Page 2 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘My satin skirt. I’ve puckered it⁠—’

‘What?’

‘It’s gone all corrugated!’

I sense him frowning. ‘I don’t understand…’

‘I’m ironing it dry.’ My cheeks flare at the shame of it.

‘Why are you doing that?’

‘Because I want to wear it tonight.’

‘But it’s… wet?’

‘Not wet, Jake. Slightly damp.’

He sighs heavily, disapproval gusting all the way from Bristol where he lives with his boyfriend, Kian. ‘What setting’s the iron on?’

‘Linen.’

‘Linen?’ he admonishes. ‘Your skirt’ll be a synthetic fibre. You’ve basically melted it, Mum⁠—’

‘Christ, I need to get ready. I’m already late. Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker…’ Placing my phone on the worktop, I wriggle into my embroidered top, which I have also tried – unsuccessfully – to iron dry, and my pale pink maxi skirt from which, hopefully, the corrugations will drop out (gravity, right?). In the small kitchen mirror, while Jake carries on chatting, I survey my sweating ham of a face, then quickly apply some lipstick and jam my feet into my trainers. ‘All done,’ I announce, retrieving my phone. ‘Better go, darling. Catch up soon⁠—’

‘So it’s dry?’ Jake asks.

‘Dry as a bone,’ I fib.

‘And not puckered?’

I look down at my beloved skirt and experience a sharp twang of pain at what I’ve done to it. ‘No, it’s perfect,’ I fib again to my son.

‘Amazing.’ He chuckles. ‘Who’d have thought burnt satin could recover like that?’

‘I know! It’s a modern miracle.’ Then, feeling disgustingly clammy as if I’m swaddled in damp newspaper, I finish the call and stuff my phone into my bag, and hurry out of my flat.

2

‘It was our first port of call,’ Eva tells us. ‘Florence. The walking tour. Which I’m sure was fascinating, but you know how I am with facts and dates and information…’

Niko, the restaurant’s sweet and dapper proprietor, flashes a smile as he approaches. ‘Welcome back, Eva! Looking well. Glowing, in fact!’

‘Thanks, Niko.’ She chuckles and he moves on. Sam and I have always teased Eva that Niko has a twinkle for her; certainly, he always makes a special fuss of her. She sips her red wine and continues. ‘So the guide was marching along with her lollypop stick thing and all of us trailing behind like a school party. I was trying to listen with my little headphones in but…’

She grimaces in acknowledgement of her minuscule attention span, and I picture her loping along in her favourite tea dress – black with scarlet roses – and stompy boots. Her pretend-listening face on, red lipstick a little smudged as she peered earnestly at the nudie statues. Secretly wishing Sam and I were there, the three of us cracking juvenile willy jokes.

‘I thought you’d have been storing up all the history stuff to share with us,’ I tease.

‘Yeah,’ Sam agrees, dark eyes mock-stern, ‘ready to educate us on all that incredible Renaissance architecture.’

‘Because that’s what I’ve got on tonight’s agenda,’ I announce, feigning disappointment.

‘But seeing as you weren’t paying attention,’ Sam adds, leaning forwards, ‘and now Andie’s finally here…’

‘…You can tell us all about Dom,’ I say, grateful that she held off sharing the juicy stuff until my arrival. Because a story loses a bit of its sheen after its first telling.

‘Well,’ Eva says emphatically, pushing back misbehaving silver-flecked curls, ‘there he was, right next to me on the tour. I’d noticed him on the ship – I mean, you couldn’t not.’