Page 13 of Lesson Learned

“Pais?” Her voice fills to the brim with alarm, her body tensing. “What’s wrong?”

There’s no other way than to just say it. “I ruined your dress. It got all torn.”

A long silence greets my words, then her shoulders relax. “My dress.”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can afford to replace it.”

She snorts out a giggle. Then another. “Thank goodness,” she whispers, turning around to face me. “I looked hideous in that thing.”

The response silences me for a second, then I ask, needing to be sure. “You don’t mind?”

She shakes her head. “When James showed it to me, I was horrified. My butt cheeks hung below the hem, even when I tugged it down as far as it could go.”

“Itwasshort.”

“And it was gold. I told him my favourite colour was yellow, and he just levelled it up.” She laughs again, hugging me extra hard. “If I don’t like any other outfits he buys me in the future, can I lend it to you? It can be our signal for you to dispose of it quietly.”

I dissolve into laughter, checking her expression again to make sure, but she seems to be genuine.

“And none of that tells me how you found an entire new outfit.”

The words for my next confession come even harder than the last. “I don’t really remember a lot.”

“Why not? You weren’t drinking.”

I remember the glass. The cute little umbrella. I’d asked the bartender for a charger, and he gave me a free drink instead.

Then everything went hazy.

“Paisley?” Marnie’s voice is sharp and at first I can’t work out why. Then I realise my face is wet, the tears pouring forth like some meddling busybody turned on a tap.

I try to explain I’m not really crying, it’s just something my face woke up wanting to do, but my throat is thick, my chest hitching too hard to let me speak.

Her arms tighten around me again and I bury my face in her chest.

When I can finally force some words out, I mumble, “I should be comforting you. You’re the one with the bashed face.”

“Can’t feel a thing,” she admits. “I’m not sure what was in the pills they gave me, but they worked a treat.” After a momentary pause, she nudges me, “What’s going on?”

“The bartender gave me a drink and then my memory gets all glitchy. I remember dancing with someone.”

My shoulder blades tingle, my skin remembering the touch of the cold brickwork. Where was that? An alleyway? The back of the club? Out on the street where anyone could see?

I close my eyes to prevent my friend seeing the terrible person I am.

“Did something happen?”

The flash of utter contentment recurs. Lying in the bubble bath with powerful arms supporting me, feeling better than I’ve felt for years.

“Should we call the police?”

I sputter out a laugh. “God, no.”

My uncle’s scathing voice sounds in my head.Sluts get what sluts deserve.I imagine explaining the little I can remember from my night to the police while the officer’s lip curls with disgust.

And what proof do I have? My word? I don’t even know who spiked my drink. The bartender? The cheating husband? Another rando opportunist who missed his chance?

There’s even the possibility it wasn’t drugged. I don’t have a lot of experience with drinking. Perhaps I ate so little yesterday it hit me different.

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