Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

‘Oh, well, in that case,’ he said, his nostrils flaring slightly, ‘you ought to have some sprinkles.’

‘No!’ she held her cup further away from him. ‘I don’t want them any more.’

‘No, I think you should have them! Treat yourself!’ He picked up his shaker and launched a load of chocolate powder approximately towards her drink. The lid of the shaker loosened and clattered to the floor as he did so, and she ended up with not only the top of her drink covered in powder, but her hand and a little bit of her sleeve too.

‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to retain some semblance of dignity.

‘There you go,’ he said, unabashed. ‘Your cup runneth over.’

Before she could retaliate, the man behind her sniggered, pushed past her and ordered. ‘Americano please, mate,’ he said.

And she was forgotten.

What was it with her? she thought to herself as she walked back to the office, sipping at her overly chocolated drink through the tiny gap in its mouthpiece. Why was she suddenly getting so worked up about everything?

As she pushed open the glass door of the office, she caught her reflection again. She thought of the barista’s favourite customer, with her long, glossy hair and shift dress and couldn’t help comparing it to her own rather frumpy skirt and messy hair. It wasn’t that she’d let her moustache grow, or she’d stopped doing her roots, or she’d even stopped showering. It wasn’t as if she was physically repulsive or completely unkempt.

But she wasn’t looking great either. Her hair had already lost its hard-won volume, her coat was a relic from three winters ago, and below, her stubbly and now goosebumped legs looked like uncooked chicken thighs. She hated the thought that it mattered. But like it or not, women are always judged on appearances. Even now, after years of feminism, you had to play the game.

It wasn’t about people finding her attractive or not; she didn’t want a teenage barista to write his phone number on her cup or ask her out on a date. She certainly didn’t want Nigel to notice her in that way. But maybe her appearance made her look as if she wasn’t taking herself seriously. Maybe that was why nobody else seemed to.

Could her evident self-neglect have affected her career too? It wasn’t as if she was surrounded by fashionistas in the office, but the same rules didn’t apply to men in business. Nigel had bought two suits in the eighties and was clearly hoping they’d see him through to retirement, and even Toby until recently had worn the same shirt and tie to the studio day in and day out. Yet Nigel was a senior partner in his own firm, and Toby had received what he’d described as a ‘dream promotion’.

The rules were different for women though. Heaven forbid they let themselves go grey, or forgot to pluck their chin hairs, or shave their armpits. Women were consigned to the garbage pile as soon as they let themselves slip.

Perhaps, she thought, as she reached her office and shook chocolate powder from her hand in the direction of the bin, she ought to do something to make herself feel better. Toby had had a makeover, so why shouldn’t she max out the plastic on herself a bit? A bit of retail therapy would make herself feel better, even if it was superficial.

‘Ann,’ she said, when her PA brought in some folders and plonked them on the desk. ‘Do you mind if I head off early today?’

‘Aren’t you meant to be my boss?’

It was true; she was in charge of Ann. But she liked to think of her as a friend foremost. She didn’t want to leave her in difficulties by sloping out to go shopping when there was work to do.

‘I suppose,’ she grinned. ‘It’s just – well, I’m nipping out for a shopping trip. Bit naughty really.’

‘Asda?’

‘No, a clothes shop.’ The look was brief, but she felt Ann’s eyes travel to her legs stretched out below her desk, which as well as being stubbled and goosebumped, were blotched with red as they thawed out from her excursion.

Evidently, she wasn’t the only one who thought it was time she had a few new outfits.

‘Oh, well, have fun! Don’t worry, I’ll handle things here,’ Ann said. She was, as usual, dressed neatly in a fitted blouse and skinny black jeans. Her hair, tied up in its habitual ponytail, hung elegantly against her neck. Ann was only younger than Clare by a few years, but sometimes she made her feel ancient.

Three hours later, Clare was wandering in the local department store, so overwhelmed with choice and crippled by her fear of changing rooms with their bum-revealing mirrors, she wasn’t sure she was going to find anything at all. She picked up a floral top thoughtfully and held it against her torso – could she get away with it? Was it too young, too old? In style or out?

Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to try it on, but with her self-esteem at an all-time low she was loath to venture into the cubicles. For one thing, the white, bright lights always drew her attention to new wrinkles, stray hairs or the fact that her skin was never without at least two pimples. Worse, the mirrors in this particular shop’s changing rooms were helpfully arranged with so many different angles that she couldn’t avoid a glimpse of her white and wobbly thighs even when she averted her gaze.

Across the store, she could see that she’d been noticed by an assistant who was trying to make eye contact. Clare pretended to be completely preoccupied with sorting through a rail of clothes in the hope that she’d avoid being singled out for help.

Bad luck. ‘Can I help you?’ asked the woman, sidling up to Clare as she regarded herself in the mirror, yet another blouse held up for inspection.

Usually Clare hated offers of help in department