Do You Remember the First Time?

wear those, whatever Stanzi thought she was doing.
    ‘It’s a school party, not an invitation for the whole room to get you pregnant,’ I hissed to her, when she came out wearing the full white waistcoat and camel-foot pants.
    ‘Stop trying on ballgowns,’ she retorted. ‘You look retarded.’
    ‘I look fabulous,’ I said. ‘Shut up.’
    Stanzi raised her eyebrows. ‘Me, I look terrible,’ she sighed, staring at her limpid petite reflection. ‘I am fat greaseball covered in steel wool.’
    ‘You’re gorgeous,’ I said. ‘You look fabulous. Here.’
    I handed her a shocking-red top, which made her boobs look enormous and her hair stand out like Catherine Zeta-Jones’s.
    ‘Whore’s clothes,’ she said. ‘Good.’
    I slipped on a completely unforgiving ivory sheath with a metallic strap. The material was cheap, but when you are almost entirely hip free that simply doesn’t matter.
    ‘What, you are twenty-five-year-old going to get married? You look ancient.’
    Crap, that reminded me. Tashy. I checked my Swatch. It was OK, I had half an hour or so to try on:
    • teensy denim miniskirt that made my legs look skinny
    • obscenely low-cut jeans I could normally only get one leg in
    • sixties-style minidress with no waist, thus unwearable by anyone with curves
    • huge gypsy-style Laura Ashley-type seventies dress (in sale), still hideous
    • leggings (which hadn’t worked for me at the right size first time round and weren’t improving by much)
    • innumerable Sharon Stone-style satin evening gowns, with gloves on my long slender arms, in which I took to parading round the dressing room as I looked so lovely. In no way did I need an evening gown, but, oof, I looked like one of those Hollywood starlets in them.
    Stanzi was looking at me queerly.
    ‘We should go,’ she said.
    ‘Ten minutes,’ I said.
    ‘Normally you always say you are ugly when you are shopping.’
    ‘Oh yes,’ I said, admiring my reflection in a yellow dress like Renée Zellweger wore to the Oscars. ‘I look like a piece of shit.’
    ‘Me too,’ yelled Stanzi, obviously glad to be back in the game. ‘I look like a pig in a dress!’
    ‘You look gorgeous! I look like a wombat in tights.’
    ‘No, you are beautiful. I am like a slavering space Martian who has been sent down to Earth to discover what makes Earth males vomit!’
    ‘Why am I in this shop when the shop I need is the shop making outsize paper bags?’
    We were giggling with each other as we made our final choices. Stanzi took the red top, which looked great on her, but insisted on wearing it with black trousers, which gave her a fat bum and made the combination subliminally resemble some kind of deadly spider. I’d kept the cute denim miniskirt – fake tan ahoy – and was teeming it with a cute off-the-shoulder stripy top, which was a bit eighties-fashion-back-again, but I figured if anyone had earned the right, it was me. We popped in to change back happily (sharing a changing room, which I’d forgotten was de rigueur ), but both of us stiffened when we heard a familiar voice.
    ‘Georgia! For goodness’ sake, Georgia, can’t you even get me the right size? A six, for fuck’s sake. Only losers take eights.’
    Fallon. Clearly slumming it in Topshop, like Kylie did.
    ‘Crap,’ I said.
    ‘ Porca miseria ,’ agreed Stanzi.
    ‘We really look like lesbonerds,’ I whispered. Stanzinodded. In honour of my ‘bringing my family together’ goal, I was wearing a Mum-approved long peasant skirt and gypsy top. I shouldn’t have been nervous but any kind of confrontation gets my heart rate up and I couldn’t help it.
    ‘And I want one in every colour,’ shouted Fallon. ‘Chop chop!’
    I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes to meet Tashy, and I had to misdirect my mum and dad, using some brilliant plan that hadn’t quite occurred to me yet.
    I stared at the floor. No way could I wriggle under that.
    ‘You go,’ whispered Stanzi. ‘Explain. No. Explain something. I follow later.’
    My eyebrows raised in gratitude at this self-sacrifice. ‘Thank you!’ I said.
    ‘Shh! Go now!’
    I squeezed her on the arm and walked out boldly. Fallon was gazing angrily at herself in the mirror, even though she looked absolutely great. Her head whisked round as she clocked me. There was a short pause.
    Then, ‘God. Can’t go anywhere these days,’ she sniffed. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off in New Look?’
    ‘Just back from claw-sharpening class?’