The Secret Intensity of Shopping

Written as assignment for MA

“Mummy...” I hear a voice enquire from across the dark, wooden womenswear floor of Tommy Hilfiger. “What do you think of this?” I take a breath, set down the cashmere sweater I myself had been considering and look up to find that voice’s owner. I know it before I see it: my daughter (always a head and shoulders above everyone else at 5’11”) is searching for me. Her fingers are clenched tightly around what appears to be a swimsuit, her features arranged in a formation I know well, one that has remained the same since days of tantrums in toy stores: determined, excited, somewhat already asking the question with her blue eyes before even opening her mouth, “can I have this?”

Once she spots me, there’s no escape: I brace myself for her pitch. The navy lycra being held in her vice-like grip has been featured in Vogue apparently, which I have come to learn is the highest of accolades when it comes to my daughter. She’s going on four holidays this year alone, she reminds me, though given that she’s drained her savings to pay for these, I fail to see how that is a convincing argument. She’ll definitely need some good one-pieces for when she goes to Central America, she continues – especially as she’s travelling with her friend Tom, and not the girls. What about those swimming costumes we got in Agent Provocateur last summer, I ask? Haven’t they lasted? Yes of course, but apparently they can’t go travelling - she’ll need something far more practical. Obviously. Silly mummy.

Before the negotiations can continue, a sales assistant approaches to intervene: short, pretty, American, “can I put that in a changing room for you?” The question is directed at Hannah, implying she has any clout over the purchase. This is a mistake. It’s true enough that my daughter looks the part (young, slim, well put together) but it’s an illusion I pay a fortune to maintain. Her hair, now chopped bluntly at her shoulders and dyed an expensive shade of blonde, is billed to me bi-monthly, at £200 a snip. Her make-up, a combination of MAC, Chanel, Laura Mercier and Bobbi Brown is topped up twice a year for a similar fee. Clothes are undoubtedly the greatest cost of all, a combination of innumerous Topshop and Zara pieces she spends her allowance on combined with the beautiful designer clothes we’ve chosen together. Shoes and bags are nearly always high-end: Stuart Weitzman, Mulberry and Jimmy Choo, plus those awful white trainers she persists in wearing named after some Smith man. This is before we get onto the rent of her charming Kennington townhouse, the holidays, the meals out she’s taken on when her father or I are in London, plus the aforementioned monthly allowance. It certainly seems to pay to be an unemployed 22-year-old.

I make this point, because what these brands think wealth looks like is misjudged. The spending power in this pair lies with the comparably short forty-something in a pink sweater and pearls, to whom Hannah redirects the question. She knows all too well that consent to try-on is the first hurdle to purchase, and the ball is in my court. I comply – for two reasons.

Firstly, the costume simply isn’t that expensive. £70 might seem like a small fortune in Hannah’s world, but it’s not a cost that will weigh heavily on my mind. The second, she’ll probably look fantastic in it. High-cut on the hips, her legs will look endless, whilst the low-cut bust and deep scoop back will draw a self-assuring number of gazes. Am I sure she doesn’t look fat? Resolutely, and goodness knows how many years she’s been asking me that. We both agree it’ll look better with a tan, but the deal is done: I make the transaction - and she is thrilled.

Which is entirely the point. As a team, Hannah and I learned the therapeutic capacity of shopping early on. I’m inclined to invest in anything that will build and maintain her confidence. She might seem as though she has bags of it, but there’s still a fragility very few people are party to. There are gaps in the foundation blocks of her self-esteem, mined by schoolyard bullies, fierce academic standards and unkind boys. Sometimes school just wasn’t worth facing, and on tearful mornings, eyes barely able to make it from her feet, dismal latin vocabulary tests were decidedly traded for days spent meandering between clothes rails, followed by long lunches during which I could tease out of her exactly what, or who, the problem was. With Hannah, I know one thing is always true: there is no dilemma a trip to Harvey Nichols can’t, at least temporarily, solve. I’d pay any price to do that.

We exit the store and turn right on Regent street, Hannah leading the way and animated from the purchase. Is there anything I’m looking for? Do I want to go in Hobbs? Does daddy need anything? No, no and no I answer, struggling to both keep up with her long strides and negotiate the crowds simultaneously. Of course, my daughter fails to notice this - she’s terrible at multitasking, and currently her thoughts are on who might be in the vicinity. Her ex-boyfriend works in this area (a break-up that cost me a long weekend Boston, a £500 biker jacket and £700 pair of suede boots – for her), and as such she walks as though in a panopticon, constantly under watch. I sense she daydreams about him seeing her from across the street. I daydream about running him over with the Porsche.

Eventually she stops to cast a glance back and duly wait for me to catch up, just off Beak Street. It’s getting to lunchtime, we agree, and so head right towards Soho before taking a left onto Kingly and finding ourselves a seat outside Pizza Pilgrims. A bottle of prosecco is ordered (our usual), followed by pizzas: Portobello Mushroom & Truffle for Hannah, and Aubergine Parmigiana for myself. Hannah lights a cigarette while we wait, a habit she knows I hate but will tolerate on occasion, and – all iPhone messages checked – conversation commences. The first enquiries are made in quick succession from her side, covering all the bases of the family. She bemoans the behaviour of her younger brothers, though secretly revels in it; any errors on their part reflect well on her. The health of her grandad concerns her, albeit apparently not enough for her to return home to visit more than once every few months. She’s concerned about how her father retiring is going to affect getting tickets to the rugby. She misses the dog.

Our pizzas arrive with the next topic of conversation: me. The content of such discussion varies; some days I will happily offload everything to my daughter, to which she carefully and patiently listens before offering objective advice. On others I will paint a sunny picture, which, whilst not necessarily false, she can usually can see through. Hannah knows that I hate to play housewife, that I am a great deal more than just a mother and wife, but equally that I take on the role to keep the peace. Occasionally she will play along with it, at other times she will challenge me - much like her mother, Hannah’s choice will simply depend on her mood. Today we decide to play nice.

I turn the tables: how is my daughter? She sits up, presents confidently. Enjoying her master’s, and keen to underline every measure of her success on it so far. Hannah’s father made well clear that her Central Saint Martins fees were, “one final investment,” in her near two-year attempt at finding a job in journalism; if she doesn’t succeed by December, options need to be assessed. I have floated law school previously, but, keen to avoid an argument, I omit this today, opt instead for encouragement. She relaxes, the self-defence portion of the meal over. Next is her love life, then her social life, which both seem to be on constant wheels of excitement that never stop turning. I listen patiently, show enthusiasm when required, offer clarity on uncertain situations, but fight an internal dichotomy. As a mother, I am split between two characters: the cheerleader and the auditor. On the one hand, I want Hannah to have everything I didn’t; for her to enjoy the life we’re able to give her. On the other, I wonder who on earth she thinks she is; why it’s become acceptable to swan around as she does. Pride fuels the former persona, and jealousy the latter. I’m not afraid to admit to my envy, least of all to Hannah.

The plates are cleared, drinks drained and the idea of Topshop is casually pushed, though of course, not if I don’t want to, we could go to Selfridges… I interrupt her, consenting to the fresh hell that resides on Oxford Circus, and send a text to her father, “might be about to spend a lot of £££.” He’ll make no objection, but I like to give a warning. I receive the salsa dancing emoji in response - funny, kind, generous man. Hannah calls for me, already halfway up Kingly Street, staring at me as though I’ve kept her waiting hours. Two thoughts cross my mind: firstly, how did I, a 5’4” Welsh girl, pop out that leggy creature who carries herself with such airs? Secondly, I wish we were going to Liberty.

I catch her up on Kingly and we cross Great Marlborough street, our destination looming just ahead, a short walk up Argyll. I feel as though I’ve been sentenced, something Hannah well knows, but attempts to push off with compliments and smiles and an anecdote she thinks I’ll find entertaining. At least I raised her with charm. We cross the store’s threshold, manned either side by an army of window mannequins in outfits that somewhat resemble that of my daughter’s: the uniform of the young, stylish and broke.

It’s the noise that hits you first in this store; the blaring music, squealing, chatting and giggling of young women who mill around the beauty and accessories section to the right, whilst tired and bored boyfriends watch on from stiff benches. I consider going to join them. The next is your own reflection – inescapable from the mirrors cocooning the escalator one must embark to reach the clothes themselves – a stark reminder that I am indeed not in my twenties, near six feet tall, or a size 12. It isn’t me who draws the eye anymore, not even from Hannah, who is too busy ensuring her middle parting sits just so. She needn’t try so hard.

Her gaze shifted from mirror to shop floor, my daughter goes into mission mode, her eyes focused, movements purposeful and talking kept to a minimum. We turn left first, through a section of what appears to be gym kit, but Hannah assures me is a trend...athleisure she calls it? It’s mostly black. She picks up a few pieces – something that looks like a sports bra, a bomber jacket, a cropped sweatshirt – for inspection but replaces them quickly. I breathe a sigh of relief. We skip swimwear (that box having already been ticked today) and move onto a wall mounted with basic items in a rainbow of colours. Hannah selects a roll neck leotard, of which she has hundreds. I say nothing.

We approach a more feminine section next, full of pinks and pleats. This I can get on board with, though frown when I see Hannah pick up a mid-length satin skirt in navy. She already has one of these, which I hate; it makes her look like a matron. Surely she would prefer something shorter, with her legs? Hannah sighs, because I just don’t get it. It’s not about having to look sexy all the time, and all the women she’s worked for have been wearing skirts like this. She knows when her insults land; I suddenly feel as though Hannah and these uber-fashion, blow dried, powerhouse women are looking down on me from their fashion thrones. This is why I hate Topshop.

Well if she thinks I’m paying for it, she has another thing coming. That’s the joy of our situation; nothing wields parental control like financial leverage, and Hannah being unemployed means I’m still able to strike off anything I don’t approve of - be that skirts, career prospects or boyfriends. What mother gives, mother can take away. No matter, she counters casually, with a flick of her hair, she’s just been paid for some freelance work by The Telegraph, she can buy the skirt herself. Well good then, I reply, watching her walk away to the cashier.

I’m losing that leverage with every step she takes.