All the better to see you, my dear.

I wrestle myself into the skirt (dry-clean only) and a run-in-the-wash top even though I’ll never buy them because they’re not my color—a raucous green and purple—and they’re not my style—the skirt’s too short and the top is too, I don’t know, too green and purple.

Still, at least I’m covered up now. “Well?” asks the young woman.

Something sharp on the waistband of the too-short skirt digs into my skin, and the V of the top’s neckline turns out to be a very long V so that I would spend all my time looking down, checking that I am still decent.

I feel a panic-buy coming on.

“I’ll take them,” I say. I need to get out of here. I know it could be worse. I could be in one of those awful boutiques where the women comment on my height and say, “I know just the thing,” even though you’ve already told them that you’re only browsing and the just the thing turns out to be a scarf for eighty euros that you won’t ever wear because you don’t ever wear scarves.

Jennifer folds her arms and examines my face. “Why would you take them?” she asks.

“Eh... I... Because they’re lovely?”

“No they’re not.”

“Then why did you give them to me to try on?”

“It was a test.”

“Oh.”

“Which you failed.”

Jennifer smiles, and I notice a speck of bright red lipstick on one of her front teeth which makes me feel a tiny bit better.

“Okay,” she says, unfolding her arms and rubbing her hands together. “We are going to practice, okay?”

I nod. I’ve no idea what she means.

I suddenly wonder if this is one of those television programs where they make fools of people like me. But she’s looking right at me so I can’t scan the shop for hidden cameras.

“I’m going to show you an outfit, and you’re going to tell me exactly what you think of it. And I’ll know if you’re lying.” She glares at me like I’ve already told a lie, so I say, “Okay,” and she smiles then and there’s the speck of lipstick again, and so we begin.

If it were a quiz, it would be the quick-fire round.

She holds up outfit after outfit. She’s calling them ensembles. They’re not just tops and skirts or tops and trousers. She adds jewelry. Belts. Hats. Shoes. Jackets. Arranges me so that I’m facing the full-length mirror and holds the first ensemble against me.

“Well, it’s...it’s really lovely but—”

“I just need one word,” explains Jennifer, with end-of-tether patience. “An adjective preferably. Okay?”

“Okay. But...before you begin, could I just quickly ask...do you have anything navy?”

“Navy?” she says. “What for?”

“Well, because, you know, I like navy, and—”

“Nobody likes navy,” she says. She holds the ensemble—none of which is navy—up again.

“Garish,” I manage.

“Oh. Right. Well-done. This one?”

“Tacky.”

“Is that not the same as garish?”