Page 35 of Unmatched

“You look like you could use some help,” she adds.

I take a step back toward the door, wondering if I can pretend I walked in by accident. There’s dog hair on my shirt. I don’t have on any makeup. I can pretend I was looking for something else—an art gallery, a church.

But as I’m about to hightail it back out to the sidewalk, the woman smiles. It’s not a knowing, derisive smile like I expect in a store like this, but an attentive, professional one. I glance again at the racks of frilly undergarments. If I’m going to pull off my plan, I need all the help I can get.

“Yes...I do need help,” I admit, figuring I should stick as close as I can bear to the truth. Buying lingerie doesn’t make me a cheater. I just need to look like one. “My anniversary’s coming up. I’m looking for something to um...spice things up?”

“Ah, yes. I think I can guess what you’re looking for,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Georgina. I own Allure.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m...” For a moment I consider offering a fake name. To buy a bra. “I’m Lydia.”

I follow her to one corner of the store. Everything is plush white and pristine, and thankfully hardly anyone else is in here. Classical music plays in the background, and the light coming from a few well-placed crystal chandeliers is soft. A younger salesgirl offers me champagne, which I turn down because, hello, it’s ten a.m., but also, I’d feel stupid drinking champagne in a T-shirt and leggings.

I think I spot one of the items I picked out online—something white and complicated, with laces and boning and lots of satin that reminded me of weddings—and I start to move toward it. But Georgina turns the other way, selecting a little black bra made of the sheerest fabric I’ve ever seen. If someone could have designed a bra made of nothing, this seriously comes close. It looks like it’s held together with frills and air.

“We just got these in. They’re very fun, with beautiful detail, and of course there’s a matching panty.”

I cringe. If there’s a word out there worse than tits, it’s got to be panty.

I examine the “panties” front and back, only I find there is no back to them at all. It’s not like a thong—there’s nothing in the middle at all—just a delicate lace border around a wide gaping opening where apparently all my cheeks will spill out. What is even the point of that? I can’t bring myself to look at Georgina. I’m positive my face is redder than the satin thongs she’s standing next to.

“That certainly is . . .”

“Why don’t you try it on? It does leave a lot to the imagination.” If she winked at me, I would’ve walked right back out the front door, but she doesn’t. She’s placid and professional.

“Um, okay, sure,” I say, because at this point I feel like trying it on might be the fastest way out of here.

“Wonderful. Do you know your size?”

“Yes, 34C.”

She wavers, taking another look at me. “Do you mind if I just measure to be sure? Some of our brands don’t fit like others.”

“Okay...” Really? I haven’t been measured for a bra since my mother took me down to some awful store in the mall when I was fourteen. I’ve always been that same size. It’s never changed.

We step back into a dressing room, and after five long, cold, topless minutes where I hold my arms up, down, stand, and bend over, Georgina straightens with her tape measure, looking satisfied. “I’m thinking...30F.”

My jaw drops. “I beg your pardon?”

She smiles. “Many women who come in here discover they’re wearing the wrong bra size.”

“But I’m not...there isn’t any such thing as a size F,” I say, crossing my arms over my boobs.

“It’s not as common in the US—we can’t seem to get past our Ds—but European bras are sized with a more logical system. Let me find you a couple of things to try on...besides this.” She hangs the sheer set on a hook by the door.

I say nothing as she disappears. The woman is nuts, and now I wish I’d just gone to the mall, or even Target. There is no way I’m actually that many cup sizes bigger.

She reappears a few moments later with a couple more lacy-looking numbers, but she’s also holding a gloriously simple nude T-shirt bra. “Try this one first and see what you think.”

I press my eyes closed as she exits, then reach for the nude bra. It’s molded, and the band is so small the cups look like freaking hot air balloons. I glance at the UK 30F on the tag and roll my eyes, ready to confirm that Georgina’s crazy measurements are off.

It’s so snug around my ribcage I can barely latch it on the first hook, but when I scoop myself into the cups the way Georgina instructed, I’m shocked to see them totally filled. I stare at the mirror, turning sideways to the left and right. My breasts are up high, front and center, in a flattering position I’ve never seen them in before. The cups are rounded and pretty, and the whole thing is actually super comfortable. I grab my T-shirt, slip it back on, and I’m stunned. It doesn’t even look like the same shirt. My waist appears longer and slimmer, giving me more of a real hourglass shape. I have never looked like this in a bra.

I stick my head out of the dressing room and find Georgina returning with a couple more simple bras. “Oh, lovely! Do you mind if I take a look?”

She has me remove my shirt, lean forward and jiggle, then straighten. Nothing pops out the top or needs to be rearranged like I am used to doing with my old bras. I can’t remember ever feeling this way in my underwear—supported and secure.

“Yes.” She beams. “That’s much better.”

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