ANYONE FEEL THE FEAR? Marian Keyes goes shopping

So short! So wide! So rubbish at shopping!’

Funny, frank and unfiltered, novelist Marian Keyes bares her soul in a changing room stand-off

CCaught in the lavish changing room, I could actually smell my panic. ‘How is the dress?’ the assistant asked through the door. ‘Would you like to show me?’ ‘No!’ I yelped. ‘No, thank you, but no.’ The very last thing I needed was him there in person, applying the force of his sales will against my flimsy resistance, because then I’d definitely buy the thing. But how had I ended up in this situation again – trapped in a retail experience, feeling the only way out was via the expenditure of a large quantity of cash? This is something that happens so frequently that I’ve actually invented a name for it: Frockkabinangst (Frock Kabin is German for changing room – and makes it sound like a respectable psychological condition).

It happened the way it always does: the seasons had changed so I’d gone shopping, only to end up astonished and distressed by how wrong everything looked on me – I was so short! I was so wide! But surely it was simply a question of looking harder for the right garments? They were out there somewhere, and they’d fix me.

So I put my back into it and somehow ended up in the spendy bit of Selfridges, gazing at an eye-burstingly beautiful silk crepe dress, when a handsome young assistant appeared at my shoulder and softly suggested I try it on.

‘No,’ I said, stoutly. ‘No, no.’ It was horrifically expensive and I’d never get to wear it, because my life is far too dull. But in a fatal moment the thought crossed my mind that maybe this dress – this very dress – was the one to fix my wrongness.

Next thing I knew, I was in a well-appointed changing room with rose-pink carpet and benign lighting. The man (we’ll call him David) firmly shut the handsome beech door, leaving me alone with the dress. I felt the way people must feel when they’ve been arrested and find themselves in their locked cell for the first time. I was terrified. My moment of delusion had passed, and this dress was all wrong for me. But now an absurd charade would play out, where I pretended to be interested before finding a polite way to extricate myself.

Miserably, I tried it on. It was tiny – thank you God! – and when David knocked gently I was able to say, ‘It’s too small.’

‘No problem,’ he replied, double-quick. ‘I have the next size here.’

My heart sank as he slid the dress in to me. ‘And if this doesn’t fit,’ he said, ‘I have another size.’ I wanted to weep. He’d just keep on bringing me more dresses until my resistance collapsed. Eventually, there would be nothing left to object to and I’d have to make the purchase.

The bigger dress fitted. In fact, through my haze of fear, it looked lovely. It would be pathetic to spend an appalling sum on a dress just because the man was helpful, wouldn’t it? But already the self-justifications were under way: it was beautiful. And I’d probably wear it. Maybe.

Meanwhile, another internal voice was mocking my weakness. It was David’s job to soft-soap me into parting with my readies. I heard that voice, but I’m also deeply co-dependent – I didn’t feel strong enough to face David’s disappointment. He’d been so nice to me, and now he wouldn’t like me any more.

David was right outside the door, I could feel him. My panicked eyes scanned the changing room, seeking an escape hatch or ceiling tiles I could remove. But there was no way out, which meant I was going to have to be an adult – something that does not come easy.

I informed myself that if David no longer liked me, it wouldn’t kill me, then opened the door. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, ‘but not for me. Thank you for your help.’ David’s face fell and my guilt was epic, but you know what? The world didn’t end. Perhaps it’ll be easier the next time...

The assistant had been so nice to me – now he wouldn’t like me any more…