Page 16 of Blindsided
Freya pulls her legs up into a pretzel and turns to face me, her eyes lighting up like I’ve never seen them light up before. “His name is Javier. He’s from Madrid, and he’s magic.”
I have to fight back the urge to roll my eyes. “Okay. So why exactly can’t you talk to him?”
“I don’t know.” She begins waving her hands by her ears, trying to cool them down. “I suppose because the first time we had a proper conversation, he thought I didn’t speak English.”
I hit her with a disbelieving look. “Come again?”
“True story,” she replies sadly. “After I’d been going to the shop for a few weeks, he casually asked me where I was from. After stuttering over my words, I finally puked out Cornwall because I apparently couldn’t remember my village’s name at the time, and he responded with, ‘Oh, I thought you were Danish and just learning English’.”
My jaw drops. “He didn’t say that.”
“He did,” she says with a wee wobble in her voice. “It was months before I could go back there for coffee.”
“Christ, I’m impressed you returned after that type of awkwardness.”
“I’m chubby. We’re resilient when we need to be.”
I shake my head. “Would you stop with the body shaming you do to yourself? That’s your first problem.”
Freya jerks away from me. “I don’t consider it body shaming.”
“What do you consider it then?”
“Calling it like it is. I’m not a stick figure, and I’m okay with that. But I don’t like that we have to tiptoe around these labels society has put out there. If you have eyeballs, the game is up. I’m chubby.”
“Well, do you think chubby is beautiful?” I ask, quite certain I already know her answer.
Freya opens her mouth to answer, but no words come out.
“See?” I reply knowingly and shake my head in disappointment. “You’re body shaming yourself, even if you don’t realise it. If you can’t admit that chubby can easily be bonnie, then I think I’ve figured out your first lesson.”
I stand up off the sofa.
“What are you doing?” Freya asks, staring up at me.
I hold out my hand. “Come on. We’re going shopping.”
“So what do you want me to do exactly?” I ask as I stand inside the dressing room area of Debenhams—a department store on Oxford Street that took us nearly thirty minutes to drive to.
Mac stretches out on the long, mauve-coloured duvet and gestures to the curtained-off changing area. “Put on the fancy dress the nice lady put in there and then come out and show me.”
“Why?” I whine, seriously hating that Mac had an entire conversation with the saleswoman about what he wanted her to pull for me, and I wasn’t allowed any input whatsoever. I went to design school for bleddy sake!
Mac hits me with a serious look. “Freya, don’t question the teacher. I thought you said you were a good student when you were wee.”
My brows furrow. “I was.”
He waves me off with a patronising flick of the wrists. “Then off you go.”
With a tiny growl of frustration, I turn and immerse myself in the quietness of the changing area and set about stripping off my clothes. I didn’t even wear proper underwear for the type of dress he’s chosen. The dress is a total Spanx-necessary garment. I can’t believe I let Mac talk me into coming here with him. I must be rufazrats…or hungover…if I’m agreeing to let him be my love coach. What the hell have I got myself into?
And what’s his plan for putting me in a short dress? I’m going to look ridiculous. I know how to dress my body, and tea-length dresses are my style. Tea-length dresses and flowy skirts with pinup model curls.
“Cookie,” Mac calls from the other side of the curtain, and I freeze with the dress stuck over my head.
“What?” I mumble through the fabric.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
