Free I Hope You Dance by Beth Moran Page A

poking at me from the edge of my curtains. I could hear my parents rattling about in the kitchen, the faint sounds of another argument drifting up the stairs. Maggie was in the shower, next to my room, the water making spattering sounds on the wall beside my bed.
    This was it. My summer of hiding and indulging my despondent emotions was over. Time to set off on the road to recovery. Today was going to be a good day. Maggie would have a great start at her new school, I would get myself a job and then cook us dinner to celebrate. I pushed off the bear with the strength of my forced optimism, clambered out of bed and went to get on with my new life.
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    â€œRuth Henderson?” Vanessa Jacobs stopped straightening cardigans on the rack in front of her and peered at me through chunky-framed glasses. “Wow. You’d better come into the back.”
    I followed her through the shop, the sign of which said “Couture” in simple, thin lettering on a plum background, down a long, slim space lined with uncluttered rows of boutique-style fashion. At the far end stood a glass counter containing a couple of displays featuring accessories, including locally made jewellery and designer handbags. It was tasteful, elegant and about five zillionmiles from the nearest orange puffa jacket. Vanessa Jacobs had come a long way.
    She offered me a low stool in front of a full-length mirror, set among piles of boxes.
    Ah. Now this could be a problem. I had sold all my decent clothes, bought using Fraser’s secret debt mountain, for pitiful and desperate amounts on internet auctions. My mother declared that my few remaining items, worn to death over the previous couple of years, were in no way suitable for an interview with Southwell’s queen of fashion. Ever prepared, Mum triumphantly produced a chocolate coloured shift dress, the label still attached.
    â€œI mentioned your wardrobe deficiency to Lois, and she gave me this! She bought it for a conference and then found it was too small for her.”
    A dress too small for five-foot-nothing, tiny Lois. Yes, I contained about as much fat as a diet yoghurt at that point, but I stood several inches taller than Lois, and shared my father’s sturdy frame. Squeezing the dress on, I managed to wrestle the zip all the way up to the top with a little help from an empty stomach and Maggie. I had not, however, yet managed to successfully take more than the shallowest of breaths, sit down properly or bend my body further than about two inches in any direction.
    I looked at the stool. “Actually, I’m fine standing.”
    Vanessa raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow at me. She waved her hand at the piles of cardboard boxes and cellophane-wrapped outfits hanging from the ceiling all around us.
    â€œThere’s not enough room for both of us to stand. Please sit.”
    Oh dear. Gingerly, apprehensively, with as much care as Neil Armstrong landing Apollo 11 on the moon, I lowered myself the long, long distance down to the stool, wondering if my backside would ever reach the shiny black seat.
    Come on, Ruth. You can do it. Take it steady now.
    The dress material began to stretch and strain impossibly taut around my hips and back as the angle forced my body forward inorder to avoid toppling over. My knees began jutting up higher than my hips as I closed the gap an agonizing fraction at a time. I grabbed onto a nearby clothes rail for balance, smiling valiantly at Vanessa as I descended the last few inches. She watched me, her expression blank, as I finally hit the wooden surface. At that moment, in the clumsy silence, was a distinct rrriiiiiippp .
    Vanessa took a tiny step back, her eyes widening in horror and surprise. I felt a gentle waft of cool air on my back, right above the top of my faded knickers – a noticeable contrast to my face, burning with mortification.
    I took a deep, rallying breath – rriiippp . Squared my shoulders – rriiippp.
    Fine, this is