within the walls of a convent, I go in.
Now this is lingerie of a completely different class. There’s nothing seedy or vulgar here. The shop itself has the bright, golden sheen of a very expensive pearl, with creamy white walls and pale marble floors. La Perla carries no peek-a-boo bras or crotchless panties and not a hint of black lace or marabou in sight. This is the genuine article. Luxurious lingerie that’s attractive and comfortable enough to wear everyday – if only you could afford it.
A man and a woman are shopping together. They’re a handsome couple, youngish and probably Italian, both beautifully dressed in the kind of flawless, casual tailoring the Italians excel at. He’s selecting various panties for her to try on: silk g-strings, hipsters, and the tiniest of thongs, while she’s tossing her long, dark hair and looking rather bored, as if they do this every day and she’d much rather be at home, watching TV. I feel slightly voyeuristic watching them shop but still make a mental note of each item he selects. Is this what men like?
But you can’t expect to walk into a shop like La Perla and just browse. Moments after I step across the threshold, a saleswoman descends upon me. Disturbingly, she’s the very image of Madame Dariaux on the back of my book, with the same aristocratic nose, imperious gaze, and sculptural Margaret Thatcher hairstyle. She clears her throat and looks down at me while I stand, gaping up at her.
‘You look as though you may need some help.’ She speaks slowly and carefully, as if she’s weighing even these simple words.
I cannot get over the resemblance. ‘I … yes … I need some new knickers, ah, I mean lingerie,’ I stumble, ‘and I can’t decide which ones …’
Before I know it, she’s got her arms around my chest and is measuring me.
‘You are a 32 B and,’ she looks me up and down, ‘I’d say a size 10 should be adequate below. What would you like them for? Are they to go with a specific outfit? A strapless dress, perhaps?’
‘No, no, just for real life.’
‘Well then, white is best, I think.’ And she points me away from the exotic silks the Italians are admiring and in the direction of a distinctly modest range.
I’m back where I started, but at five times the price. I follow her anyway and she hands me a white bra and a pair of briefs. ‘Would you like to try them on?’ she asks.
Oh, hell, why not? ‘Yes. Fine.’
She shows me into a changing cubicle the size of my bedroom, complete with a little white velvet settee and soft, amber lighting.
‘See how you get on,’ she says, closing the curtain brusquely.
Just being in the changing room is soothing and relaxing. I sit down on the settee and peel off my coat, shaking the rain from my hair. Then I slip off my shoes and begin to undress. The La Perla pieces fit well, smooth and seamless, and have an attractive clean shape, with tasteful lace detailing. They’re sleek and figure enhancing. But are they sexy?
I turn and look at the back view. No problems there. I do a little twirl. Very nice really. I shorten one of the bra straps. Stroking the smooth silk of the cups, I adjust my breasts so that they sit a little bit higher and smile approvingly at my reflection. And that’s when I notice that the curtain hasn’t quite closed and the handsome Italian is watching me, quite unashamedly, while he waits for his wife to emerge.
I see him and he sees me. However he doesn’t move or look away. Instead, he smiles very slowly and gives me the slightest nod. His wife is calling him and he answers, quite calmly, without averting his gaze.
My heart is pounding, I feel flushed and at the same time unusually languid. My conscious mind protests, ‘How dare he!’ but there’s another, much more mischievous side that’s secretly excited and thrilled. There’s a rattle of the curtain and the sales woman clears her throat outside. ‘What do you think?’
‘Fine,’ I say, my voice much softer and deeper than normal. She pokes her head round the corner.
‘Um,’ she nods approvingly. ‘Perfect. How many would you like?’
‘Well …’ I look back in the mirror.
The Italian has gone.
I buy three sets in white, two in nude, and two in black. I’m overdrawn for a month but it’s worth it.
I have, at long last, found my secret sexual self and she’s a little naughtier and a great deal more expensive than I anticipated.
Now when I’m dressing, I’m only too happy to think that later on, I’ll be undressing. The only question that remains is, in front of whom?
Ah! Wouldn’t it be marvellous if none of us needed it? But, alas, while some beauties are born, most of us are made. Make-up is a kind of clothing for the face, and in the city a woman would no more think of showing herself without make-up than she would care to walk down the street completely undressed. Nothing is more effective for brightening a woman’s visage and putting that final bit of polish to her look than a dash of lipstick, a sweep of black mascara or a rosy hint of rouge.
However, while fashions in make-up may come and go, there are some things that remain forever déclassé. To be perfectly frank, too much is always too much. It is worth noting that people are meant to be complimenting you on the beauty of your eyes, not your eye make-up. And if you find you cannot embrace a man without leaving a trail of powder on his suit lapel (an event too hideous for words!), then it’s time to reconsider your motives, as well as your methods. Make-up is capable of many ingenious enhancements but it will not make you impervious to age or disappointment or a thousand other insecurities that plague the female mind. By all means, be quick to make the most of what make-up can, reasonably, do for your appearance but also be clever enough to know when to stop.
Suddenly I wake up one morning to discover, that in addition to dealing with a failed marriage, a new job, a, shall we say, challenging financial independence, and the certainty that I will end up alone for the rest of my life, I now, just as a pièce de résistance, have the skin of an adolescent girl – pink, oily, and erupting in spots.
Not only is my life veering dangerously out of control but now my face is as well. A girl can happily avoid any connection with reality as long as she looks OK. But when that fails, drastic action must be taken.
And that means make-up. Lots of it.
Rising at daybreak on my day off, I catch a bus into town and arrive at Selfridges’s cosmetic emporium just as the store opens. Hidden behind sunglasses, head bowed, I weave through the maze of displays and bored perfume promotions girls until I arrive at the only cosmetic solution I know for Problem Skin.
There’s the same clinical, freshness about the display, the same assistants dressed in white lab coats, the same pale green and frosted glass bottles. After so many years and half way around the world, I’m back where I started.
My mother, also a traumatized survivor of teenage acne, first steered me towards an identical counter when I was twelve. She was not about to let me suffer the way she had all those years ago, in the age before oil-free make-up formulations and mildly medicated soap bars. Her hand firmly gripping my shoulder, she guided me through the make-up department of Horne’s Department Store until we arrived in front of the same glowing white stand. ‘Pardon me, my daughter has acne,’ she announced, to my intense mortification. ‘And we’d like to know what you can do about it.’
Of course the worst thing you can do is march up to a sales counter and announce that you need help.
The first hour we were there, the make-up assistant, who was at least forty-five and appeared to be wearing all the products in the range at once, insisted on diagnosing my skin type using the then high-tech Skin Analysis Station, which was on a separate little island in the centre of