“No. Tacky refers mainly to poor taste and quality whereas garish could be good quality but lurid.”

“Impressive. This one?”

“Itchy.”

“This one?”

“Skimpy.”

“This one?”

“Fussy.”

“This one?”

“Scanty.”

“This one?”

“Dressy.”

Jennifer runs out of clothes before I run out of adjectives. She lets her now-empty arms hang by her sides, appraises me anew. I can tell she is surprised, and I feel ridiculously pleased about this. Emboldened, I point at a summer dress that I will never wear because it is a linen dress. A linen dress, the color of early morning mist, that will both crease and stain easily. A linen halter-neck dress that will stop just short of my bony knees, and then there’s the rest of my legs, south of my bony knees, which I’d have to shave, and...

“Good choice,” says Jennifer, nodding with naked approval. “What else?”

In the end, Jennifer manages to persuade me to buy three carrier bags full, containing:

• bright pink bomber jacket (silk—will have to be handwashed in cold water);
• puffball red skirt (cotton—machine washable);
• green leopard-print A-line skirt (acrylic—the washing instructions tag is no longer attached, but I imagine it should be washed inside out, at a safe thirty degrees);
• brown (dark chocolate brown, say seventy percent cacao) kitten heels, which I will never wear because I never wear heels (suede);
• silver-gray ‘boyfriend’ cardigan with long fitted sleeves (eighty percent acrylic, twenty percent wool, will handwash for safety);
• a bright pink tulle high-waisted midi-skirt (as yet unidentified synthetic mix);
• a lime-green T-shirt with bright pink limes all over it (the softest cotton!);
• a pale peach cropped jumper with three-quarter-length sleeves (mohair!);
• brown gladiator summer sandals (leather);
• two spaghetti-string tops (1. Scarlet! 2. Orange!!);
• one pair of white skinny jeans (denim) with—subtle-ish—diamanté detail on back pockets (short, cold-water cycle, add a thimble of vinegar);
• a silk shirtdress, much too short and impractical given the delicacy of the fabric and its shade of palest blue, which Jennifer says is the exact shade of my eyes (strictly dry-clean only);
• a black one-shoulder, one-sleeve top, which seems sort of lacking to me, but which Jennifer assures me is made for me, citing my jutty-outy collarbones and my freakishly long arms. (I forgot to examine the washing instructions before purchase...);
• two bras (one a black, lacy affair, and the other so soft and white, it’s impossible to believe it’s ever been through even a delicate cycle);
• a straw hat with a pink gingham ribbon that Jennifer, with no trace of irony, says will make me stand out from the crowd.

Oh, and the linen summer dress, at the bottom of the bag, already creased.

Jennifer shakes her head.

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Terry,” she says because we’re on a first-name basis now.

“Neither did I.” Just because I now own the clothes doesn’t mean I have to wear them. There could be a Marks & Spencer in Dover, couldn’t there?

“And you have to wear them. I’ll know if you don’t.” Again that feeling that she can see right inside me. That she knows everything.