The right-hand side of the closet was the place that all the clothes wished they could hang out. Whoever held that prime position held all the power but only for as long as they could hold on to that space. For some, that moment was fleeting like the tank top from Ibiza which Gemma wore for a solid week. The clothes shivered as they thought about how the afterglow from the holiday had faded into a shadow that culminated in a trip to the charity shop. The tank top and flip flops didn’t survive that cull.
The little black dress could still remember her time in the limelight, when no one was watching which was most of the time now, she would sway remembering the dancing. The other clothes tried to shuffle away from her, their hangers creaking in the wardrobe with the effort. They felt that somehow, being near to the memory of being the favourite would rub off on them.
Sometimes Gemma would take the little black dress out of the wardrobe, hold her up against her body and look in the mirror. The other clothes winced at the sad look in her eye, wondering what the dress had done to upset her and praying that they never did the same thing. The dress felt alive in that second, tried to mould its shape around Gemma, reminding her of the good times.
The dress didn’t quite reach around her waist anymore and fell too high on her thigh. Gemma slowly put the hanger back on the left of the rail, reaching across to the right and taking out the new jersey dress. There was no wincing with this dress, she let it drop over her shoulders and smoothed it out over her hips. Jersey didn’t go to any parties, but she did get worn at least twice a week and so she was in charge of the wardrobe game.
It started with small embellishments – she told the others of the relationship that she’d witnessed. So instead of a quiet coffee in the corner of a bookshop, Jersey would talk about how Gemma was in love with a man called Romeo but that their love had obstacles to overcome. Secretly, Jersey longed for more excitement, more power – that’s why she whispered in Gemma’s ear that she needed a wardrobe clear out. That it was time to buy more like her, so comfortable, so flattering.
Many bookshop visits later and many whispers later, Gemma opened the wardrobe and the clothes saw the dreaded carrier bag. First to go were the smelly old trainers – none of them were sad to see them go, it was actually quite a relief. But it didn’t stop there, a handful of old sweaters were next and a pair of jogging bottoms. The bag was almost full, there was room for perhaps one or two more items.
They all hung as still as they could, as though not moving might create a sense of invisibility. A gust of wind from the open window and the little black dress fell off the hanger, sliding down to the floor. Gemma picked it up and held it for a few moments. Jersey was pleased that Gemma had listened to her whispers. This would be the new start that she needed. But then she stood up with the dress and reached out for the hanger and placed it back in the wardrobe.
Gemma took Jersey out and stuffed it into the bag before closing the wardrobe doors. The chatter from inside was deafening, little black dress explained that dreams were more powerful than living a life of comfort. That in order to find the right Romeo, Gemma would need the memory of her time at the centre of it all. To celebrate, little black dress swayed in the darkness. From outside, a faint glow of disco lights was visible from the wardrobe, as though there was an eighties party taking place.