The Jeans Girl

There was something about Miranda.

Something quirky and unspoilt that was revealed in only the way she
moved, touched and walked. The way her face lit up at sometimes even
the most ordinary objects.

Take jeans for example.

Their denim, their rich blue - or black, or green or any clour, the dye
would do its work - their ability to go with anything drew her to them.
Miranda described them as, 'Drawing me to them like a magnet - a force.
I splurge out uncontrollably. I can't help myself.'

That should have been a warning sign.

From a prospective lover's point of view the fact that she had revealed
that she was more crazy about jeans that football, or that she was a
maniac with a credit card or her favourite hobby was long shopping
spress in which she would invariably drag you along and ask your
opinion should have been a turn-off. Every pore, every sane cell in
Marc's body had screamed, 'NO YOU IDIOT! Not her!' but he had found
himself drawn to her like she was to jeans. It didn't take a genius to
work out why. He was the designer, it flattered him to think that she
loved his product so much.

They had been married within a year. Like I said, there was something
about Miranda. It wasn't just jeans. Certain things caught and held her
attention - puppies, for example. Not just cute things that she could
buy but ugly and grotesque things that she slept with (Marc, or that
was his opinion anyway). He wondered on occasion whether she was only
marrying him because he designed jeans but it wasn't just that, it
seemed.

Didn't stop her from divorcing him either.

What went wrong there? He had one too many late nights at work, one too
many drunken brawls (not his fault he begged Miranda - he was blind
drunk and even blind drunk he was a coward - it was
Tom/Mitch/Sam/Zach/Luke.... that started it) one too many refusals to
go goddamn shopping with her. She was over-emotional. Were all girls
like that? He didn't have much experience. She cried at the slightest
thing and snapped viciously at his lack of sensitivity.

Whatever he wanted to know about what-went-wrong he would never find
out. He went to work rather numb. Jeans had lost their...'jeaniness'.
He didn't like being around women. They were all too sensitive, too
self-absorbed, too feminine. He wanted to get out.

When he quit, when he stopped working the papers had gone wild. He
wondered vaguely whether Miranda had read the stories or whether she
had just chucked the paper away when she realised it was about him. He
sighed. There was always something about Miranda.

He needed another job. But for now he was content to wallow in
self-pity as he thought was allowed as females often did this for the
slightest thing and have too many coffees (not booze, though he tried
to resist the temptation to start smoking again and failed) which kept
him up all night in lonely cafes where people didn't know his
name.

Everywhere he saw jeans.

He knew them all, they were all familiar to him. He'd seem them and met
their designers once in a while and he longed to tell women they suited
boot-cut or tyhree-quarters but it wouldn't be allowed. Unless he was
much mistaken, they weren't like Miranda.

It was a Tuesday. He ticked off the days of the week on the calendar
beside his rather empty bed (Miranda had moved a lot in the night and
he had ended up with not much space and not a lot of duvet) to no point
in particular and it had been two months, five days, seven hours and
approximately thirty seconds since Miranda had said she wanted a
divorce.

The bell tinkled again, a signal that someone was coming in. He didn't
look up. They were all the same. Gruff, male voice. Small talk, manly
small talk mind you, about the fact that instead of what Miranda
called, 'Chucking it', 'Freezing' or 'Did you see Eastenders last
night, Marc?' it was always 'pissing it' or 'bloody cold' or 'didja see
the England match last nigh', Fred?'

'Can I have a cappacino please?'