“You need to go shopping for more clothes,” Serena declares, one September afternoon, hands on hips.
Bernie looks up from the latest edition of The Lancet , brow furrowed.
“What? Why?”
“Because, Berenice , you basically have five tops and three pairs of trousers. All of which, I may add, are basically the same pair of skinny jeans. And the time you don’t spend in those clothes, you spend in scrubs. Time to switch it up, Major.”
“I thought you liked the skinny jeans.”
Serena pointedly decides to ignore that fact, shuts Bernie’s closet in favour of standing in her bedroom door, observing her lover’s lovely form sprawled on the sofa. She sighs, and decides a change in tactic was in order.
“Oh come on. Indulge me?”
Serena ambles over, flops onto the sofa beside Bernie, hugs her arm as she pouts, doing her level best to imitate her lover’s puppy eyes.
Bernie huffs, thumbing the journal shut as she drops her head to rest along the back of the couch.
“Please?” Serena wheedles, snuggling closer, pressing teasing kisses along Bernie’s neck.
“Mmmm. Fine - ah yes, that’s nice, don’t stop - but only if we do it my way,” Bernie murmurs, placing her free hand over Serena’s, which had mysteriously found its way up from Bernie’s knee to her upper thigh and oh yes.
“Deal,” Serena breathes, and then proceeds to straddle Bernie, intent on rewarding herself for an argument well won.
Whatever Serena had expected Bernie’s way of shopping to be (Online? Personal shopper? High Street? Primark ???), she had not expected this .
“Thrifting?!” she squawks indignantly as Bernie hurtles them merrily down the motorway towards London.
“Yup,” Bernie grins, cheerily overtaking a black Vauxhall Corsa that is evidently going too slowly for her liking.
“Bernie. You are a highly successful trauma surgeon that earns a decent paycheck, blessed with the highly irritating ability to make all clothes look good. Why, for heaven’s sake, are you going thrifting? ”
“Because it’s fun?” Bernie offers, as she changes lane once more, cutting in smoothly in front of a blue Volvo.
“What is fun about sticking your hands into a pile of used clothes to find some ratty old shirt or other?”
Bernie sighs, glares at the driver of the obnoxious white Porsche 911 that had overtaken her (seemingly out of spite).
“Well, if you must know, it was something that I did whilst I was training at Barts and living in London. I used to take Cam and Charlotte every now and then, when they were growing up.”
Serena frowns, is just about to apologise when Bernie speaks again.
“She’s joining us today, by the way,” she murmurs, stealing a quick sideways glance at Serena.
“Who, Charlotte?” Serena raises an eyebrow, shifts in her seat to take in Bernie’s slightly guilty expression.
“Yeah. I asked her a couple of days ago, but she only replied to my message this morning, before we left. Apparently she’d left her mobile at a friend’s and she only just got it back. Is that...Is that ok with you?” Bernie replies, eyes fixed on the road.
Serena doesn’t miss her lover’s tightening grip on the wheel, white knuckled and tense.
“Alright. Is she meeting us there, then?”
And just like that, Bernie relaxes.
“Yes, I thought we’d meet up for lunch first at this great Indian place along Brick Lane, then walk to our favourite thrift stores in the area.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Serena says, warmly, and pats Bernie on the knee.
She leaves her hand there until they arrive at their destination.
“Ah, there she is,” Bernie mutters, as she turns into Brick Lane, nodding towards a lone figure loitering around a shop front. Slowing the car to a stop, Bernie turns to Serena, jabs at the hazard light button.
“Why don’t you get off here, go order with Charlotte while I go find a parking space?”
“Sure. What do you fancy?”
“I like that spinach thing that they do here. And their chicken tikka masala.”
“Right. See you in a bit, then,” Serena murmurs, clambers out the car with a reassuring pat to Bernie’s shoulder.
“Charlotte?”
Serena approaches the girl, tall and lanky like her mother, dark haired like her brother and father. She looks up from where she had been reading something intently on her phone, and Serena smiles, puts her hands in her coat pockets for want of a better thing to do.
“Oh. Hi, Serena,” Charlotte mumbles, pushing her fringe out of her eyes as she shoves her phone into her purse, mirrors Serena by shoving her hands into her own coat pockets.
“Shall we?” Serena cocks a head, and Charlotte nods, following her into the restaurant. An enthusiastic server ushers them to a table, lays a stack of menus before them and bustles away with the promise of glasses of water when he returns. Serena picks up the nearest menu, flips through well-worn pages looking for what might possibly constitute Bernie’s definition of “that spinach thing that they do here”.
“Did mum just want her usual, then?” Charlotte’s voice is amused as she interprets Serena’s actions, and Serena glances up, eyebrow raised.
She has her mother’s eyes, Serena thinks, as she takes in the familiar head tilt, the humour tugging thin lips into a half smile.
“If by ‘usual’ you mean ‘that spinach thing that they do here’ and ‘chicken tikka masala’, then yes, she did,” Serena smirks, setting down the menu.
Charlotte nods, picks up her own menu, and Serena knows she is only pretending to thumb through it when she mutters, almost too softly for her to hear, if Serena would like for her to order for them?
Serena beams at this.
“Yes, please,” she answers, and Charlotte nods again, waves a hovering waiter over.
Serena takes the time to observe her lover’s daughter, sees flashes of the woman she loves in the girl before her, in appearance and in action.
She is saved the awkwardness of making small talk with Charlotte by the arrival of Bernie, who is (and Serena does a double take at this) grinning at the sight of the two of them.
“Charlotte!”
Bernie, not one usually given to maternal displays of affection, hesitates a split second before swooping in to peck her daughter on the cheek, flushing deeply as she pulls back, settles in just a tad too close to Serena.
“Hiya, mum,” Charlotte murmurs, watching with wide eyes as Bernie sits flush against Serena.
It’s all still so new to her, Serena thinks, and pats Bernie’s knee under the table, uses the pretence of reaching across the table to grab the menus, to shift subtly away.
“Charlotte’s already ordered your usual, but here, have a look to see if there’s anything else you want,” Serena says, pushing the menus toward her lover.
“Ah, great, that’s good, erm, no I’m fine, I don’t think I want anything else,” Bernie babbles, hands skittering restlessly over the laminated binders.
Charlotte catches Serena’s eye and shakes her head in a gesture of practiced exasperation, a tiny movement that has Serena smirking back.
“Mum. A drink?” Charlotte prods, and Bernie stammers out “right, yes, ok,” picking up the menu again.
“What do you recommend?” Serena asks Charlotte, silently proud that the young woman takes her cue to allow her mother some time to recover, pretends to listen intently to Charlotte’s run down of the excellent masala chai and the various lassis the restaurant has.
“I think I’ll have a masala chai, then,” Serena says, as Charlotte finishes her spiel, turns expectantly to Bernie.
“Same,” Bernie mutters, and once again Charlotte waves the waiter over, delivers their order, asks for another glass of water for her mother.
Bernie’s initial awkwardness dissolves readily into intelligent conversation once it passes, and Serena contents herself with watching mother and daughter reconnect, chiming in occasionally to recount a humorous anecdote or two about Cam that has both her dining companions barking out a laugh.
“Shall we?” Bernie asks fondly, as they finish the last of their chais, fold hands over full bellies.
Charlotte nods and pushes her chair back, gathers up her coat.
“I’ll just pop to the loo and meet you outside?”
Bernie nods, waves lazily at a waiter to bring the bill.
“That went well,” Serena observes, as they settle up, shrug on their coats.
“Yes, yes it did, didn’t it?”
And Serena can’t help but answer Bernie’s triumphant grin with one of her own, laughs as her lover tugs her close, tucks her arm into the crook of Bernie’s elbow as they amble toward the exit.
Charlotte joins them soon enough, and other than a slight double-take at her mother’s proximity to Serena, does nothing, waits for Bernie to take the lead.
“Right, which one do you want to go to first, then?”
Serena turns to Charlotte, well-aware of her status as an observer in this exercise.
The young woman cocks her head, thinks for a moment before nodding, points down the road in an indication of where she wants to go.
“The one that has a great vintage record collection too? I know it doesn’t have as many clothes as that one in Stepney-”
Serena chokes on nothing and Charlotte breaks off, stares at her in confusion.
“She’s alright, just an inside joke,” Bernie mutters, thumping Serena on the back.
Serena glares and sticks her tongue out at Bernie before turning back to Charlotte, waves at her to continue even as she lets Bernie tug her closer, possessive hand on her waist.
“...Right,” Charlotte drawls, as she takes in her mother’s (seemingly uncharacteristic, if those raised eyebrows are anything to go by) grip on her lover.
“Anyway, you were saying?” Serena prompts, and Bernie nods in agreement.
“Yeah I was thinking we could go to the store at the other end of Brick Lane, it’s not too far from here and it’s got a good mix of things like vintage records and books, not just clothes. Just in case, y’know, thrifting for clothes isn’t really up Serena’s street.”
Charlotte ends with a one shouldered shrug, one arm crossed protectively over her chest as she waits for her mother’s response.
Bernie beams her approval.
“Right. Onwards, then,” Charlotte mutters, obviously still taken aback by the magnitude of Bernie’s grin.
“You raised a good one,” Serena murmurs to Bernie as they follow in Charlotte’s wake, pointedly ignore the various stares thrown their way.
Bernie, just a little bit overcome, says nothing, only nods and tightens her grip on Serena’s waist.
The store is called Rokit, and Serena is immediately charmed by the place.
“So, what now, Major?” she asks, watches as Charlotte catches her mother’s eye.
“Half an hour?” Charlotte asks, and Bernie nods.
“See you in a bit, then,” her daughter says, walking purposefully to another corner of the shop, where something has obviously caught her eye.
“Right, is this your first time thrifting, then?” Bernie asks, and Serena nods, allows Bernie to tug her by the hand to a rack of clothes.
“Well then, nothing better than to just get stuck in,” Bernie says, rather more cheerfully than Serena expected of a woman about to rummage through some seriously musty smelling clothes.
“It’s not that bad, really. I promise we’ll take a nice long bath when we get home.”
Bernie interprets Serena’s hesitation well enough, delivers her promise with earnest eyes and a quick kiss.
(And really, could Serena say no to that ?)
She sighs and steps up, rifles through the assorted dresses and tops hanging on the rail. The music being played is...pleasant enough, and she soon loses herself in picturing Bernie in the various outfits she comes across, musing about how it’s alright for some, being able to fit into most clothes .
Half an hour passes faster than she realises, and they are interrupted by Charlotte’s return, a triumphant smile on her face.
“Good haul, then?” Bernie asks, and Charlotte nods, leads them to the single changing room in the shop and disappears inside.
Serena sets down the dress she is fully intending on making Bernie model for her on a nearby bench, raises a questioning eyebrow at Bernie.
“Catwalk time,” is all Bernie says, dumping her armful of clothes on the bench next to Serena. She nods her understanding, waits patiently for Charlotte to re-emerge.
When she does, she’s wearing a military greatcoat over an oversized flannel shirt, a pair of worn combat boots, fashionably loose over her skinny jeans.
“I call this look… Wolfe chic,” Charlotte deadpans, and Serena is sure she is missing something when Bernie snorts out a laugh, points a finger in warning at her daughter.
“Funny. It’s not nice to mock your mother, you know,” she says, but there is no malice in her voice, in the smirk on her lips.
Charlotte only grins at her and gives her a surprisingly passable salute, disappearing back into the changing room.
The next outfit is a lovely tea dress, paired with a sweet little cardigan, and Serena finds herself nodding appreciatively at Charlotte’s sense of style, marvels at the girl’s ability to make the outfits work. Bernie smiles, unguarded and proud, and Serena feels her heart swell, wishes for a fleeting moment that Elinor were here.
Perhaps, in time, she thinks, pushes the thought from her mind to smile when Bernie turns to her.
“Alright?” she asks, voice soft.
“Alright,” Serena replies, scooting over to sit closer to Bernie.
“Then the world can go round,” Bernie murmurs as she drops a kiss to Serena’s temple.
Charlotte models three more outfits, only one of which is met with scepticism by her audience.
(Bernie and Serena are both liberal minded women, but what mother wants to see her daughter in hotpants that are far too tiny and a crop top that has more holes than fabric?)
“Right, your turn,” Charlotte says, returned once more to the clothes that she had walked into the store in, and Bernie gathers up her selection, slips into the changing room.
Bernie re-emerges in a floral summer dress right out of the 70s, draping and hugging in just the right areas. Charlotte expresses her approval, but when Bernie turns expectantly to Serena, she says nothing, only stands to snag a loose beanie from a nearby table. She settles it on Bernie’s head, tugging it to lie at an angle with a kiss.
“There. Perfect,” she says, and Charlotte giggles. It’s a look that is both altogether absurd and charming, and somehow, it suits Bernie entirely too well.
Serena can’t help but kiss the scowl off Bernie’s lips when a passing customer wolf whistles at Bernie’s newfound chic.
“See, we’re not the only ones who think so,” Charlotte says, with a smirk, and Bernie glares as she stomps back into the changing room.
(She ends up buying the dress and beanie, and Serena decides that that alone is worth the trip.)
Bernie tries on a few different peasant blouses over her own jeans, and Serena nods enthusiastically at all of them, including one in a truly horrific paisley print.
“Really , Serena?! I only took this for a laugh!”
“Oh yes,” she breathes, nodding fervently as she circles Bernie.
“I promise to cook you my mother’s coq au vin if you wear that to work.”
“What? Why?”
“Someone has to give Mr Levy a run for his money in the ugly shirt department,” Serena smirks, patting Bernie’s rear fondly as she pointedly ignores her lover’s glare.
“I knew it! I knew you two shared bad shirt tips!”
Serena meets Bernie’s indignant pout with a single arched eyebrow and Bernie hesitates, retreats partially with a cringe into the (relative) safety of the changing room.
“Are you calling my shirts bad?” Serena murmurs, very quietly.
“Erm.”
Bernie blinks and clutches at the heavy velvet curtain.
“Just buy the shirt, Berenice.”
“Fine. But you’re paying for it!”
“Oh, however will I cope? I’m sure I can scrounge up five pounds somewhere,” is all Serena says in reply, rolling her eyes, settling smugly down beside an extremely confused Charlotte.
Bernie swishes the curtain to the changing room shut with perhaps a little more force than intended, and Serena takes the opportunity to wink at Charlotte, leaning close to explain herself in a conspiratorial whisper.
Soon enough they leave Rokit and set off for Charlotte’s next recommendation, Serena making up for her earlier mischief by giving Bernie a discreet snog and a grope as Charlotte stops to peer into the window of a shop selling hand-made soaps that they pass.
Serena doesn’t buy anything for herself at the next store or the next, contents herself instead with flicking through a veritable treasure trove of Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday and Glen Miller and his Orchestra on vinyl. She buys 10 in the span of time it takes Bernie to sniff out a denim-shearling jacket, with worn elbows lovingly patched with leather.
It's too large for Bernie, but she shrugs it on and strikes a pose, settles a pair of vintage aviator shades on her nose whilst slouching against the wall with one leg cocked, foot flat against the wall, hands in her pockets. Bernie tilts her head and winks at Serena, and she laughs, settles her purchases on a stack of old tie-dyed t-shirts before sauntering up to Bernie to give her a kiss.
“Charlotte!” Bernie breaks away with a laugh, and Serena glances over, sees the girl smile as she taps away at her phone.
“Sorry mum, Cam said ‘pics or it didn’t happen’,” she says cheerily, flipping her phone around to show Bernie the message thread between her brother and herself.
“That’s… quite a good picture,” is all Serena says as she squints at the screen, slaps Bernie’s hand away as she attempts to snatch the phone from her daughter.
“Oh, let them have their fun, Come on, you. We’re buying that jacket. And that tartan blazer. And then, perhaps we could stop by somewhere for some coffee?”
Bernie glares but does as she is told, slinking towards the till. Serena simply glances over at Charlotte with an expectantly raised brow, and the girl grins even wider.
“I’ll send it to you,” she promises, and Serena nods.
“Clever girl,” she says, and Charlotte laughs, brushes shoulders with Serena as they move to join Bernie.
“Ready?” Bernie asks, and Serena nods, laughs unabashedly as her lover carefully plants a pair of cat-eye leopard print sunglasses on her from behind as the three of them walk out of the shop into the bright London sunshine.
“Always,” Serena replies, and this time, Bernie doesn’t even notice as her daughter grins and captures their kiss.