Page 18 of The Good Part
‘Thank you for listening, Mr Finkley. I won’t take up any more of your time. It’s been, um, nice to see you again.’
He nods. As he moves to escort me back to the front door, he takes a piece of ham out of his pocket and rubs it between his fingers, before popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly.
‘You’re the first visitor I’ve had in six years. Come back sometime if you like. I could show you my maps.’
‘That’s kind, thank you,’ I say, while knowing it’s highly unlikely I will ever come back to see his maps.
When I’m alone in the hallway that looks like mine, I concede that however eccentric Mr Finkley might be, he could be right. I don’t know how to get back, so what else can I do but go out and explore?
Before I do anything, I need coffee. Given how expensive they are here, I should check my bank balance first. I can’t face the indignity of having my card declined on top of everything else today. Across the street, there’s an ATM. I find a debit card in my wallet and slot it into the machine. It doesn’t even ask me for a pin, but simply scans my face with a green light. ‘Face ID accepted.’ When I tap ‘See balance’ a number flashes up on the screen.
‘Holy bejeezus!’ I exclaim, blinking my eyes in disbelief.
Yesterday I had minus money, my overdraft was maxed out.Peering down to check the number again, I can’t quite believe it. Future Me isrich. And whoever said money can’t buy you happiness hadn’t been living off thirty-five pounds a week for the last six years.
Chapter 9
Where does a woman experiencing an existential life leap, with money in the bank and a wallet full of credit cards, go? To Selfridges, of course. Personal shopping, with a quick detour via the croissant department. Okay, so it might not be called the croissant department, it’s called the Food Hall, but it boasts a mouth-watering selection of the biggest, flakiest, most expensive croissants I’ve ever seen. I buy myself one, along with a double-shot latte, and eat it right there at the counter. Then I buy another and eat that one too. Then I feel a bit sick and regret eating the second one. That was completely unnecessary. Also, I just spent thirty-seven pounds on coffee and croissants, and even though I’m rich now, that still feels obscene.
On the women’s clothing floor, I promise myself I’ll show greater restraint.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a wisp of a girl wearing an Hermès scarf and a name tag that reads ‘Linda’.
‘Yes, Linda. Yes, you can,’ I say, my voice full of confidence. ‘I want you to imagine a scenario where someone who adores clothes, who daydreams about shoes and was pretty much born to shop, has never had the chance to buy anything before. Ever.’ Linda frowns. ‘She’s only ever had access to charity shops and discount rails.’ Linda looks suitably horrified. ‘Now, imagine that person has recently come into some money. She’d have some catching up to do, don’t you think?’ Linda nods, as though she knows exactly what I’m talking about. ‘Can you help me catch up, Linda?’
‘I think we’re going to need some champagne,’ Linda says with a conspiratorial grin. I’ve never felt more seen by another human being and all my vows of restraint go straight out of the window.
What follows is a shopping montage Carrie Bradshaw would be proud of. I try on everything.Everything.Linda orders more champagne. I discover, to my relief, that even in this new body, well-designed clothes look great on me. And I know, I know, I’m shallow and vain, but honestly, nothing fixes a bout of existential depression like a pair of killer heels and a fitted purple suit with epic shoulder pads.
‘It looks amazing on you,’ Linda says as we both admire my reflection in the enormous changing-room mirror. It’s a bold, statement suit, by a designer whose name I don’t recognise. With its elegant cut and soft silk lining, it feels wonderful to wear.
‘It does, doesn’t it? It’s also making me feel better about how old I look.’
‘You don’t look old,’ says Linda, her eyes sparkling with the unmistakable glow of day drinking.
‘How old do I look?’ I ask, and her eyes grow wide in fear. I know it’s a mean question. It’s like asking someone if they think your boyfriend is hot – you can’t win.
‘Mid-thirties?’ Linda is being kind, but I’ll take it.
Looking at myself in the statement suit and heels, I know I’m going to buy them. Who knows when I’ll wear them, but since this whole experience could well be a hallucination, it’s easy to rationalise anything. Dorothy got new sparkly red shoes, why shouldn’t I have a new purple suit?
‘How much is it?’ I ask Linda.
‘It’s on sale,’ she says excitedly. ‘So only two thousand and eighty pounds.’
After briefly choking on my own tongue, I quickly calculate that there’s probably been some inflation I’ll need to account for here. Since coffees and croissants cost roughly four times what I’d expect to pay, two thousand pounds is probably the equivalent of only five hundred pounds in old money. Which is still a lot I know, but it’s like when you go to a festival and you get drinks vouchers, you can’t think of it as real money or you’d never buy any drink. Besides, if you can’t buy yourself a ridiculously expensive suit to make yourself feel better about time-travelling through half your twenties and your entire thirties, then when can you buy one?
‘I’m going to take it, and these shoes... and these boots,’ I tell Linda, handing her the black ankle-length boots that feel soft as butter. At the till Linda rings up the suit and shoes, plus a top and jacket I like, plus a sparkly brooch, because what’s a little more when you’re spending this kind of cash? The total when I hand over my bank card makes me feel physically sick, but that’s probably the residual croissant binge. I reassure myself that there is still plenty in my account, and that it’s not even real money, because none of this is real. Probably.
Linda holds a card reader towards me, but there’s no pin pad or eye scanner.
‘It’s a palm reader,’ she says, sensing my confusion. Cautiously, I lift my hand to the reader, which instantly flashes green. ‘You have twenty-four days to return anything, as long as it hasn’t been worn and still has the tags on.’
Watching Linda carefully wrap the purple suit in crêpe paper, I realise that I feel so much worse now I’m not wearing it. Maybe this clammy, guilty feeling will go away if I put it back on?
‘You know, I think I’m going to wear the suit home,’ I say.
‘O-k-ay,’ says Linda, enunciating each syllable, in a way that makes me think maybe she doesn’t think it is okay.
