Good choice,’ says Jennifer, nodding with naked approval. ‘What else?’

      In the end, Jennifer manages to persuade me to buy three carrier bags full, containing:

       bright-pink bomber jacket (silk – will have to be hand-washed in cold water);

       puffball red skirt (cotton – machine washable);

       green leopard-print A-line skirt (acrylic – the washing instructions tag is no longer attached, but I imagine it should be washed inside out, at a safe thirty degrees);

       brown (dark-chocolate brown, say 70% cacao) kitten heels, which I will never wear because I never wear heels (suede);

       silver-grey ‘boyfriend’ cardigan with long fitted sleeves (80% acrylic, 20% wool, will hand-wash for safety);

       a bright-pink tulle high-waisted midi-skirt (as yet unidentified synthetic mix);

       a lime-green T-shirt with bright-pink limes all over it (the softest cotton!);

       a pale peach cropped jumper with three-quarter-length sleeves (mohair!);

       brown ‘gladiator’ summer sandals (leather);

       two spaghetti-string tops (1. Scarlet! 2. Orange!!);

       one pair of white ‘skinny’ jeans (denim) with – subtle-ish – diamanté detail on back pockets (short, cold-water cycle, add a thimble of vinegar);

       a silk shirt-dress, much too short and impractical given the delicacy of the fabric and its shade of palest blue, which Jennifer says is the exact shade of my eyes (strictly