Zelda’s Cut

Isobel flinched back from the garish colours. ‘What about the grey?’ she asked.

‘Will madam be colouring her hair?’ the sales assistant asked.

Isobel glanced at Troy.

‘Bright blonde,’ he confirmed.

‘Then the pink will be wonderful,’ she said. ‘A pity not to maintain a high presence. The pink and the yellow both have a very high presence.’

They hung the suit inside the curtained changing room. Isobel went reluctantly inside and the curtain was dropped behind her. A pair of high-heeled gold sandals and a pair of high-heeled pink mules were inserted discretely underneath the curtain. Isobel regarded them with suspicion.

She took off her cream linen dress and flinched slightly at the sight of herself in the mirror. She was wearing a bra and a pair of pants which had been machine-washed so often that they were a creased grey, and a thread of elastic was fraying from the seam. Her hips were rounded, her thighs a little slack, her belly was podgy. Under the uncompromising lights of the fitting room there was no concealing the fact that she was a middle-aged woman who had not taken care of herself.

She shrugged and slipped on the pink jacket. It fitted perfectly. At once the upper half of her body looked tailored, constructed, somehow ordered. The skirt glided up over her hips and she fastened the zip at the waist without difficulty. It looked startlingly slim but it was generously cut. The hem of the skirt skimmed her knee. Isobel had not worn anything shorter than mid-calf length for the last ten years. She stepped into the pink mules. At once her legs looked longer. The pink of the jacket gave a brightness and a colour to her face. She tossed back her hair and tried to imagine herself blonde.

‘Come out,’ Troy begged. ‘Let’s see.’

Cautiously she drew the curtain to one side, almost apologetically she stepped out. Troy, glass of champagne in hand, regarded her with sudden, flattering attention.

‘Good God, Isobel,’ he said. ‘You are a knockout.’

She flushed, and teetered slightly on the high heels. ‘It’s so unlike what I usually …’

‘It’s very easy to get set in our ways …’ the sales assistant remarked gently. ‘Very hard to keep up. And it is difficult if madam lives in the country …’

The junior assistant stepped forward with a large tray of earrings and matching necklaces. Isobel was gently guided towards the mirror and the sales assistant scooped up the mass of light brown hair and piled it on Isobel’s head with two deft pins.

‘Just to give you an idea,’ she whispered.

Isobel’s ears were not pierced, but the sales staff put a Perspex band over her head and hung the earrings at ear level. They chose massive chunks of glass which looked like diamonds, and big, bright enameled flowers. They draped the matching necklaces around her neck.

‘Madam has such a long neck, she could wear almost anything,’ the sales lady said, as if genuinely delighted with the discovery. ‘I’m surprised you have not had your ears pierced.’

‘It’s just not my sort of style,’ Isobel said weakly.

A shame not to make the most of that lovely neck,’ the sales lady remarked.

Isobel found she was dropping her shoulders and raising her chin to her own reflection. She had never before considered the length of her neck, but with her hair swept up and the pink shedding a rosy radiance on her skin she did indeed think that she was blessed with a rather special feature which she should exhibit more often.

‘I want to see you in the yellow too,’ Troy said. ‘And perhaps a cocktail dress? Something for parties?’

Isobel disappeared back behind the curtain and tried on the yellow suit. She wore it with a sparkling golden scarf at her neck and looked years younger. The golden sandals were surprisingly comfortable. While she was changing they brought in a rack of cocktail dresses and Isobel swept through a range of blue lamé, pink tulle, black velvet and midnight blue, finally settling on a radiant Lacroix and a modest navy blue Dior which was to be worn with a silver jacket.

‘For added presence,’ the sales assistant advised.

‘And stockings and underwear and shoes,’ Troy commanded. He was on his third glass of champagne and they had brought him some sandwiches to eat while he waited. ‘Just some nice stuff. Two of everything.’

‘A fitting for the underwear?’ the sales assistant whispered.

‘Oh yes,’ Troy said.

They waited only a few moments and then a woman came into the room pushing a trolley of the most exquisite underwear Isobel had ever seen. Everything was embroidered or lace or silky with the sheen of high-tensile satin. There were bodies and teddies and bras and basques and French knickers and thongs and pants.

‘I’ve never seen …’ Isobel gasped.

Troy regarded the trolley with a certain amount of awe. ‘Whatever would suit madam best,’ he said, recovering rapidly.

Isobel vanished behind the curtain with the assistant. Shyly, she took off her bra, miserably conscious of the overstretched elastic and the garment’s air of dingy age. The assistant made no remark but merely whispered: ‘Lean forward please, madam.’

Blushing miserably, Isobel leaned forward and the assistant flung around her a smooth, cool band of silk, fastened it in a moment, and then with deft fingers tightened the straps and tucked Isobel’s breasts this way and that until the bra fitted her like a pair of perfect palms lovingly cupped and holding her firmly.

‘Oh,’ Isobel breathed. ‘So comfortable!’

‘And so flattering,’ the assistant pointed out. Isobel looked in the mirror. Her breasts were inches higher than their usual position, it made her waist, her whole body, look longer, slimmer. The profile flattened her waist, made her hips smoother. The assistant smiled. ‘It makes such a difference,’ she said with simple pride. ‘Now put the jacket back on.’

It fitted a little snugger than before, it looked even better. Isobel drew back the curtain and went out to Troy.

‘Oh yes,’ he said as he saw her. ‘Surprising. It makes a real difference. We’ll take half a dozen of everything,’ he told the assistant.

She smiled. ‘I’ll have them wrapped.’

The sales assistant opened the door for the underwear assistant and remarked, ‘The makeup artiste is ready.’

‘Oh, let her come in,’ Troy said cheerfully.

They ushered Isobel to the mirror and swathed her in a pale pink towel. The makeup girl cleaned her face with a sweet-smelling gritty cream and then wiped it all off with a scented water. ‘Your toner,’ she whispered reverently. ‘And now your moisturiser. You do cleanse, tone and moisturise every day, don’t you, madam?’

‘Some days,’ Isobel said through closed lips. ‘It depends.’ She did not want to admit that her beauty regime consisted of washing her face with soap and water, slapping on a bit of face cream and then lipstick.

The makeup artiste prepared Isobel’s face as if she were sizing a canvas, and then made the equipment ready: first laying out the range of brushes which would be needed and then spreading the palette of colours.

‘Are we wanting a natural look?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Isobel replied.

‘No,’ Troy said.

‘High presence,’ the sales assistant explained. ‘Madam requires a high-presence appearance.’

‘Of course,’ the girl said. ‘For a special event?’

Troy scowled at her. ‘Highly confidential,’ he said firmly.

‘Ah, of course,’ she said, and smeared peach foundation all over Isobel’s cheekbones.

Isobel closed her eyes at the caress of the two organic sponges and gave herself up to the sensation of being stroked all over her face with tiny feather-like touches. It felt like being kissed, very gently and tenderly, and she found she was slipping off into a daydream of Darkling Manor where the hero with the dimple in his chin laid poor Charity on the altar and unzipped his trousers to reveal … She was quite sorry when the process stopped and the makeup girl said: ‘There, madam. How do you like it?’

Isobel opened her eyes and stared at the stranger in the mirror.