Putting on her dark glasses and a haughty demeanour, Claire sashayed through the designer department of Brown Thomas. She passed through the busy make-up stands, spraying herself with a little Chanel before she took the elevator upstairs. Designer after designer and their season’s style imprinted themselves on her memory as she made a mental note of what looked right and what did not. The prices were exorbitant but she was determined to do it in her own fashion. Making squiggly marks in the small shopping jotter, she noted details on the styles that looked best, tiny features, trims, etc. The right dress or suit, shoes, bag, hosiery, make-up were all essential for the winner of the Ladies’ Day Prize at the RDS, she decided as she researched back issues of the newspapers in the National Library in Kildare Street. A hat was definitely needed if she wanted to make a favourable impression with the judges. It looked hopeless given that her credit limit was totally maxed out, but Claire was not about to give up on what she now considered a good bet.
She had a wardrobe and a case full of clothes at home. OK, so some was rubbish and too trendy – the judges definitely didn’t go for trendy – but a few pieces were bought at considerable cost in the sales, when their original designer bank-loan prices were slashed. Claire’s eyes were well able to spot a classic bargain.
There must be something suitable in the wardrobe of Canal Quay and it would be just a matter of dressing it up.
While Fiona and Bridget lost themselves in Coronation Street, a repeat episode of Friends and the latest CSI, Claire calmly took out the entire contents of her wardrobe and spread it across the bed. Anything denim or corduroy immediately returned to its place on the rail. There was the retro sixties-style St Laurent she’d picked up last year in Paris. No, too different. An expensive cream and beige pinstripe suit, no. The red silk dress that she’d worn to her cousin Betsy’s wedding two years ago was too skimpy and definitely not suitable. She had got her Louise Kennedy pale blue linen suit at a bargain price because someone had smeared make-up all over the neck of the jacket. After a special-care dry cleaning it had come up perfect and was a real possibility. There remained a frilly sexy full-skirted summer dress that made her waist look tiny, a strappy pink fitted dress with a short skirt that drove men crazy and, of course, her simple black linen dress with its square neck and neat bodice and a skirt that came to just above her knees. She collapsed on the bed to consider, retrieving her notebook from the recesses of her bag.
‘Hey, Claire! We’re going to get a takeaway. Do you want something too?’
Claire thought of Little China’s delicious sweet-and-sour chicken balls and their tasty chicken, spring onion and water chestnut dish. Her stomach groaned. She’d made do with only a scrambled egg on toast when she’d got in from the office.
‘Will I order you a curry?’ asked Fiona, stepping into the room.
‘I haven’t any change,’ she fibbed.
Fiona said nothing for a minute. ‘Tell me what you want and I’ll get it, OK?’
Claire didn’t know how it was that she had ended up with the most generous-hearted friend and flatmate in the whole of Dublin.
‘Listen, the minute I get some money I’ll pay you back, all right?’
Her humour picked up and she decided once she’d eaten she’d consult the girls about her wardrobe possibilities, have a try-on and see what they thought would be best.
‘The black.’ It was unanimous. It looked expensive. It felt expensive and it exuded classic style. No one had ever won in plain black so she would have to dress it up. A bag, a belt, a jacket, shoes but most definitely a hat was now needed. She ranged through the possibilities – pink, pale blue, white, red and lemon. These were her likely colour options. Shoes most definitely classic black. Her much-loved Jimmy Choos were taken from their box. Tapered heel, sexy little straps and the most delicious pointed toes. No wonder she felt like Cinderella as she slipped them on to her feet. They had been a surprise present from her parents for her twenty-first and along with her gold chain and silver locket and the string of pearls she had inherited from her grandmother they were her most prized possessions. Now she just had to find the rest.
‘You OK?’ asked Sheila at work.
Claire pulled herself up. She had been daydreaming of winning the first prize at Ladies’ Day at the horse show.
‘It must be love,’ beamed her colleague, passing her a file on a massive case involving sausages and food poisoning with a group of nuns claiming against the food company. Yuk.
Claire blazed. Sheila was always trying to find out if she had a boyfriend or was dating someone. She had no intention of telling Sheila that men seemed to keep away from her for some bizarre reason. They might flirt with her, dance with her, even ask her back to their flats but usually that was as far as it went. There were no long intimate phone calls, or romantic gestures, or requests to see her again. It hurt like hell but she’d read in one of the magazines that it was something experienced by most models and one only had to follow the lives of supermodels like Naomi Campbell in the press to see that it was true.
‘Just a bit tired,’ she said. ‘Too many late nights!’
Studying her dress and shoes, she had to decide how to accessorize them. The handbags she’d seen were an outrageous price, and as for a hat her spirits had plummeted when she’d read the price tags hidden inside their brims. She’d look for a second-hand one in one of the thrift shops, that’s what she’d do.
Saturday morning she got up early and spent hours trailing through the market in Cow’s Lane, Temple Bar and a succession of Vincent de Paul and Oxfam shops. Claire had been about to give up when, rooting through a box of berets and tweed caps and a straw boater, she’d found it! A classic elegant black hat that was a perfect fit.
‘Would you like a mirror, dear?’ asked the grey-haired lady in the purple skirt and Hush Puppy shoes.
Claire’s eyes widened as she recognized the discreet 1950s label. The hat was exactly what she had been searching for.
‘It’s lovely,’ she murmured, ‘but I’m not sure . . . and anyway it’s a bit too pricey at thirty euro.’
The volunteer studied the hat, considering it rather plain and old-fashioned herself. ‘I could let you have a bit of a discount,’ she offered. ‘Five euro off.’
‘I only have twenty,’ Claire said, holding her breath.
‘That’ll do.’
Claire paid for it quickly and watched the lady wrap it in a supermarket bag, hoping she wouldn’t damage it. Everything was coming together – but she couldn’t just wear black or she’d look like she was in mourning. What would she put with it?
She was walking back uptown when she turned into South Anne Street. She resisted the temptation to visit the deli near the corner and kept walking. It was a pity so many of the shops on the little street had closed down; the area was about to be redeveloped, she guessed. The greengrocer’s and the lovely shoe shop where she’d taken her Jimmy Choos for the delicate replacement of their tiny leather heel tips were gone.
She slowed down, noticing the hat shop on the corner of the street. Funny, she hadn’t spotted it before. She’d have a look: you never knew, you might get an idea, she thought, gazing in the window. It had all been painted up and was now a pretty cream colour, flowerpots round the tiled porch, the window a feast of tantalizing colour. The hats were gorgeous. Bright blue, pink and mauve, creamy white in the shape of a lily. She gasped in admiration. If she had a hat like any of these she’d be bound to win. There were no price tags to be seen, just the curly signature of the designer over the shop door. The black hat in its plastic bag in her hand suddenly seemed totally dreary and drab as she stood looking at the wonderful confections displayed. She had to go inside. She just had to.