Page 40 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘But I don’t know,’ I add, frowning. ‘There’s a bit of an issue with static…’

‘Let’s see what we can find for you,’ she says firmly, linking her arm in mine. And so, at our next stop, she picks out a selection of dresses that I try on, gamely – remembering now how much I detest changing rooms and, in fact, buying things in actual shops. Isn’t that one of the greatest benefits of modern life? That we are no longer obliged to view ourselves in mismatched underwear and terrible lighting while some young girl outside our cubicle shrieks, ‘My God, Amy, you look amazing in that. And so tiny!’? Eva is one of those women who does in fact look amazing in anything. She has that kind of body – tall, slim, small-boobed and long-legged – and clothes seem delighted to be worn by her. At five foot three, I’m what Mum used to describe as ‘pear-shaped’. It wasn’t meant unkindly, but what woman on earth has ever wanted to be reminded that her hips are ‘ample’?

‘How about a jumpsuit?’ Eva suggests, tugging me into yet another shop. A shop in which the average customer age appears to be around nineteen years old and suddenly, feeling terribly crone-like, the thought of trying anything on triggers a wave of dread in me. Especially the item Eva has selected for me, which turns out not to be an ordinary, uncomplicated jumpsuit but one with unfathomable straps and a halter-style back.

‘Eva!’ I yelp from behind the curtain.

‘D’you like it?’ she calls back.

‘I can’t get into it. It’s all tangled!’

A snort of laughter comes from the adjacent cubicle. ‘Just step into it like trousers,’ Eva commands.

Scowling down at it, I try to ease the thing up over my body. Maybe, I decide, if Sam and I can’t halt the nuptials in time, then this is my best option. With all the confusing strappery, I won’t be able to even consider going to the toilet. As a result, I’ll be so focused on not wetting myself that I won’t be able to worry about Eva marrying Dom.

Clearly, though, I’m not going to get that far as I still can’t manage to get it on. As per Eva’s instruction, my legs are in the leg parts but the rest of the jumpsuit – all slits and twists and flapping bits – makes no sense. My head is tangled by straps, my left arm is bent double, and a bare boob is poking out of a hole. ‘Eva! You still there?’

‘I’m here. What’s happening?’

‘It’s attacking me!’

‘Just do it logically,’ she instructs. Oh yes. Because Eva, who’s engaged to a man who won’t even let her visit his house, is Queen of Logic. But here she is, having swooped in around the curtain, taking in the sight of what possibly resembles a baboon trying to fight its way out of a pillowcase, and we dissolve into helpless laughter. In that instant we are no longer fifty-eight and sixty years old, but kids again in that knitwear store, doubled over in hysterics after Rita caught Eva showing me her bare bottom. And all of a sudden, I’m filled with an urge to say, Don’t do this, Eves. I know you’re besotted and it’s huge fun, deciding on flowers and outfits and outlandish cakes. But think about it! Who is this man? Do you even know him at all? Of course I don’t say any of this. Besides, I am trapped in a jumpsuit and, for a moment, it seems that we’ll need to call for emergency assistance and they’ll have to cut me out of it.

We are still choking with laughter as Eva takes a series of photos of me in various states of entanglement. Then carefully, as if helping me out of a ravine, she gently disrobes me and agrees that a jumpsuit might not be quite the thing.

Requiring sustenance, we head for a cheap Italian in Soho that we love second only to Niko’s. ‘So the venue’s booked?’ I prompt her as we tuck into spaghetti vongole.

‘Yeah! That little place I went to with Sam.’

‘You’re lucky you’ve managed to get it all sorted.’

She twirls her pasta with her fork. ‘I know. Not long now.’

I raise a smile, wondering what she’d say if I confessed that Sam and I had visited that address from Dom’s notebook. Apart from Sam asking me out that time, there have never been any secrets between us.

We leave the café and mooch around in a colossally expensive stationery shop where I buy Marnie a notebook and Jake a fancy pen, and Eva buys herself a sheet of stickers. It almost feels like old times now; those long ago days when we’d go ‘uptown’, knowing that Sam wouldn’t be interested or would be with Bibi. In their early years together, we’d drifted a bit.

‘Hang on,’ Eva says, ‘I’m going to send one of those pictures to Sam.’

‘What pictures?’

‘The ones of you fighting with the jumpsuit⁠—’

‘No!’ I cry, snatching her phone from her and then finally agreeing that a single, non-boob-flashing pic can be sent.

Weary now, we have given up on the shops, although as Eva has photographed everything on her outfit shortlist, it still feels like a productive day. Over a final coffee I learn that Dom is still insisting that he doesn’t want Eva to see his house until it’s all finished. It feels so wrong, all of this – but Eva seems unconcerned as she picks up her phone. ‘Aw, Sam hasn’t seen the photo yet,’ she says.

That’s unlike him. Even when he’s at the shop, he’d usually respond to a silly photo right away. I pull out my own phone and, as we leave the café, I can’t resist calling him to share the jumpsuit escapade. ‘At one point it was trying to strangle me,’ I tell him, to which he laughs a little half-heartedly. He’s busy, I tell myself. Probably with a customer or at a tricky stage of a job. ‘Have you seen the picture?’ I ask.

‘Um, no. Hang on…’ The call ends abruptly. A moment later he rings back. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to cut you off…’ Now I’m starting to feel like a child who’s demanding attention from the grown-ups. The moment has passed and it all feels rather silly and clearly, Sam isn’t finding this as hilarious as we’d hoped. Someone is laughing – but it’s not him. It’s in the background, muddled up with chatter and one particularly strident male voice. Judging by the hubbub, Sam is in a room with a lot of people. ‘Are you at the shop?’ I ask.

‘Erm, no. I’m out actually.’

‘Oh, where?’ I ask.

A beat’s pause. ‘Just at a thing.’

‘A thing? What kind of thing—’ I break off, realising that he doesn’t want to say what it is. Is it a medical matter? Surely there wouldn’t be all that chatter and laughter if he were having an orifice probed?