Irene

She’s standing staring into the window. Nose pressed hard on the glass. Steam builds up in the shape of her face and every few seconds she wipes it away with a tissue, and presses harder. The glass is uncomfortable, too cold, but it doesn’t deter. If anything, it makes her more determined.

The two women inside the shop, those with the name badges and the pursed tangerine lips and the pencilled American tan eyebrows and the tight electric green pencil skirts and the arms that fold firm across large white satin covered chests when they don’t get their own way, those two women, they’ve noticed her. They stop fidgeting and faffing and pinning the ivory gown in the centre of the shop to stare back at the elderly woman hard up against their window display.

Irene doesn’t catch their eyes. Irene has learnt from experience that it is a mistake to catch anyone’s eyes but the eyes she needs. Especially shop assistants. Best thing is to keep going. Keep leaning in. She switches her weight from one leg to the other, puts her shopping down on the pavement, and heaves her bosom to the glass. Her breasts flatten, and the bulge of her stomach moves towards her hips. Behind her, the voice of a small boy. What’s that lady doing, Mummy, is she trying to get in? Shhh, she hears a woman say. It’s rude to stare.

Irene moves her nose from side to side, up and down. Does a little jig. The two women in the shop have stopped fretting over the gown and have moved towards Irene, but kept behind the window display, the mannequin bride with the crimson wedding dress and the mannequin mother of the bride in violet teal tulle. Irene lifts her arms up, flattens both hands on the glass. She’s a glass angel, spreading her wings. Her nose is blue white disappearing into the gap between her cheeks.

Irene feels a crowd building behind her, muttering and whispering and rustling with the artificial click clicks of camera phones. Then a cooling of sound and an authoritative voice.

What’s all this then, the male voice says.

Irene presses her knees to the glass, swivels her eyes towards the crimson robed mannequin bride. The perfect breasts, the beautiful calves, the long blue lashes, the pure curving smile of the pouting lips, the impossibly held in waist. That colour, crimson, though, it’s no good with the model’s skin. Irene is skilled with colours and that dress is all wrong for that woman. Irene wore crimson once. Low cut and above the knee, a white chiffon train, scarlet lips, green eyeshadow and a shimmering ruby in her crown. She walked a crimson walk, talked a crimson talk, and danced with a crimson king.

Move back everyone, move back.

Hand on her shoulder.

Irene presses still further into the glass. Plants her old feet firm and far apart. Resistance is everything. She is resisting.

The two shop assistants have backed away. Put the counter between Irene and the glass and the mannequin bride in the wrong coloured outfit. One fidgets with the pile of white tissue paper. Another is filming Irene with a large phone.

Step away, Madam, you’re frightening the other customers.

Irene doesn’t answer. She kicks her foot hard backwards into the officer’s shin. He gasps and clucks his tongue.

I said step away, Madam.

She’s wearing the wrong dress, Officer.

What do you mean the wrong dress.

It’s Miranda, there in the crimson gown. It’s all wrong. Does nothing for her skin tone. Makes her look dead. She’d be far better in brink pink.

The officer’s hand comes down on Irene’s shoulder. The fingers tighen through the thick of her wool coat.

She kicks him again. Another gasp. He lets her go. A voice from the crowd says something about leave the old lady alone, she’s nay harming no one.

Irene taps her finger on the glass. Tap tap. Over here. Tap tap. The mannequin bride turns to look at her. Catches her eye. Irene motions to the gown. Shakes her head and her hand with a no, no.

I know, the mannequin bride’s lips move. They made me put it on. I much prefer the salmon pink.