Page 83 of The One That I Want

‘I don’t know. I lost interest after outfit number four.’

‘Oi, no fair. I need your honest opinion.’

She props herself up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Okay, what are you going for exactly?’

‘I don’t know! That’s why you’re here.’

She gets up and crosses to the wardrobe, dusting her fingers off on her jeans. She points to outfit number one, a floaty, chiffon dress I wore to a wedding last summer. ‘Too formal,’ she declares.

‘Right, okay. And what about this one?’ I ask, looking down at the dress I’m wearing.

‘Yep, too “business-y”.’

I immediately unzip it and step out of it, then hang it up and return it to my wardrobe. ‘And any of the others I’ve tried on?’ I ask, hopeful.

Her eyes scan the array on the bed. ‘Hmm. You want to look sexy and confident, but not like you’re ready to skip off to the registry office after dinner.’

‘Yes, exactly.’

‘How about this?’ she says, reaching into my wardrobe. She holds up a jumpsuit in black crepe with bell sleeves and wide legs. ‘I’ve only ever seen you wear it once.’

‘That’s because I look ridiculous in it.’

‘You absolutely do not.’

‘Tiggy, I’m petite and curvy and petite, curvy girls should not wear jumpsuits,’ I say.

She rolls her eyes. ‘You’re being daft – you’d never guess you work at afashion magazine. You wear it with these,’ she says, taking my highest heeled boots off the shoe rack, ‘and cinch the waist with a belt.’ She thrusts the boots at me. ‘At least try it all on.’

I cross my arms across my chest.

‘Humour me.’

Now I roll my eyes, but I do change.

‘See?’ I say, holding my arms out wide.

‘All I see is a hot woman wearing a sexy-but-not-too-sexy outfit.’

I look back at the mirror, trying to see myself through Tiggy’s eyes. ‘My boobs look good,’ I admit, running my fingers over the V-shaped neckline.

‘Your boobs look amazing.Andyour waist.Andyour hips. I’m telling you: this is it. This is the one.’

‘Five minutes ago, you didn’t give a hoot what I wore.’

‘I did give a hoot, honestly… It’s just…’

She sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at me.

‘What? Just say it.’

‘Are you sure you should be going on this date?’

I flinch. ‘What do you mean? I’ve had Harrison’s bloody photo stuffed in a bloody drawer for weeks – just so I wouldn’t stare at it for hours on end. Of course I’m going on this date!’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘Besides, Poppy said I should. And she’s a professional matchmaker.’

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