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“No,” I admit sadly.
“He was like a Pavlova dessert—he looked great, but when you broke through the surface there was nothing but air inside. There wasn’t even any interesting fruit. I saw him in his boxer-briefs, and his banana wasn’t anything to write home about.”
“You’re so wicked.”
“You’ll find someone better,” she assures me. “You’re too sweet to be single for long.”
“I don’t want to be sweet,” I grumble. Even though I’m nearly twenty-two and about to qualify as a lawyer, because I’m on the small side I look younger than my age, and most people treat me like I’m a kid. Even Cole often spoke to me condescendingly, in words of one syllable, as if he thought I was too young or simple to understand. I hate that more than anything.
“There are worse things than being called a good girl,” Jo says smugly.
I have no real idea what she means. “Don’t tell me any more about your sex life. There’s not enough foundation in the world to cover up my green complexion.”
She grins. “Have you packed yet? You want to borrow any of my clothes?” She’s a couple of inches taller than me, but we’re of similar build, and we often swap clothes.
“I dunno. Maybe. Let’s go and have a look.” We head off to her bedroom to check out her wardrobe.
“Obviously you’ve got your bridesmaid’s dress for the wedding,” she says. “What about the rehearsal dinner? What are you wearing to that?”
I go and get the outfit I’d planned—a short white top with my flare leg black trousers and nude-colored stilettos.
“Not bad,” she says, “but it’s not really going to make you stand out from the crowd.”
“I don’t want to stand out.”
“Belle… Come on. You want something like this.” She pulls a dress out of her wardrobe.
I hold it against myself and look in the mirror. The hemline rises to mid-thigh at the front and drops almost to the calf at the back. The band at the top runs from one arm across the bodice to the other arm, revealing the shoulders and neck. The dress is a deep plum color, and it’s absolutely gorgeous.
My eyes meet hers in the mirror. “I couldn’t wear this in a million years.”
“Why not?”
“It’s so… sophisticated. And I’m… not.”
“Fake it till you make it, girl. You’re sophisticated inside. You just need to stifle the country chick and let that urbane girl out. Go on, try it on.”
Tempted, I slip off my jeans and tee and pull the dress on. It fits me perfectly. I turn from side to side, staring at my reflection.
“It fits you better than me,” Jo says, coming up to straighten the band at the top. “You look a million dollars—you totally have to wear it.”
“I feel so bare at the top.”
“You should wear your hair down. That’ll help.”
“Only if I want to look as if I’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards.”
“I keep telling you to use a better conditioner.” She takes out the elastic from my hair and lets the strands tumble over my shoulders. “See? It’ll make you feel less naked, and you don’t look like a schoolgirl anymore. Although some guys like that…”
I laugh and turn, swishing the skirt around. “It is gorgeous. Are you sure you don’t mind if I borrow it?”
“Of course not. I bought it for my nephew’s christening, but I haven’t worn it since. I’ve got a clutch to go with it. It’s in here somewhere.”
While she ferrets around in her chest of drawers, I continue to study myself in the mirror. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe one reason people treat me like I’m eighteen is because I still act the same way I did when I was that age. What was it Jo said? Fake it till you make it? Maybe if I wore something like this, my friends and family would look at me differently. Perhaps I’d see myself differently.
I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to wear it. I have the horrid fear that everyone will burst out laughing when they see me, like when a toddler walks into the room in her mother’s high heels and pearls and with lipstick all over her face. But I’ll take it with me. Who knows, maybe I’ll feel braver when I’m down there.
*
