She is tiny. She wears an immaculate suit in daffodil yellow. Her hair is coiffed to distraction, her make-up is perfect.
“Yes?” she looks you up and down, calculating your worth.
“I’m looking for a really nice dress.”
She raises an eyebrow and sucks in her breath.
“People of your size,” she declares, “should never wear dresses.”
“I’m not exactly an elephant!”
It is your turn to suck in your breath and raise an eyebrow.
She tries to divert you to flattering trousers. You insist on the dress. She leads you to a rack of greys, navys, blacks and dull-duckety browns.
“These are your size.” She says and waits to see your reaction.
“What would you suggest?” You ask out of spite.
She disdainfully plucks out three dresses and frog marches you to the fitting room.
You stand in your underwear surrounded by mirrors. It’s hot and stuffy. You can’t avoid seeing the pale, bulgy bits. They sap all your pizzazz. Your bra had a fling with black socks. You try on the dresses. They’re vile. They’ve been designed for a troll. As you remove one, you get stuck with your arms in the air, foiled by some tricky draping. The curtain whooshes open.
“How are we getting on?” She asks.
“They don’t fit.”
“Have you considered a diet?”
If only you could get out of this dress you’d punch her lights out. You struggle some more. She lets you struggle. You emerge to find her holding a frilled monstrosity in a pattern of green and mud-coloured swirls. The green is fluorescent. She watches while you try it on. The zip won’t close.
“Have you thought of a proper foundation garment?” she coos.
You remind yourself that assault with the heel of your shoe might mean jail time.
“You know,” she coos on, “if you walked for ten minutes a day it would make all the difference.” she strokes her bird-like hips. “I walk the dog every morning that’s how I keep my figure.”
“But you also have a tiny frame.”
She lowers her eyes in fake modesty and smiles her superior smile.
“Actually,” you lie, “I’ve lost four stone in the past six months.”
That wipes the smirk off her face.
“Aren’t you wonderful.” She gurgles.
“And what’s your name?” you ask.
She tells you. You get home and write to the management naming and shaming. It’s your turn to smirk.
Catherine’s latest novel Burning Bright is out now on Amazon
The Celtic Tiger is in his prime and the Kerrigans are splashing the cash. They have made it big time. So eat your hearts out all you small town snobs. But Daddy’s girl Kirsty wants to be an International Celeb and devotes herself to pursuing this dream. Crashing Madonna’s party doesn’t do it.Causing a stir on Big Brother doesn’t do it. But when a video clip of Kirsty goes viral , fame arrives with a bang. But Tracey O’Hagan, a blast from a shady patch in the Kerrigan past, has appeared on the scene. She’s mad. She’s bad. And she’s definitely dangerous to know.
Find out more about the novel and Catherine at her website CatherineWrites