What I didn’t tell my brother was that I was hoping Connie would soon realise Isaac’s worth, because she was about to go on a date with Wodger’s dad, who was, in my utterly biased opinion, nowhere near as good a match for her as my brother. Plus, he had a nervous giggle that made my innards clench.
By the time we were ready to leave the first shop, Isaac had agreed on a few basics that at least were free of holes or slogans that stopped being funny a decade ago. Arthur, however, had splurged on two suits, his first ever pair of jeans, several tops that could be worn with either, and a pair of green Converse. I had to hand it to Cillian; he knew his stuff. If you ignored Arthur from the eyebrows up, his vintage-style checked suit matched with a brightly coloured T-shirt looked a perfect combination of fun, quirky and even a tiny bit cool.
I think all of us had a lump in our throat. Cillian had to grab a pocket square from one of the mannequins to blot his eyes.
Isaac left for work, Arthur had an appointment for his first ever professional haircut (his mum and sister usually gave him a trim using their funeral parlour skills). That left Elliot.
‘How are you getting on?’ I asked, as we browsed the third shop, having made a swift exit from the second once we’d seen the four-figure price tags.
‘I’ve got this.’ He held up a white T-shirt.
‘That’s the same as the white T-shirt you already have.’
‘No.’ He frowned. ‘Mine has a rounder collar. Look.’
‘No, I won’t look.’ I grabbed it off him and shoved it back in a wrinkled pile on the table. ‘I’ve said, several times, that you need this makeover the least. Your clothes are fine; they work for you. If you want white T-shirts and blue shirts then don’t waste your money on new ones. If you want to try something different, that has to meandifferent.’
‘A checked suit?’
‘A checkedshirt?’
Elliot appeared to be in pain. The shop assistant, this time a much older man, jumped in. ‘Can I help at all?’
‘No thanks, I prefer to trust my personal stylist,’ Elliot said, in the kind of dismissive tone that I imagined men who take personal stylists shopping with them might adopt.
I waited for the man to wander off again. ‘Okay, you’ve admitted that you trust me. From now on I get to decide what you take into the changing room.’
Nearly two hours and two shops later we had a non-blue shirt, a jumper and a multi-pack of socks.
I didn’t mind. The truth was, there was very little I wanted to change about Elliot Ollerton.
* * *
Arthur had arranged to go to the cinema with Elsa that evening, and asked if she could pick him up. The rest of us huddled in anticipation in the living room, having insisted Arthur, practically unrecognisable with his new haircut and jeans, wait for her in prime position by the bookcase.
We all held our breath once I’d ushered her into the room.
‘Hi.’ She nodded, before going over and giving Arthur a peck on the cheek. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Yes,’ Arthur replied, somewhat ominously.
‘What did you get up to?’ Elsa shifted her bag up higher on her shoulder, starting to realise something was up, but, to my astonishment, seemingly not sure what that was.
‘Well, this!’ Arthur said, holding out his hands.
‘Um… what?’
‘You don’t notice anything different about him?’ I asked.
Elsa took a few steps back for a proper look, forehead creasing as she inspected Arthur from top to bottom. The truth was, he appeared about a decade older, several inches taller and a whole lot fitter in his jeans and slim-fit shirt. The hairstylist had even plucked his eyebrows.
‘Oh!’ she blurted, eventually. ‘Have you had your hair cut?’
‘Yes!’ Arthur beamed.
‘Elsa, he’s had a whole wardrobe makeover,’ Isaac said. ‘His sister called round earlier and it took her a full thirty seconds to recognise him.’
‘Oh!’ she repeated, face turning crimson. ‘I guess… I suppose I just don’t really notice what he wears. I’m really sorry,’ she said, taking Arthur’s hand. ‘You always look lovely, to me.’
