of fat on her, rendering her middle-aged face lined and a little gaunt.
“Now, take a seat,” she says, doing so herself among the boxes and racks at the back of the store. “I used to be the size of a lorry, you know,” she says, and I remind myself a lorry is a truck, “until my friend Rhonda suggested we try it together. Changed my life. I got into the lifestyle, you know? Going to the gym and whatnots. That’s when I opened up this shop. I wanted to help women like me who once lived on carbs to smash that habit.” She punches her fist into her hand to illustrate her point.
“Well, you look great, and your store is just terrific.”
“Tell me all about your label. Greg says you’ve had some success in America and want to expand into the UK?”
“That’s right.” I tell her all about how Penny and I set up Timothy, that our philosophy is to provide women with comfortable clothing in quality products that look good, too, and then show her some of our products.
“You wore that one on the show.” She picks up the tank top I was wearing when I fell out of the limo the first day of filming. I remember trying desperately to pull it up over my thighs as the limo came to a stop, my dress tangled up in my hair.
“I sure did. It has a built-in bra for support and comes in a wide range of colors and sizes.”
“Mum!” Paula calls from the shop. “A little help here? I’ve got a queue.”
My mind immediately darts to Chris’s comment about how the Brits love a good line. I push it away. I don’t want to think about him and the things he said.
“Coming, love,” she calls back. “I’d better go and help her. My girl’s a sweetheart, but she’s not much of one for customer service.”
“Sure, no problem. Mind if I come with?”
“Be my guest.”
We walk back into the bright store, and I wander around as Denise helps an overwhelmed Paula deal with the line of women purchasing various activewear items.
I’m rifling through some shorts when an older woman says, “’Allo, love. I need a bit of help here, if you don’t mind.”
I look up to see a woman of about sixty with dyed auburn hair and a floral nylon blouse and matching pants.
I glance at the line at the counter and Paula and Denise working to service them, and I reply, “Sure thing. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
She blinks at me a couple of times. “Oooh, you’re American.”
I smile. “I sure am. I’m Emma. What can I help you with?”
“Well, Emma, I’m Doreen, and I need some of them tights what you young things wear for the yoga.”
I press my lips together. Her accent is fantastic, and “the yoga?” Too cute.
“I think you might mean yoga pants. Those comfortable, stretchy leggings that hug your legs.”
“Them’s the one.”
“All righty, Doreen. Come with me.” I take her to the pants section I spotted on the other side of the shop, take a guess at her size, convert it to American in my head, and suggest she try on a few pairs in the changing room.
“Do you do yoga?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, her coiffure bouncing. “Not yet, but me and me neighbor, we’re tryin’ to get back in shape. ‘Er ’usband left ’er, see. I’ve told ’er she wants to get out there and find herself a new fella. One what’s got a bit of class, you know?”
Although I’m finding her accent super hard to decipher, I reply, “Good for her.”
“Doing the yoga did it for my Doris.”
“Doris?” I ask.
“Me daugh’er. She were right podgy until she took it up. Now she’s stick fin.”
“You gotta use it or lose it, right?”
“That’s the truth, love. It was either the yoga or Zumba, and I didn’t fancy all that jumpin‘ and bouncin‘ around they do. It’s me boobs, see. They’re too big, and I don’t want to go riskin‘ ’em slappin’ me in the face.”
Immediately, an image of this nice older lady with the amusing accent getting hit in the face with an errant breast pops into my head, and I’ve got to bite back a smile.
“You need a good sports bra. They help keep everything where it’s meant to be.
“It’s either that or I could tuck ’em under me arms,” she says with a laugh that ends in a loud snort.
I smile at her, enjoying her humor.