Her hair is obviously dyed because it’s that shade of red that’s completely unnatural – iridescent and almost purplish, like a bruise midway through forming when the blood is gathering in order to heal. Her sparkly emerald framed glasses thickly frame her face, the lenses unfortunately emphasizing her laughter lines. She’s obviously laughed her way through life if the lines are anything to go by. The outfit is gaudy, not at all suitable for this garden party because it’s cremola custard yellow with sherbet pink stripes. What was she thinking?
I have worn a pale cream mid-calf dress in borderie anglaise with a modesty slip underneath. My hat is wide brimmed to keep off the sun, not that there’s much of that in a typical Scottish August but hope springs eternal. My tan leather espadrilles match my purse. I am the antithesis of the woman who’s looking at me oddly.
“Betty, is that you?” she chortles loudly across the marquee, “I nearly didn’t recognise you! We went to school together! You sat next to me in English.”
“Eunice? Oh my goodness! I honestly didn’t realise. You’re so…vivid. I don’t remember you wearing such bright colours at school!”
“Betty you’re so pale. Have you been unwell?”
I feel my face start to flush. Whatever does she mean? I am the epitome of subdued good taste.
Or am I?
Has something happened to me over the decades? Have I become a lesser version of myself because of the need to comply? Is Eunice the wise one after all?
She links arms with mine, “Let’s go grab a drink and catch up. You look as if you could do with cheering up.”
And so it was that I saw myself more clearly than I had for a long, long time.
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