Travelling by taxi was a rarity for me. I am of a frugalnature, brought on by years of being a poor student followed by years more oftrying to make ends meet on a nurse’s salary in Oxford. I considered taxis tobe an unnecessary luxury. If there was a bus available, I took it, even if thatbus happened to be the last one home at 2am, full of annoying drunks and peopleeating stinky takeaways.
With my newfound spending power it was quite exhilaratingbeing able to cast off the shackles of austerity. This taxi was the secondthing I had splashed out on today, and I wasn’t finished yet. The purse stringshad been slashed wide open and I already had my next purchase in mind.
The taxi dropped me opposite the entrance to the CoveredMarket on the High Street. I paid the driver, eliciting another barely audiblegrunt in response, and headed across the road, hoping that what I had come forwas still here.
I had recalled during my taxi ride that two or three yearsago, Phoebe and I had come Christmas shopping together. We had walked throughthe market looking at all the seasonal displays from the many and variedretailers inside, mostly goods we couldn’t afford.
Christmas shopping wasn’t really something I did much ofthese days – with most of my family dead I had very few people to buy for. ButPhoebe insisted I come with her, as Lily had been working, so off to town wewent – on the bus, naturally.
On that day we had been wandering along one of the narrowpassages that made up this historic rabbit warren of a market, when I hadspotted an absolutely gorgeous dress in the window of a recently openedboutique. When I pointed it out to Phoebe she encouraged me to try it on, whichI did – and even I was stunned at the outcome.
Generally I am pretty terrible when it comes to clothesshopping. Everything that looks amazing on a shop window dummy looks like it’sjust been draped over the branches of a tree when it’s put on me. Or that’swhat I think, anyway.
Shop assistants tend to be more enthusiastic, but since mostof them are on commission I take all that “it looks lovely on you” stuff with apinch of salt. At least with Phoebe in tow I was able to get an unbiased secondopinion.
Early in our relationship, I managed to get Rob to come withme clothes shopping a few times, but he had been no help. It was quite clearfrom all the eye-rolling and grumbling that he would far rather be elsewhere.
Perhaps I should have taken that as a warning sign of whatwas to come. Doubtless he felt the same on the rare occasions we were havingsex once he had Emma next door. He had probably been fantasising about herwhile we were doing it.
I certainly couldn’t trust him to give me an unbiasedopinion on any clothes I tried on. Usually he would say anything looked good toget me to buy it so we could get out of the shop and go to the pub. I couldhave draped a bin liner over myself and he would have said it looked good. Inthe end I stopped asking him to accompany me.
Shopping with girlfriends was different: they never seemedto get bored. Their reactions were genuine and I knew from the way Phoebe hadenthused about this slinky little red number that I’d found the perfect dress.
It doesn’t happen very often, especially if you are as fussyas me. Such moments come along once or twice a lifetime at best. I knew rightthen that I had to have it.
That was before I looked at the price tag and discoveredthat I couldn’t have it. £499.99 was out of my price range by at least £400 soI reluctantly gave the dress back to the assistant and left, feeling prettycrestfallen. I was so downhearted that it took three pints with Phoebe in TheChequers over the road to quell the disappointment.
I hadn’t forgotten about that dress and it had come up inconversation a few times since.
“Remember that gorgeous dress you found in the market thattime?” Phoebe would say.
“Don’t remind me,” I’d reply, wishing just once that I couldhave one of the finer things in life for myself.
Now here I was, back in the past and keeping my fingerscrossed that this was that same year Phoebe and I had gone Christmas shoppingand that if it was, the dress was still there. That shopping trip had been aweek before Christmas and it was two weeks later now, so even if it was theright year, someone else might have grabbed it by now.
Fortunately, I was right on both counts. It was the rightyear and it was still there, sitting in the window just as I remembered. As abonus, it was now reduced in the New Year sale to £249.99, not that that madeone iota of a difference. Nothing was going to stop me from buying it this timeand I would have paid double the original price if I’d had to.
I went in and tried it on again, just to be sure. It was ared satin skater dress which hugged my hips perfectly before billowing out inan A shape to just above my knees. It was also very flattering for my boobs –with this on I would have a bust to almost rival Phoebe’s, and that was sayingsomething.
I paid the £250 using my credit card, a twinge ofnaughtiness seeping through me as I typed in my PIN. It felt like I was doingsomething I shouldn’t be, almost akin to stealing. But who was I stealing from– the credit card company? My future self? It was a rather grey area.
I was half-expecting the card to be declined, as if someonesomewhere knew what I was up to, but my fears were unfounded. The transactionwent through perfectly and I finally owned my dream dress. Now all I needed wasa pair of shoes to go with it.
To say I got carried away with my shopping
