well and remains fresh, with the cheap, vulgar stuff of men’s magazines. Fascinating? I’m certain. But elegant it is NOT. A man likes to think that his wife is attractive and discerning even when he is not looking, and surely, that is the image you want him to have at all times and the one that will excite his deepest admiration.
One day, after I’d hung out my washing on the kitchen drying rack, Ria takes me aside.
‘Louise, what are these?’ She points to a pair of ancient Sloggi briefs that are clinging in grey, exhausted resignation to the line. (No matter how many I toss out, The Curse of The Dingy Knicker haunts me, mysteriously refilling my drawers with shabby pants.)
Not since my early childhood, when I was young enough to wet my pants, has anyone called such dramatic attention to my knickers. I look them over closely.
‘Knickers?’ I offer, hesitantly. (Even I have to question their identity.)
‘No,’ she says firmly, taking me by the hand. ‘Those are not knickers. Come with me, I want to show you something.’
And she leads me into her room; a sanctuary not to be violated for anything less than fire, burglary or extreme acts of God. Within its walls she’s created the most wonderful of girly havens. Her bed is antique mahogany, covered in a collection of tapestry cushions and swathes of fabric she’s gleaned from markets all over London. The walls are covered with photographs, and original paintings, and everywhere there are objects chosen to entice and delight: milky bone china cups, slender hand-blown champagne flutes, printed silk scarves, satin Emma Hope slippers, piles of multi-coloured hat boxes and stacks of art books upon which she’s placed scented candles and fresh flowers. The window box is planted with a vast collection of herbs and flowers that perfume the air through the enormous sash window. And, although it’s a small room, Ria has managed by a thousand clever touches to pay tribute to each of the senses which have been deprived during the other ten hours of the day.
I watch as she kneels by the bed and pulls out a flat pink box tied with a black silk ribbon from Agent Provocateur.
‘These,’ she says, opening the box carefully, ‘are knickers.’
And there, wrapped in gauzy tissue paper, lie a black lace bra and panty set, hand embroidered throughout with the tiniest, most delicate scarlet poppies. The poppies, flowers of intoxication, of vibrant sensuality, are so minuscule, so exquisitely, mind-achingly small, that they’re nothing but a whispered double entendre, a knowing little wink of a sexual joke. They glow in luminous silk thread against the inky, flat blackness of the hand-finished lace, weaving their way sinuously around the curve of each breast and fanning outward, almost sprouting from the crotch of the panties. Here is lingerie which is cunningly, knowingly erotic, with or without the company of a man.
We worship in silence for a moment.
‘Do you actually wear those?’ I whisper. (I don’t know why I’m whispering; maybe because I’ve never had another woman show me her underwear before.)
‘No.’ She places the lid back on the box and carefully re-ties the ribbon. ‘I mean, I hope to some day.’
I’m fascinated. ‘Did you buy them for yourself?’
She blushes. ‘No, someone bought them for me.’ She says it with such finality, that I know it’s pointless to ask who. ‘But in a way,’ she continues quickly, ‘that’s not the point. Of course, not every pair of knickers is going to be gorgeous – you wouldn’t even want that. But …’ and here she looks me sternly in the eye, ‘everything you own should do its job with some semblance of grace and dignity. Underwear isn’t just underwear, Louise; it’s the true garment of your secret sexual self. And nasty knickers completely sabotage your sexual self esteem.’
I nod solemnly and try to figure out why my mother didn’t initiate me into these feminine mysteries years ago. Then I recall the state of her underwear drawer.
‘You have seen greatness,’ Ria smiles. ‘Now please, go and buy some proper pants.’
We walk back into the kitchen to make dinner and I watch in wonder as she unpacks her groceries: tuna steaks she’d selected from the fishmonger, new potatoes authentically covered in black Jersey dirt, fresh mint, fragrant and soft, and perfect raspberries for the dressing on her salad. Ria never does bulk shops; she only buys food on the day, depending on her mood. Preparing each course languidly, in a kind of meditative state, she arranges her plate with careful aesthetic consideration.
Everything is specific and sacred in Ria’s world. That’s the mark of a true artist.
The most remarkable thing is she’s only cooking for herself. I can imagine going to such trouble for a dinner party or a special occasion, but just for me …?
I reach for another tin of Safeway’s own brand ravioli and look up at the drying rack on the ceiling and the worn collection of undergarments that normally fill my lingerie drawer. I can only describe them as ‘Catholic knickers’, that is, garments specially designed to repel the lustful advances of the opposite sex. Ria’s right: I can’t possibly continue to wear them.
I think of Madame Dariaux and her enigmatic advice fills my mind, ‘When you dress, think always that later on you will be undressing and in front of whom.’
Undressing. With my husband, that always meant changing into my nightgown in the bathroom and scuttling to bed with the lights out. I close my eyes for a moment and try to imagine slowly undressing in front of Oliver Wendt, his dark eyes watching me steadily through a cloud of silver smoke. But before I know it, the fantasy short-circuits and I’m back in the bathroom again in my Snoopy nightshirt.
Right. Actions speak louder than words. I reel the drying rack down from the ceiling, pull the offending articles off the line, and stuff them into the waste bin. There’s no way I’m undressing in front of Oliver Wendt in a pair of grey Sloggi pants.
The next day, I head off for Agent Provocateur, in search of a new, improved sexual identity and a decent bra. It proves much more difficult than I imagined.
The shop is all hot pink and black lace – a tongue-in-cheek version of a naughty lingerie store. The girls behind the counter are voluptuous, sexy and indifferent, their blouses unbuttoned to expose the curves of their ample bosoms, and the gasping vocals of ‘Je t’aime’ play in the background. Gingerly, I sift through scraps of sheer lace and satin floating on pink silk hangers; tiny slips in pastel candy colours with white marabou trim and matching g-strings, saucy lace bras and suspender belts, boned bustiers that finish just below the breasts, French knickers and sheer peek-a-boo bras. Under the pink glow of the lights, everything has a slightly sinister, Barbiesque feel to it. I don’t know when Ria received the embroidered set she showed me, but they’re gone now. I contemplate a fairly conservative silk camisole and knicker set but cannot bring myself to try them on. The truth is, just looking at it makes me feel shy and awkward, let alone wearing it. After half an hour of loitering about like a dirty old man in a video shop, I leave with nothing.
Walking across Soho, I try to recall the last time I had sex and draw a blank. Standing stock still in the centre of Soho Square, I really, really concentrate and still nothing. If this isn’t bad enough, I expand the field to include ‘even with myself’ and my memory remains a flat, empty screen. Apart from my childish fantasies about Oliver Wendt, which always end in a kind of slow fade, Vaseline kiss, I’m nothing more than a kind of second-hand virgin. A prude. Frigid.
Depressing as this is (and it is deeply depressing), I’m faced with an even more pressing problem: I’ve chucked away all my knickers.
There’s nothing for it. Having failed to identify my sexual self at Agent Provocateur, I have no alternative. Let’s face it, when your secret sexual self resides at Marks and Spencer’s, things are looking pretty grim.
I’m dragging myself across town to Marks when the sky begins to darken ominously. I quicken my pace. When the raindrops harden into a torrent of hailstones, I dodge into a doorway for cover. After standing there for several minutes, wincing and pressing myself against the window for protection,