Page 33 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
I sigh. ‘Marta, I know you want me to buy the zebra corset, but sucking up won’t get me anywhere near it’.
‘First off, that would look good on a fucking horse. Second off, I don’t lie. If I say you look like a model, take the compliment and fuck off.’
I can’t help it. A snort of laughter fills me, and I turn to look at her. The tension from this past week leaves me.
From what I learned in England, Marta would be considered the stereotypical Italian. As if she poured the sun onto herself, skin becoming so dark it’s almost reflective. Layers of gold jewellery cover her neck and wrists, and her bleached hair is piled high on the crown of her head with no hair tie in sight. And, of course, she is not wearing a bra. I smirk; maybe I’m more Italian than I care to admit.
‘So you’re fucking back.’ She raises her hands in delight, her bracelets creating a cacophony of clashing metal that rings in my ears.
‘Yes, and I’m in desperate need of something to wear. England is in a perpetual rainstorm, and I have nothing for above ten degrees.’
‘That’s what you get for choosing the literal most depressing country in the entire world.’
‘Yes, Marta. I know.’
‘Does the Queen execute you if you wear colour?’
‘Oh my god, Marta, you’re so dramatic.’
She circles around me, scrutinizing everything from the colour of my nail polish to my split ends, making me feel exposed and immediately less feminine. As if I’m being a woman wrong.
‘You’re thinner.’
‘Not a fan of fish and chips.’ I try to smile but Marta just rolls her eyes, pinching the thinning fabric of my polo. Her eyelids are dusted a bright shade of orange with two matching black hearts on the apples of her cheeks. How on earth does she have the energy to put herself together so early in the morning?
‘What are you, a thirteen-year-old boy?’
‘I will leave, you know.’
‘Shut up and let me think.’
Pinching my hips, pulling my hair (even though I don’t understand what hair has to do with clothing), wrapping her faded measuring tape around my thighs and accidentally groping me, Marta throws piles of clothes on the counter and for an hour I am poked and prodded until I’m sure my skin is raw. Styling people is the only time Marta stops talking and the store is eerily silent as she sighs and murmurs about my too-prominent hip bone or asking me if I ever thought about fake tanning. Only the occasional sound of satin falling from hangers disturbs the long time spent standing. After having closed my eyes and possibly blacking out for the fourth time she took my skirt off, leaving me to stand in only my underwear in the centre of her store, she pats my shoulder with a reassuring, ‘Would I ever steer you wrong?’ and lets out a comical sigh as we pass the zebra corset, her eyes practically swelling with tears at the thought of me leaving without it.
Scanning the tags of my new clothing items, she murmurs to herself, ‘Fuck, yeah. I’m good,’ and ducks behind the counter, quickly putting more clothes I can’t see in my bags. I try to object but when I lean across the counter she shakes her head and shoves my face back, a bracelet hitting me in the tooth.
‘Marta, don’t even think about giving me anything else. I have enough clothes for the whole year.’
Her jaw practically on the ground, she gapes at me. ‘You’re really nothing like Anika, are you? I gave you like ten items, Maggie. That’s good for a fucking weekend.’
‘Do I get a discount at least?’ I try to bat my eyelashes, but it just makes Marta roll her eyes. ‘Since you’re making me shop against my will?’
Marta narrows her eyes. ‘Will you let me put the corset on you?’
‘Not a chance, baby.’ I take out my wallet and reach for my card before she grabs it and begins looking through the card holder.
‘Then no discount for you, bitch,’ she winks, rummaging through my credit cards and, after finding one she likes, swiping it through the machine.
‘Thank your daddy for me,’ she smirks. I try to object and tell her to use mine, but after a moment’s thought, I realize my father hasn’t paid for anything of mine for the past four years. He wanted me home, after all. He owes me a few skirts.
Pushing the bags towards me, Marta tucks the card back into the wallet and shakes her head. ‘You’re thinner,’ she repeats.
My throat feels dry. Why is everyone in my life so perceptive? So watchful of my wellbeing.
I stare down at my wallet, my fingers tracing the pattern of the leather.
‘Some days, I would just forget.’ The words feel like hot cotton in my mouth, never wanting to say it out loud to anyone. Afraid and ashamed of my own weakness. Of how such a privileged little girl could ever think she had the right to feel sad. Afraid to admit that I could stay in bed for three days straight and cry the entire time.
She reaches for my hand across the counter, her metal rings cold against my knuckles.
