Peering up, I took in the sign above the shop, and all became clear. I was looking into the window of a charity shop. I noticed overflowing plastic crates piled high with books on the pavement outside, so close to my feet that I could easily have tripped over them. I bent down to look, sifting past a bestselling bonk-buster Kath had raved about earlier in the year. I filtered past the Dan Browns and Jilly Coopers, surprised to find a stack of football programmes buried near the bottom of the box. Some gave me a sense of déjà vu, Newcastle United programmes I’d bought myself as a kid, with images of Shearer and Speed and Gillespie plastered on their covers, but then I came to an older programme behind them. It was from the early seventies, and I recognised Malcolm McDonald, one of Dad’s heroes of yesteryear, all sideburns and shaggy hair, gracing the cover. Dad insists he’s a legend, far superior to any of the current crop wearing the black and white stripes of our hometown club. Dad would probably already have the programme in his stash, but I found myself taking it into the shop anyway. It’d make a nice gift, and give him an excuse to reminisce of bygone days.
“Hello,” said the man behind the counter. “Found something you like the look of?”
It took all my willpower not to reply, “Yes, you,” because the man was undeniably attractive. His fair hair was swept over to one side. His T-shirt was just a touch too tight around his biceps, showing off well-defined tanned arms which were free from the tattoos that normally got me swooning. And he was wearing glasses with unapologetically thick-rimmed black frames that looked ridiculously geeky and made me think of Brains from Thunderbirds. He wasn’t my usual type, but something about him was insanely hot.
“My dad will love this.” I placed the programme on the counter before tentatively adding, “And I wondered how much the jumpsuit in the window was?”
He stood up from the stool he’d been perching on and headed towards the display. He found a label and named his price, significantly less than the teal version I’d fallen in love with in the high-end department store.
“I bet it’d suit you. Bring out the blue of your eyes.”
My cheeks felt hot, and I knew they were reddening at the compliment. From most men I’d have thought it was a line, but from this man – Max, or so his name badge told me – it didn’t feel like a come-on, although he was probably a master salesman, full of charm and patter.
“Maybe I could try it on?” My voice wobbled and only partly because I was well out of my comfort zone in a shop cluttered with people’s unloved and unwanted objects. “If it’s not too much bother taking it out of the window?”
“No trouble at all.”
I studied him more closely as he clambered into the window display. As well as the deliciously-curved biceps, there was a rather biteable peach of an arse beneath his jet-black fitted jeans. A sprinkling of stubble peppered his chiselled jawline, and there was an endearing look of concentration on his face as he carefully chose where to place his feet.
“The changing room’s just over there.” Max pointed to the far end of the shop with one hand as he passed me the jumpsuit with the other.
It turned out the changing room was a metre-square corner of the shop with a pulled-back curtain, a battered pine dining chair crammed into a corner and a full-length mirror attached to the wall. It was barely big enough to stand upright in, let alone allow me to wrestle myself into a jumpsuit (why are they such a bugger to get into? So fiddly).
Drawing the curtain behind me, I began to undress. There was a sliver of a gap where the swath of material didn’t quite meet the wall, and through the space I saw Max, sitting on his stool, engrossed in a book. As I stripped down to my underwear with just the flimsy curtain between us, an irrational vulnerability came over me. There was no way he could see me (and even if he could he was totally lost in whatever he was reading), but I was still glad I’d decided to wear one of my nicest underwear sets – a mint-green bra and pants set with white lace trim. It gave me confidence as I slipped my legs into the jumpsuit and hitched the straps up over my shoulders. Fastening the zip was awkward, but there was no way I was asking Max for help so I struggled on, my elbows bashing against the wall as I tugged at the small metal pulley.
When I was finally dressed I swizzled to view myself in the mirror. The neckline of the jumpsuit seemed lower once on, my cleavage difficult to avoid. The nipped in waist made the most of my curves and the fabric clung to my bum. Thankfully the flattering cut made it appear pert and perky, even though I’d all but given up on my formerly regimented squatting routine. They might be the answer to a beautiful butt, but they’re the devil’s work. The burn. THE BURN.
“How are you getting on?” Max asked from the other side of the curtain.
I jumped, startled.
“Okay, I think. It fits. It’s hard to see what it looks like from this close to the mirror though.”
“Come out and you’ll get a better view,” he suggested. “It’s a tight squeeze in there, I know.”
Pulling back the curtain, I stepped into the shop.
Max raised his eyebrows in response.
His scrutiny made me aware of how little the jumpsuit left to the imagination. It was a snug fit, and low-cut, and way too dressy for a charity shop
