“How to Be a Confident Woman: A Step-by-Step Guide to Boosting Your Self-Esteem”
by Olivia Bright
#1 Buy a bra that fits. Stop stuffing your boobs into Primark-sized underwear just because it’s cheap.
#2 Try your dream job. Volunteer on the side and then you’ll know if it’s really your dream. If it isn’t, you’ll have more confidence to succeed in whatever role you choose.
#3 Ask for that pay rise you were promised in your current job. Confident women do not earn minimum wage for fear of telling their boss they’re worth more.
#4 Throw away old clothes and accept that you aren’t going to get into those tiny leather trousers again. Be confident about the way your body looks now, not how it used to look.
#5 Ditch the takeaways and learn to cook something tasty yourself.
#6 Ask a guy, who you think is way out of your league, out on a date. You might be surprised.
#7 Do something that scares you every day. You’re a confident, independent woman. You don’t need to buy a new dress or scoff a whole box of Krispy Kremes to cope with rejection or failure.
I stare at the pictures of beautiful, smiling women who ooze confidence. The confidence that following Olivia Bright’s words is supposed to give every reader.
I don’t normally take notice of such guides. Not even the ones written by my favourite magazine writers.
But something about Olivia Bright’s article seems oddly familiar. It could be a friend or someone I know making these suggestions. And that’s compelling to me to give it a go.
After all, some days I wish I had the confidence to ask somebody at work how exactly to load the paper into the photocopier so that it doesn’t jam.
I started my job as an admin assistant for the HR department of a Leeds window company started about eight months ago. I work there with three women who more than make up for my lack of confidence. There’s Nora, my boss, Helen, my superior, and finally Scarlett, who may not be any higher up than me career-wise, but she started a few months before me—leaving me with the dreaded “new girl” status.
I can’t imagine any of them taking this stuff seriously. Even Scarlett, who hides celebrity gossip magazines under the piles on her desk so she can sneak a look at them when Nora isn’t watching, would laugh off the article.
Why would a girl who waltzes in to work every day wearing six-inch heels have any trouble asking a man out? And it’s not like Scarlett needs to worry about throwing away clothes that are too small for her. The only clothes that are too small for Scarlett are those made for seven-year-olds.
I flick the pages, idly scanning stories of celebrity scandal and checking my horoscope. But I soon turn back to“How to Be a Confident Woman” and read the list again, mentally running through how attainable each one is.
Buying new underwear is easy. And I’m sure I could be a bit more ruthless with my wardrobe if I tried.
But what about the things that require a certain level of existing confidence? My palms feel sweaty against the glossy paper just thinking of speaking to Nora about a pay rise.
“Interesting read, Megan?” Helen peers over my shoulder as she passes through the tiny kitchen. She’s smirking in a way that makes me want to “accidentally” forget to take the tea bag out of the cuppa I’m about to make her.
Yes, part of being the new girl means doing the tea run.
“Just one of those girly magazines.” I yank the pages over so quickly that they almost rip.
Helen is probably the last person who would listen to a ‘how-to’ guide.
“What’s Peter Andre up to now?” She pulls a face, pointing at the page I’ve randomly turned to.
“Um…promoting a new show I think.” I roll up the magazine as the kettle boils, putting Olivia Bright out of my head for now.
And I manage to keep it that way for the rest of the day, busying myself with the general errands that are another perk of being the office’s newest recruit.
It’s only when I begin my commute home that I start to think about the list again. Sitting on the bus, leaving the big city of Leeds and going back to Rothwell, the small town on the outskirts where I live, I pluck the rolled-up magazine from my handbag and slide it onto my lap.
I intend to go straight to the fashion section to find out where I can pick up a bargain on this season’s sexiest shoes, but the pages fall open to Olivia Bright’s article, and I read her tips over again.
Is she right? Is being a confident woman really as easy as following these steps? I know some of them are going to take a bit of working up to, but they do at least sound like something I might be able to achieve.
Okay. Maybe I might need to ask someone I know to help. Someone who’s already confident and vibrant and fun and who will know exactly what to do.
There’s only one person I can possibly confide in that I’m even considering following some magazine’s advice. I choose my flatmate, Zara.
She’s already home when I walk through the door of our ground-floor flat. Zara works as a freelance writer, selling stories to newspapers and magazines. It’s not an ideal career match, considering she hates the whole fashion magazine culture and only does it to fund her aspiring novelist dreams, but she’s the only person I know who is at least clued up on it.
When I step into our living room, she’s sitting on the pink leather couch with her slender body hunched over her white Sony VAIO laptop, fingers gliding across the keys.
“Got work to do?” I dump my handbag, and the magazine, on our fold-away table by the window.
She nods, shaking her bouffant of two-toned hair. “Got a deadline.”
“Shall I make tea?” I wander into our tiny kitchen. My culinary skills don’t exactly match Nigella Lawson’s, and normally just the threat of being near the stove is enough to send Zara running for the frying pan.
But she doesn’t move or even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
I consider my options. I could repeat what I’ve just said and risk looking like an idiot. Or I could carry out my threat and cook.
I linger in the doorway, too scared by option two to actually go through with it.
“Check the fridge,” Zara finally says, still not looking up from her computer screen.
There I find Zara’s Blue Peter–style ready-prepared lasagne. All I have to do is heat it up.
Once we start eating, Zara seems a lot more willing to procrastinate. We share an idle conversation about what’s going on in Hollyoaks, and I update her on life as the office slave for Window Shine’s HR department. She mentions a couple of new freelance jobs she’s got, but Zara has always been very private about her work. To the point that she turns her laptop screen away from me if I try to read anything she’s written.
“I read this article today,” I aim for a casual approach.
“Oh?” She scrapes her fork against her almost-empty plate.
“It’s all about confidence.”
She pinches her lips together, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Ever heard of Olivia Bright?”
“Nope. Never heard of her. I don’t know every writer who’s out there, Megan.”
“I know. I just thought…never mind.”
“What does this article say, then? Since I know you’re going to tell me anyway.” She stands up and stacks our plates.
“Here, I’ll show you.” I reach for my bag that I’d dropped just inside the door. Our flat is literally so small I can reach it from the table. I find the folded magazine and flick the pages until I reach Olivia Bright’s list.
Zara takes it from me, her eyes scanning the printed words. “Bullshit,” she declares when she’s finished reading. “Megan, you’re not seriously thinking of doing these things, are you?”
“They don’t sound too difficult.” I hold my head up. “Why shouldn’t I try it?”
“Because it’s stupid. Who’s going to feel more confident because they’re wearing nice underwear?”
“That’s only the first point,” I counter. “I’m not expecting instant results.”
Zara raises her perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. “So what are you expecting?”
“A little bit more belief in myself.” I tap the page furiously. “I thought I could rely on you to support me.” Grabbing our plates, I head to the kitchen.
“Oh come on, Meg.” Zara follows me, pleading. “You know I believe in you.”
“Really?” I dump the plates on the counter. “Is that why you won’t even let me cook a meal?”
“Do you want to cook? Because I’m going out tomorrow evening. Coming home to a meal I haven’t had to cook myself would be nice.”
I’ve walked myself into this one, haven’t I? Of course I don’t want to cook. With the exception of my mother, Zara is probably the only person in the world who knows quite how bad my skills in the kitchen are.
But it’s one of the points on Olivia Bright’s list. I’m twenty-four years old, for God’s sake! I should at least know how to whip up something simple.
“I think there might be a tikka masala sauce in the cupboard,” Zara continues. “Even you can’t go wrong with that.”
She’s forgetting about the last time I tried to cook using a jar of sauce, also fooled into thinking it would be easy.
It took up a big chunk of my wages for that month, replacing the microwave I blew up after assuming it would be safer than cooking on the hob. Turns out you aren’t supposed to microwave metal bowls.
I’m about to remind her of that humiliating occasion when I notice the smile playing on the corners of Zara’s lipsticked mouth. She’s one of those girls who absolutely cannot leave the house without lippie. Even when she’s staying in, she still applies her favourite shade of cherry-red matte because she says you never know who you might see.
“You’re joking!” I realise, giving her a playful shove. “God, I thought you wanted to get food poisoning.”
Zara’s green eyes roll heavenwards. “You’re not that bad, Meg. You can cook something if you want.”
I eye the menu for our local pizza delivery place that’s pinned to the notice board behind Zara’s big hair. “How about a takeaway?” I suggest.
After all, I don’t need to start following Olivia Bright’s advice just yet, do I?