Shame the Devil Chapter Two - Part Three

Janet had been mortified when, Russell commandeered the help of a saleswomen explaining that she desperately needed help finding something for a special occasion. She had cringed as the saleswoman had looked her up and down and ‘Hmm’d’.

She had stood by patiently as, on hearing of Russell’s nomination, the expertly trained saleswoman had congratulated gratifyingly, apologised that, as she didn’t buy that particular Sunday paper, she unfortunately hadn’t had the pleasure of actually reading his column.

She had nodded meekly as the saleswoman effused about how proud she must be of her successful husband.

After trailing in their wake as they picked out several dresses, Janet had been despatched into the fitting rooms with the instruction to come out so Russell could see how she looked in each.

Russell was very pleased with the charcoal grey suit he’d bought. Of course, he’d rationalised, if he was buying a new suit might as well buy a new shirt as well and if he was buying a new shirt...

He’d left the men’s section with a new suit, shirt, tie, socks, underwear (just because no one would see them didn’t mean they didn’t matter) and new pair of shoes. (The salesman couldn’t believe his luck.) And all that in no time at all. (Actually he’d taken so long he had been thirty-five minutes late meeting Janet at the department store’s women’s section, but then time is relative.)

Hot and sweaty from changing clothes in the cramped cubicle, Janet struggled into another dress ever mindful of Russell waiting outside. She could picture him checking his watch and tapping his foot as he always did unconsciously when impatient.

Why did she let him bully her? It wasn’t just him. She let everyone ride roughshod over her. Always had.

To keep on the right side of her junior school nemesis she’d skipped out of school with her one lunchtime. Of course they had been caught sneaking back in. Karen Walker had stood her ground spinning the Headmistress a ludicrous tale, getting them both deeper into trouble with the lie. Janet had stared at the floor and said nothing.

It takes courage to stand out. It was safer to blend in and go unnoticed. Janet had learned this lesson well. And to despise herself for it.

She looked at her reflection in the changing room mirror. The harsh fluorescent lights made her look pallid and emphasised the shadows under her eyes. Who was this woman? Was this her? She felt like a little girl dressing up in mummy’s shoes. Reluctantly, she pulled aside the curtain and tip-toed bare footed to show Russell.

The simple well-cut navy shift dress hadn’t looked much on the hanger to Russell, but even he had to admit it looked better on. Even on Janet.

Janet stood motionless, ignored, as the saleswoman pointed out to Russell that, with the addition of a few accessories, which (ever mindful of the additional commission) she would be more than happy to help him choose, the dress would be lifted from the every-day to a stylish outfit suitable for the occasion. Russell thanked her. Yes he would indeed appreciate her continued assistance.

He turned to Janet as if suddenly remembering she was there.

‘If you could just do something with your hair.’

Janet smoothed nervously and ineffectually at her hair.

‘I could put it up. Or wear a hat.’

‘For heaven’s sake Janet it’s an awards luncheon not a bloody wedding.’ Russell hissed, embarrassed at her faux pas.

The saleswoman, who managed to look effortlessly elegant even in the store’s uniform, emitted a little sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. She didn’t go in for all this sisterhood nonsense.

‘Yoo ‘oo. Janet!’ Shirley yelled from a good twenty feet away.

The saleswoman’s eyebrows raised a full inch (before she remembered her professionalism and composed her features) as she took in the sight of Shirley, the buttons of her skimpy summer top straining to contain her ample breasts, laden down with carrier bags, tottering towards them on her spiky high heels.

‘Wow look at you. Nice.’

Janet had never liked Shirley more. She must really look good – who’d have thought? Shirley wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true. Shirley always said what she meant and meant what she said.

‘If I’d known you was goin’ shoppin’ we coulda come togevver. We coulda had coffee at Luigi’s. Ay – never mind yer “Espresso Con Panna” I wouldn’t mind one of them waiters covered in whipped cream – and I wouldn’t be so express-o about it neither – know what I mean?’ Shirley’s shriek caused a couple of nearby female shoppers to turn and tut.

Janet couldn’t help the little rush of pleasure she felt as she saw, Russell squirm, his embarrassment complete.

*

Thankfully, after he had carefully put away his new clothes, Russell had gone back to work.

Janet dunked her chocolate Hobnob in her mug of tea. From experience she had it timed to perfection at the point where the chocolate was just beginning to melt.

Having changed into her customary comfy sweatpants and t-shirt, Janet clicked the TV remote to the retro film channel and relaxed into the corner of the sofa, tucking her feet under her, ready to enjoy the classic heartbreaking tale of a furtive and impossible love affair.

*

Shirley had continued her shopping alone as Russell had whisked Janet off home – anyone would think she was a bad influence or sommink.

She’d even foregone Luigi’s. It was too busy for any decent ogling. And the waiters needed to be less rushed for any decent flirting.

She ripped off the price tags from her purchases and hung them in the wardrobe. As far as Ian was concerned – what the eye didn’t see and all that...

*

Helen had underestimated how many would turn up to her local book signing and underestimated how tired she’d be at the end of it.

Jemima turning up like that had unnerved her. It wasn't her being there, it was her initial question: “What’s your secret?” Asked in innocence; innocuous, but it had rekindled such fear.

Retrieving the scrunched up ball from the bin, Helen smoothed out the sheet of writing paper. Sipping from a glass of chilled Chardonnay she once again pondered who the note was from.