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

stores. It made her feel so awkward that she’d rather spend hours traipsing around to find the right bra or hunting in piles of jumpers to find a medium than accept any help.

But looking at herself in the mirror holding up a blouse so similar to the one she was already wearing that it almost blended in, she realised that for once she was going to have to swallow her pride.

‘Yes, please,’ she said, watching the woman’s face light up. ‘I … well, I think I need a new look.’

Actually, it hadn’t been too bad, she thought later. None of that standing in your knickers in front of the mirror to analyse your body type and work out what bits you needed to hide, like on the TV shows. Just a few questions about the kind of thing she wanted, and a series of outfits to try on for inspection.

She’d been stuck in a rut, she’d realised, standing in front of the changing room mirror in colourful tops and nipped-in jackets, careful to avoid the rear-view mirror as much as possible. She’d forgotten, somehow, that underneath her clothes was a figure – despite it having been battered and bruised by two pregnancies and the self-neglect that followed. Somewhere, when she’d slipped into the right dress or the neatly cut tailored top, she’d discovered a waist, a bottom that didn’t sag as much as she’d feared and even a pair of passable breasts.

I am woman, she thought, inspecting herself in the mirror, wearing an emerald blouse. Hear me roar, bitches. She looked a few years younger and several years fresher. Something about the colours brought out her eyes – as the assistant had suggested. And she wasn’t too past it to wear clothes bordering on the fashionable.

‘You look fab!’ the assistant had enthused as she’d tried on outfit after outfit. ‘I hope I look as great as you when I’m forty!’

‘I’m thirty-six.’

‘Oh.’

An hour later, buoyed by her successful shopping, and weighed down by bags full of blouses and trousers and skirts as well as a whole carrier full of silky matching underwear, she’d called local hairdressers until she’d found one that could fit her in and, gliding on a wave of unexpected post-changing room euphoria, had booked herself in for a restyle with a junior stylist called Kevin.

Sitting in front of the hairdresser’s mirror, her newly washed hair combed back, exposing every aspect of her less than fresh complexion, she didn’t feel quite as confident. What was it with shops and hair salons and ultra-bright lighting? People go to these places to feel better about themselves, not to discover previously unnoticed crinkles, a developing unibrow or that the shadow on their top lip is actually a tash.

She avoided the mirror as best she could by reading one of the women’s mags that were scattered around and learned more than she wanted to know about how to completely cut carbs from her diet.

When she’d been completely restyled, she did indeed look like a different woman. It was going to take a while to recognise this stranger in the mirror she thought, as the hairdresser held up yet another mirror so she could inspect the back (did anyone ever say anything negative in these moments? she wondered. All she ever managed was a ‘that’s lovely’). She looked a little bit like a newsreader – a mixture of glamorous volume and rock-hard hairspray. Perhaps this would finally make Toby listen to her. If all else failed, she could sit at the dining table with a sheaf of papers and read out the highlights of her day in received pronunciation.

Moments later, stepping out of the hairdressers and feeling her hair move slightly in the light breeze, she suddenly felt euphoric – as if she were the star of a rom-com or cheesy musical. She imagined herself breaking into song, while the passers-by who streamed past suddenly stopped and became a backing group.

‘Cab for Clare Bailey,’ said a voice as a beaten-up Ford drew up, breaking her reverie.

‘That’s me,’ she said, in what she hoped was a glamorous, sexy tone. Flicking what was left of her hair, she eased herself into the back seat like a movie star climbing into the back of a limo. Sure, it was just a haircut, a couple of pairs of shoes and some clothes, but she felt more positive than she had for weeks.

This is it! she thought to herself. This is the day my life is going to change!

Chapter Four

If her life had really been a rom-com, Clare would have woken to the sound of birds cheeping. She’d have stretched, leaped out of bed – in perfectly unrumpled pink PJs – her hair still where she’d left it the night before, teeth sparkling. Her husband would sweep her into his arms and suggest they renewed their marriage vows. At work, they’d lay out the red carpet and recognise her as their star player.

Job done.

Of course, most people’s lives don’t resemble a rom-com, she thought as she squinted in the morning light, her hair a bird’s nest on the pillow. There was no fanfare, no moment of realisation – her life was more blah blah than La La Land.

That said, it had been a while since she’d altered her look – and a few smiles and compliments would get the day off to a good start, she thought once dressed and recoiffed, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and grinning at the mirror. Not bad, Mrs Bailey, she said to her reflection. Not bad at all.

She paused outside the kitchen door, gave her hair – which didn’t have quite the volume the hairstylist had managed to inject into it last night – one last cautious pat and pushed her way into the kitchen. She’d spent about half an hour trying to style it this morning with the help of a round brush and hairdryer combination, and although she’d achieved a sort of Emma Willis slicked-back-yet-voluminous look, she hadn’t