A Random Act of Kindness. Sophie Jenkins
to laugh it off. ‘She was hoping I’d be a model, like her. And then, as I’m only five foot five, she was happy to settle for me being a fashion designer.’
‘Oh, I get it. You’re not living up to her motherly expectations. “What are your goals, Fern?”’ Lucy says, in an accurate imitation, and adds in her ordinary voice, ‘And that whole Malcolm McDowell thing – what was that all about?’
‘She met him when he was in Caligula,’ I say gloomily. ‘But nothing came of it. That’s my mother. Always hoping for the best and always disappointed.’
We stare at each other for a moment and then for no reason at all, we suddenly start to laugh, muffling it with our fists on our mouths.
‘And the dead butcher bit. Did she think Macbeth actually was a butcher?’
The tears are rolling down my face. ‘Don’t!’
‘“She had so much promise and she’s thrown it all away …”’
‘Stop it!’
‘You know what?’ Lucy says, giggling weakly. ‘You should do stand-up. You’ve got enough material.’
‘I could do stand-up.’
‘That’ll teach her. This could be your Thane of Cawdor moment.’ She wipes her eyes and raises her glass. ‘Happy to help.’ She looks at the time and finishes her drink. ‘I’d better go too, I suppose. Time to take my Night Nurse medicine. I’m incubating a cold.’ To prove it, she sneezes into the elbow of her black dress. Her zips jingle.
‘Bless you,’ I say, dodging out of the way as she checks for damage – I don’t move far enough to be rude but I do try to get far enough away to avoid the germs that might have escaped around her slim arm, because what could be worse than catching a cold at this crucial time in my business career?
(Plenty, as it turns out.)
I see Lucy out into the cool night and she totters up the wooden steps, waving all the way, then curses softly for a few moments outside her front door while she finds her keys.
I lock the door and stand in the now spinning centre of the flat that I live in, with my parents tucked up in the bedroom, my friend safely upstairs.
I wonder if the night will have repercussions. My mother’s very good at keeping a grudge going, but she can only keep it going as long as we’re together and they’re going back in the morning.
I brush my teeth in the kitchen sink then make up the sofa, switch the lights off and wrap myself up in my duvet.
Surprisingly, I sleep well.
A sky-blue silk satin Sixties-style A-line dress with bracelet-length sleeves and feather trim to neckline and cuffs, scalloped knee-length hem, unlabelled.
I wake up next morning wound up tightly in my duvet and all the events of the previous night come tumbling back into my head, starting with the alarming fact that my parents are asleep in my bedroom.
The sun is flickering in my eyes, the light filtered by the lacy green leaves of the tree fern in the garden. The sky is a clear blue and it was a frock of that same pure, uplifting colour that lost me my dream job.
At least I’ve told my parents now, so that’s one problem out of the way.
I’d been dreading telling them – it’s true, my mother’s had many disappointments in her life, not just the fact she ended up marrying my father instead of Malcolm McDowell because she failed to become as famous as Jerry Hall. I’ve disappointed her too, and I’m not sure it’s anything I can put right.
I studied fashion at St Martin’s, but not just to please my mother – I genuinely had ambitions of becoming a fashion designer. Like her, because of her, I’ve always loved clothes. I’ve been buying vintage clothing since my early teens. I enjoyed studying the construction of the pieces as much as wearing them.
But in my final year, compared with my fellow students, I knew that I didn’t have the imagination or the vision to design clothes that were often avant-garde and unwearable for the average person. I lacked the sheer sense of performance that it takes to bring a collection to the catwalk. To be honest, I’d been winging it anyway, because my passion is for clothes that make a person look good. Otherwise, what’s the point? Me, I always choose style over innovation.
After graduating, I spent a few years in fashion sales and I was thrilled when I landed the job as personal stylist in a large department store in Oxford Street.
One of the first things we needed to know about a client was their budget and then we were encouraged to stretch it – although, not all our clients were rich.
There are many reasons why people need help shopping for clothes. These days, people are less confident about their appearance than ever. Sometimes they don’t have the confidence to try something new. Sure, they can choose the labels that also have a line of accessories like beaded bags and matching hats, but although it makes shopping easier, it’s self-defeating in a way. There’s always the risk that someone else is going to show up wearing exactly the same thing and that they’ll both have to spend the whole occasion keeping as far away from each other as possible to avoid looking like middle-aged twins.
Fashions change. Partners aren’t always helpful enough – or patient enough – to give an honest second opinion. After two outfits, a man will say that anything looks great, just so that he can be done with the whole boring business and go home. Friends aren’t always tactful and those who follow trends are the worst. There’s nothing more demoralising than shopping with a fashionista who pushes into the dressing room, tries on the stuff that her friend has just turned down and looks fabulous in everything.
As a personal stylist, my job was to make my clients look in the mirror and see themselves differently. I was supportive, admiring and knowledgeable. For a period of two hours, I was the perfect friend; bringing coffee or prosecco, zipping and unzipping, encouraging them to own the clothes – can you sit in it? Eat in it? Dance in it? And then I’d get them thinking about accessories: bags, shoes, scarves, pendants, fur cuffs, sunglasses – the beautiful final touches that make a look. It was a brilliant feeling to see a woman admiring herself in the mirror with happy disbelief – and keep on looking. For me, that was the ultimate job satisfaction. I discovered I, too, had the ability to see women through their own eyes and boost their confidence by transforming them into someone new.
The client who got me fired was an elderly man shopping for his wife. His name was Kim Aston. He arrived for the two-hour appointment, a neat, slightly built man about my own height, wearing a suit and a bright, multicoloured silk tie. His greying hair was short and swept back from his forehead.
He looked nervously at the glittering chandeliers and the ornate chairs and faced me with a frown. ‘I was just about to leave,’ he said as soon as I introduced myself.
‘Are you in a hurry?’ I asked.
‘No. It’s just that—’ He looked up at the enormous chandelier again as if its blatant, lavish extravagance was putting him off. ‘I didn’t think it was going to be so—’ He shrugged and tailed off.
I smiled understandingly, because I knew what he meant. Our department was ostentatiously luxurious. Cream carpets, mirrors, drapes. We were selling the experience: this is what it’s like to be rich and have a personal shopper, a valet, an attendant, someone to admire you and to make you look the best you can be while you sit back and enjoy it then hand over a credit card at the end. We were selling the promise that all this could be theirs. And for two hours it was theirs to enjoy. But Kim Aston found it intimidating and I could understand that, too.
I said, ‘Would you prefer coffee or tea with your glass of champagne?’
That’s how we did it. We took it for