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Cinderella Goes on a Diet

I’m going to a ball at the end of this month. A proper, full-on, candlelight and dancing, men in white tie and tails, ladies in evening gloves, ball with reeling till 3am, champagne and dance cards. It’s in Scotland, and it offers a whole novel’s worth of quality romantic atmosphere (see, Swept off her Feet, March onwards). It’s so traditional that black tie for men looks underdressed, and ladies must wear full-length gowns. Nothing above the ankle, definitely no trousers, and with secure enough straps to withstand some energetic whirling and spinning.



Because it’s such a magical night – how often do you get to step into your own Jane Austen novel? – I wanted a really magical outfit, and I found the perfect skirt on eBay. No sniffing at the source, please – some of the best things in my wardrobe have come from, well, other people’s wardrobes. Closets, technically, as I’m an avid scourer of American estate sales, where the Mad Men 1950s were just that bit more fancy than they were over here in gloomy Britain. This skirt couldn’t have been more perfect: floor-sweeping smokey organza floating over black satin, in my size. After some nerve-wracking last-minute bidding that saw the price rise from £4.00 to £5.85 in eight frantic bids, I snapped it up for the far–from-princessly sum of £6.05.  A Cinderella ballgown for the price of a (organic) pumpkin! 

 

Of course, there had to be a catch. There often is with eBay: either the garment has been stored in a hope chest made from mothballs, or it’s a child’s age 12, not a size 12, or it’s a totally different colour, thanks to the strange camera flash. And the catch in this case was that while the beautiful, elegant skirt did have a UK size 12 label in it, it was clearly a size 12 from about 1965, when English waists were wizened from Rationing: The Dried Egg Years, and then wizened some more with a roll-on girdle. The skirt went on. It swished like a dream, and it covered my dancing shoes. It just wouldn’t do up, probably much to the spectral scorn of its original owner.

 

At this point, you’re thinking, why not just find another skirt? Surely there are many long black evening skirts out there? In shops, even, where you can try them on first? But here’s another confession: I am powerless in the face of a bargain. And this skirt was both perfect, and a vintage bargain. Like Betsy Phillimore in The Finishing Touches, I’m a professor of Fashion Maths, and although my pride was a bit dented (understatement: I wept real tears. Tears of pure Lindt chocolate), I consoled myself that far the skirt had cost me about a hundredth of the fabulous ballgown I’d drooled over on Net-A-Porter.com, therefore effectively I’d saved £593.95. A few quid for alterations wasn’t going to hurt. So skipping lunch – like that was going to shrivel my post-Christmas chump - I went into Hereford to beg for help at the bridal shop, because if anyone knew about discreet alterations, they would.

 

The lovely lady at the bridal shop listened without sniggering to my explanations about how I still had 20 days to eat no carbs, and complete the remaining 19 days of my 30 Day Shred DVD. I showed her the skirt, and the waistband that ‘simply needed turning over’ and she was kind enough to nod when I muttered something about Spanx. She probably wished she had a pound for every time people mentioned Spanx in her shop.

 

‘Let me talk to our seamstress,’ she said, and rang a bell. I looked over to the staircase, expecting a kindly old Victorian lady to emerge with pince-nez glasses and a bun. Instead a cross young woman appeared, cup of coffee in hand, plus the faint whiff of a recent cigarette break. She had black roots and a suspicious expression on her face, no doubt caused by years of brides insisting that they were definitely going to be thinner at the next fitting.

 

‘Anna…’ began the bridal shop owner, nervously, but the seamstress was already sizing me up, and sizing up my skirt, and clearly coming up with two very different numbers. She did seem to like the skirt though, which was something. ‘The lady wonders if you can perhaps adjust this an inch…’

 

Anna made a noise that I would love to add to my arsenal of non-verbal communication, covering as it did, resignation, surprise and mild disgust.

 

‘You vull have to trrry on,’ she said, in a strong Polish accent, jerking her head at the big trying-on curtained area behind us. ‘I nid to see… how much adjustment.’ The ‘you fatty’ was silent, but only just.

 

We went behind the curtain and I pulled off my denim skirt (size 12, although clearly not) and replaced it with my fairytale ball skirt. I had a weird desire to apologise to it. Anna began to stick pins in me as I regarded my waist with some sorrow. I’d thought it wasn’t that bad. I’d been letting Jillian Michaels from The Biggest Loser screech at me from her insane workout DVD for nearly two months; I thought I was getting thinner.

 

‘I vull add material herrre and herrre,’ Anna informed me, as the three of us stared at my dumpy reflection in the mirror. (Hello? I’m nearly six feet in heels. She just made me feel like Queen Victoria, in full Queen of the Weebles phase, such is the power of dressmaker scorn.) I started to repeat my Spanx mantra, but she stopped me with an eyebrow. For a second, I thought about suggesting a whalebone corset, but the top half of this outfit was a Vivienne Westwood structured bodice that already made me look like a Bavarian barmaid, so any more corseting and I risked exploding onto the dancefloor.

 

Two more pins and we were done. Anna pointed at my skirt. I hastily removed it and handed it over, then she swept back upstairs with it over her arm, muttering. I had the weird sensation that it would come back perfect. I don’t know why. Maybe I watch too many films. Or I’m just a hopeful person.

 

‘Come back on Monday,’ said the owner, soothingly. ‘It’s going to be gorgeous. What a romantic outfit! And a ball, wow!’

 

We exchanged a few pleasantries about Kate Middleton’s wedding dress (expert opinion: ‘probably simple, with embroidery’) and I left, determined to eat like Gwyneth Paltrow between now and January 29th, while exercising like the crazy fit one in the 30 Day Shred DVD. I do not dare go back there fatter. 

 

Therefore, gentle reader, the Fashion Maths lesson for the day is this: eBay is a wonderful source of unique evening wear that can be tailored to your exact measurements very simply. And the cost of those alterations includes free diet motivation. Or to put it another way, what I've saved on the stern personal trainer, I can now spend on upgrading my train ticket.

 

I will let you know how it turns out. And whether my imaginary train ticket upgrade actually has to be spent on a whole new last-minute outfit.