A Most Desirable Marriage (19 page)

‘OK,’ Jo said, without hesitation.

But then Nicky still didn’t show, so they drank some more. And the second bottle was already breached when he finally put in an appearance. Jo gave him a long hug.

‘Do you want to go and have a shower while supper’s cooking?’ Jo asked, eyeing Nicky’s stubble, lank hair, and noting the unmistakable reek of old alcohol.

‘That bad, is it?’ Their son gave her a half smile. But he seemed disorientated.

She nodded.

‘Yeah, OK. Might do that.’ He disappeared upstairs.

‘Going to be a long night,’ Lawrence said. ‘We’ll have to chivvy him up.’

‘I don’t think he’s ready to be chivvied exactly.
We
both know he’s had a lucky escape, but he’s not going to see it like that any time soon.’

‘Whatever you do, don’t slag Amber off.’

Jo frowned at him. ‘Like I’d do that.’

He grinned. ‘Just checking.’

She sat at the kitchen table and watched her husband as he approached the preparation for dinner methodically, lining everything up in order of execution, perusing the instructions on each and every packet, occasionally referring to Jo for some pan or utensil he couldn’t locate. He seemed to be actually enjoying himself.

*

‘Do you think I’m obsessive?’ Nicky stared at Jo across the table. He’d come down from his shower looking fresher but still sunk in gloom.

She remembered his rigorous pursuit of various childhood passions, such as collecting Transformers, then Pokémon cards, taking fencing classes, spending hours working out Cassie’s Rubik’s cube.

‘I’d say focused rather than obsessive.’

Lawrence nodded. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘Amber says I stifled her, that she felt she couldn’t move without me watching her. I’ll admit I did monitor her food. But she never ate, and that worried me sick. You saw how thin she was. We often had fights about it, but what was I supposed to do? Just sit and watch her starve herself to death?’

Nicky had spent most of lunch delivering a monologue on his relationship with Amber, not seeming to care if they responded or not.

‘I haven’t seen her much, but is it possible that she’s just a picky eater, neurotic about being slim? Lots of women are these days,’ Jo said.

‘How would I know, Mum? I’m not an expert in eating disorders. And she claimed the throwing up was down to being pregnant.’ He closed his eyes, rubbed his hands wearily across his face. ‘Except she wasn’t.’

‘Must have been difficult,’ Lawrence put in.

‘She made me feel I was the one with the problem and she was perfectly normal.’

‘That’s part of the illness.’

‘So what should I have done?’

Lawrence patted his son on the shoulder. ‘There’s not a lot you could have done. You can’t force someone to get help if they don’t want it.’

‘Great chicken,’ she said, to deflect the conversation away from Amber for a while. ‘In fact I’m impressed with the whole thing.’

Lawrence grinned. ‘Not quite Heston, but at least I can put together a meal . . . which I certainly couldn’t when we were . . .’ He looked away. ‘Before . . .’ he finished lamely.

It was Jo who broke the silence. ‘And there’s Christmas pud too,’ she said, cringing at the forced note of enthusiasm in her voice.

‘Yes, but no brandy butter, I’m afraid,’ Lawrence said in the same unnatural tone. ‘You’re the only one who likes it and I didn’t think I’d be seeing you.’

‘If she sorts out the eating thing, maybe there’d be a chance for us.’ Nicky hadn’t heard a word they’d said. He was almost talking to himself. ‘I mean, apart from that, we had a brilliant relationship. I loved her and she said she loved me.’

‘There isn’t really an “apart from” though, is there,’ Jo said, hearing the echo of her husband’s complaint about Arkadius. ‘If it is an eating disorder, it’ll take precedence over everything for Amber. And you standing in the way, pointing out what’s really going on, won’t work for her.’

Her words seemed to clear Nicky’s gloom.

‘But if I could stop getting at her . . . at least try. Maybe it’s not as serious as I thought. Maybe, as you say, she’s just a picky eater.’

Jo and Lawrence gave each other a worried glance.

‘You wouldn’t be doing her any favours, Nicky,’ Lawrence spoke softly.

He stared at them, then slumped back in his chair. ‘OK, OK, I’m just clutching at straws, aren’t I? I just can’t believe it’s over.’

Jo’s mobile rang. She looked at the display.

‘I’ll take this upstairs,’ she said.

‘Hey,’ Travis said softly.

‘Hey, yourself. Where are you?’

‘California, with Mom. Just a flying visit. Have to be back in the city day after tomorrow. How’s it going?’

Jo groaned. ‘You honestly don’t want to hear.’

She heard his infectious laugh and found herself joining in.

‘Try me.’

‘Really . . . you don’t.’

‘Whoa, that bad. But you’re good, Jo?’

‘Mostly. Today’s just a crap day. Hate Christmas.’

‘Least you don’t get generous helpings of God with the turkey and pumpkin pie. Mom’s relentless.’

‘Sounds like a walk in the park compared to Christmas lunch with ex-husband and recently dumped son.’

‘Ooh, Amber done a runner? Didn’t see that coming.’

They talked on, Jo tingling with pleasure at hearing his voice again. It was in these moments, when they seemed so connected, that a tiny, ridiculous part of her wondered if they could have a future, more time together. Had their parting been too hasty, too nonchalant? Maybe she could be his base, the place he came back to. Surely most actors had to live like this. It would suit her; she couldn’t imagine living full-time with anyone again. And the frequent absences would keep their passion alive. But then she remembered that Travis didn’t want a relationship, nothing tying at least, and she laughed at her pathetic delusion.

After they’d said goodbye, she stayed sitting on her bed for a while, her mind returning to the two men downstairs, both of whom – for different reasons – made her heart heavy. And she was tempted to just curl up on the bed and go to sleep.

Lawrence gave her a wary look when she finally went downstairs, raising his eyebrows in question.

‘Cassie?’

Jo shook her head and Lawrence had to be satisfied with that. She’d spoken to Cassie that morning. Her daughter had been cooking lunch.

‘What are you making?’ Jo had asked.

‘Shoulder of pork, apples, roasties, the lot.’

‘Pork? Not . . .?’

‘Don’t go there, Mum,’ she’d said, laughing. Jo hadn’t told her about Nicky, she didn’t want to ruin her daughter’s day. Cassie sounded happy for once, a lightness in her voice Jo hadn’t heard in a long time.

Lawrence served the pudding in silence, but Nicky looked at his bowl blankly, then pushed it to the side.

‘Umm, listen, thanks guys, but I think I’ll get off now.’ He stood up.

‘You can stay over if you like,’ Jo suggested. But Nicky shook his head. ‘I . . . I just need to be on my own, Mum. But thanks. I really appreciate you both being so supportive. And the meal.’

After he’d left, Jo and Lawrence both let out a long sigh and sat down again at the table, deflated.

‘I hate seeing him like that.’

‘I know. But he’ll get over it. He’s young. Everyone needs to have their heart broken at least once.’

‘Really?’

Lawrence, oblivious, rattled the empty bottle of red they seemed to have consumed, along with the two of Cava and pulled a face.

‘There’s some ancient Sambuca at the back of the cupboard,’ Jo said. ‘We never opened it.’

For a moment, Jo was transported back to Sardinia. It was cooler, finally, on the café terrace that evening. She and Lawrence – relaxed, freshly showered after a day on the beach – sat at a small table, between them a basket of the signature wafer-thin bread brushed with olive oil and salt, soft green olives, glasses of chilled local white. They ate sea bream and warm summer vegetables in chilli, oil and lemon, then tangy slices of hard Sardinian Pecorino and fresh peaches. Even now, Jo could almost smell the scent of juniper and myrtle on the balmy Mediterranean air, mixed with the pungent wood smoke from the pizza oven at the back of the village café. The tiny glasses of Sambuca they sipped with their coffee seemed like the perfect end to a perfect meal.

‘It won’t taste the same,’ she warned.

Lawrence was silent, perhaps remembering a similar evening. Or more likely, Jo thought with a sudden stab of anger, recalling a meal he’d shared not with her, but with Arkadius during their recent holiday to the same place.

‘Actually I’m tired,’ she said, abruptly getting up from the table. ‘You should think about going.’ She saw the surprise on his face. ‘It’s late, Lawrence.’

He got up too. ‘No, you’re right. I’ve got to be in Ipswich in the morning.’

She watched him pull his car keys out of the pocket of his navy cords.

‘You’re not driving!’

Lawrence looked startled. ‘Well, how do you think I’m going to get home on Christmas night? You can’t get a cab for love nor money without booking it six months in advance. Anyway, I’m not drunk. I haven’t had any wine for at least an hour.’

‘You’re way over the limit, you idiot. We’ve been boozing since lunchtime. There’s no way on earth I’m letting you drive tonight.’ She reached forward to try and snatch his car keys from his hand. But he was quicker and raised his arm. A tussle ensued as she refused to give up.

‘Stop it, Jo. For Christ’s sake, let go . . . it’s my responsibility if I drive. This is childish,
let go
!’

And they found themselves so close, holding each other, entangled, both tired and stressed, drunk. Then Lawrence’s arms were round her, his lips on hers. She was paralysed for a split second, then quickly planted her hands on his chest and pushed him roughly away.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Lawrence backed off instantly, his face crimson.

‘Sorry . . . sorry. I’m really sorry. I just . . . I wasn’t thinking.’

Jo realized she was panting, her heart pumping in her chest. She wanted to tell him to leave that instant. But she knew he would just get straight into his car. She swung round and began clearing the table.

Her husband remained standing there like a statue. Then he turned towards the front door, the car keys still in his hand. Did she care if he lost his licence, killed someone . . . killed himself even? Did she bloody care? She took a deep breath.

‘For God’s sake . . . let’s forget about what just happened. You can’t drive. Please. Stay. You can sleep in Nicky’s room.’

*

Jo lay like a tree trunk all night: stiff, cold and still. Even though she was worn out by all the tensions, she didn’t sleep a wink. Lawrence’s presence, yards away down the corridor, tormented her. She was furious with him for trying to kiss her. Furious with herself for being in a situation where he might. How dare he? she kept on repeating to herself. How bloody dare he, when he claims to be in love with someone else? The kiss had been instantly familiar, while at the same time like being assaulted by a total stranger. Now, lying in the dark, she could only think of Travis and the eager desire with which his mouth had sought hers.

In the early hours she must have slept, because when she surfaced the clock showed nine-thirty-five. She got up quickly and went downstairs, but Lawrence, thank goodness, had gone.

*

‘I can’t come to the party tonight. Lawrence tried to kiss me.’ Jo still wasn’t dressed, she’d just put a coat over her night clothes, pulled on her Uggs and banged on Donna’s door.

Her friend was in the kitchen, organizing her annual Boxing Day bash – a lunchtime buffet with anything but turkey, crates of champagne, and usually about twenty five people. The girl who had let her in went back to vacuuming the sitting room, and Donna filled the kettle.

‘Hold on. I don’t follow,’ her friend said. ‘What’s Lawrence kissing you got to do with my party? Sounds like a complete non sequitur to me.’

Jo stared at her. ‘Donna, did you hear what I said? He
kissed
me!’

Donna was grinning. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘
Why?
I don’t know.’

‘OK . . . when, then?’

‘Last night, when I wouldn’t let him drive home drunk.’

‘When you were supposed to be in Devon?’

Jo looked sheepish. ‘Yes, well, I couldn’t face going anywhere and I knew you’d try and persuade me.’ Donna always had Christmas with an astronomically rich American couple with a walled mansion looking over Holland Park. Jo had been asked to join them this year.

‘So instead, you had your
very
ex-husband over for a cosy-up? Good call.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Jo explained about Nicky, Amber, the car keys.

Now Donna was really laughing. ‘God, darling. Sounds like the Christmas from hell. Poor you.’

‘I’m exhausted.’

‘So what did you say . . . after he lunged?’

‘I told him to forget about it and go to bed.’

Donna pulled a face. ‘Very grown-up. I hope he was apologetic.’

‘He looked sort of surprised at himself, and really embarrassed. I’m telling you, it was grim.’

‘And did you see him this morning?’

‘No, and I don’t plan to, not for a very long time.’

Her friend frowned. ‘Hmm . . . so what does this mean, do you think? Is Arkadius on the wane? Has our Lawrence seen the light at last?’

‘God, no. He said he still loves him. Remember? I stupidly asked last time I saw him. That’s why the kiss made me so angry.’

‘Probably just a drunken fumble, no? Your fault for asking him over.’

‘I know. It was dumb.’

‘But . . . it shows, doesn’t it, that he still has feelings for you.’

‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’

Mid-January 2014

Jo sat gazing at the pictures of her house that Tina Brechin had emailed to her. They made it look like a palace. The estate agent had seemed unconcerned that Jo had never got around to painting the downstairs rooms.

‘We’ll see how it goes,’ she’d told Jo, her neat eyebrows raised a little as she glanced round the kitchen again. ‘If we’re getting poor feedback, it might be worth a re-think. But I’m pretty sure there won’t be a problem. The market is buoyant at the moment. And this is a lovely house.’

Jo was only half listening. This woman seemed to talk a lot without really saying anything. Quite a skill.

‘Viewing is by appointment only, of course. And one of us will always accompany the client.’ Tina went on. ‘But I’d advise you to be as flexible as possible. People move on if they can’t get access when they want to.’

‘By “flexible”, what do you mean?’

Tina waved her manicured hand in the air. ‘Oh, nothing too intrusive. We’re talking mostly ten till six. But sometimes those city boys can’t get over here much before seven or eight.’

Jo nodded. The house wouldn’t suit a ‘city boy’ anyway.

Where am I going to go? she asked herself now, as she clicked through the photos for the fourth time. It agitated her, thinking of someone seeing them, walking through the door, loving it as she and Lawrence had all that time ago. Tina wouldn’t have given the area, let alone the house, a second glance back then, in the years before gentrification. Jo felt a sudden nostalgia for those times, when there was no social pressure outside your front door, no requirement to lay a deck or prune a hedge or replace nets with slatted blinds or have your door painted Lichen or French Grey. And when there was not a latte in sight.

She began to imagine what it would be like to buy her own flat, live there by herself. Be a single woman. An older, single woman. But oddly even the ‘older’ bit didn’t depress her as much as she thought it would. She typed in ‘Flat’, ‘2 beds’, ‘Shepherd’s Bush’, ‘this area only’, into the online agency, and wasn’t too disappointed by what she saw. Her spirits lifted.

Maggie’s call interrupted her property porn.

‘I love
Tess’s Angel
.’

Jo held her breath.

‘It works. Tess is great, a real character. Well done, Jo. Back to your old form.’

‘You think so?’

‘Now . . . how do we present this to Frances?’ Maggie asked. ‘I haven’t told her yet that it’s not the book she commissioned.’

‘My instinct is to just send her the book with a note saying it turned out differently,’ Jo said. ‘Then she’ll read it, and if she likes it, we might be OK. If not . . . well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.’

‘If you’re happy with that, will you send it off then? And copy me in so I can see what you’ve said.’

Jo said that she would. She felt quite calm about it. Almost fatalistic. There had been a strange shift in her mind since Christmas Day. Lawrence’s kiss seemed to have severed something, pushed her apart from him more completely than all the months of absence had. Now she had the odd sensation of lightness, of freedom from her past. She would find a flat she liked and have her own space for the first time in her life. And maybe love it. She might even find someone else to share it with one day.

*

‘I’m not looking forward to people poking round the house,’ Jo told Cassie over the phone, ‘saying rude things about the decor.’

Her daughter laughed. ‘Don’t be there then. Give the keys to Ms Foxton and come and stay with us.’

‘Thanks, darling, but I think I should keep an eye. I trust Tina to do the right thing, but I don’t know anything about her co-workers. They might leave the front door open and I’ll come back to find hordes of squatters dossing in my bedroom.’

‘Good point. You aren’t too depressed are you, Mum? It’s such a huge thing, you must be dreading it.’

‘You know, strangely I’m not. Obviously the thought of packing the place up is a bit challenging, and finding somewhere else to live. But I think I’m sort of OK about it now.’

‘Wow.’ Cassie was silent. ‘And Dad?’

‘What about him?’

‘Is he pulling his weight with the house stuff? It’s his bloody fault you’re having to sell up after all.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him.’ She heard the sharpness in her voice.

‘Umm . . . has something happened with Dad? You sound pissed off. I thought you two were kind of OK now . . . well, in the context of being not OK, of course.’

‘Everything’s fine,’ Jo said. There was no way she would ever mention the kiss to her daughter. But it still rankled. Yes, as Donna said, from his point of view it was probably just a drunken fumble, something to which he gave little thought. But to Jo it symbolized Lawrence’s continued proprietorship. Leave her, take her, she was still his, whatever and whenever he fancied.

‘Like I believe that,’ Cassie was saying. ‘You two’d always say you were fine, even if the house was burning around your ears.’ Jo heard her chuckle. ‘Sort of old-school Brit . . . fine, fine, we’re all absolutely fine, darling. Bad manners to complain.’

‘Do we say that?’

‘But hey-ho,’ Cassie went on as if Jo hadn’t spoken. ‘I probably don’t want to know about any more prattishness from Dad.’

‘He wasn’t always a prat,’ Jo said.

‘No . . . no, he wasn’t.’

*

The tall blonde woman, stick thin and unfairly tanned for January – no doubt Christmasing in Mustique, Jo decided, the current on-trend watering hole – waved her hand at the wall between the sitting room and the kitchen. ‘We could knock that down, make it into one big space. That front room is quite poky.’

Here we go, thought Jo, hovering by the door as Tina took her client round the ‘property’, as she insisted on calling it.

Now Tina was nodding in agreement. ‘Most of the properties in the street have done that a while back,’ she said, as if Jo’s house with its ‘poky’ front room was stuck in the Dark Ages.

On they went, talking absolute nonsense about room heights and ensuites and potential for loft conversion and Godolphin & Latymer girls’ school, not to mention house prices, house prices, house prices, until Jo was ready to smack the pair of them. Tina agreed enthusiastically with everything the blonde said, and they seemed to be actually vying with each other on what vast amounts they knew about selling houses.

When the blonde had been dispatched, Tina came back in.

‘Hopeful?’ Jo asked.

Tina shook her head. ‘Oh no, definitely not. At least I’d be very surprised. She wants Notting Hill, but her budget’s Shepherd’s Bush. She won’t buy here if she can help it.’

Great, Jo thought. ‘So all that stuff about loft conversions was just so much hot air?’

‘Part of the process, Mrs Meadows. People like to talk through their options. But I can always tell within three minutes if a person is serious about a property.’

‘Really? Must make your job really hard, having to pretend for the other seventeen.’

The estate agent’s mouth – tastefully defined in matt coral – pursed. ‘I’m not pretending exactly. More listening.’

‘Of course. I didn’t mean . . .’ Jo ground to a halt, knowing she would only dig herself deeper.

But give Tina her due, she was certainly getting people through the door. Jo was constantly jumpy during daylight hours, every small laziness, such as not folding a towel properly, not replacing the patchwork counterpane, not washing up a cup or tidying away a newspaper, were banished. She renewed the flowers, polished the furniture, swept the kitchen tiles, bleached the loo, abandoned her occasional afternoon nap in case Ms Brechin-spelled-B-R-E-C-H-I-N caught her – oh, horror! – in bed. It was stressful, and with each passing week she became more and more anxious for it to be over, for the die to be cast.

*

‘So are you going?’ Donna asked, waving the invitation card at Jo. She’d dropped round one morning in early February.

‘Not sure.’

‘Oh, come on. It’ll be sensational if Ruthie’s in charge. She never does anything by halves.’

‘Craig must be really hurting. All that dosh . . . and on something so frivolous.’

Donna laughed. ‘She probably threatened to leave him if he didn’t. Only the prospect of a crippling divorce would get him to open his purse that wide.’

The party was on Valentine’s Day, a fortieth wedding anniversary for a couple who’d lived in the house opposite Jo and Donna until last year, when they’d sold up and moved to Norfolk. It was to be a grand affair, thrown in a smart venue near Euston Station.

‘The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: what the hell are we going to wear?’

‘It says “Dress: Winter Wonderland”,’ Donna said, checking the heavy cream card which she’d thrown down on Jo’s kitchen table, running her finger over the expensively embossed script.

Jo groaned. ‘Noo . . . not fancy dress. Didn’t notice that bit. I’m definitely not going then.’

‘Calm down. It doesn’t say fancy dress. It just means we have to dress like the White Witch from Narnia.’

‘Ha, ha. Now if I looked like Tilda Swinton . . .’

‘We wish. Probably silver would do, or white. Something sparkly. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘For you, maybe. I don’t do sparkly.’

The doorbell rang loudly.

‘Oops, better clear off. That’ll be another skinny blonde with too much money and a four-by-four.’

‘Sorry.’ Jo gave her friend an apologetic grin. ‘If there was any other way . . .’

Donna sighed. ‘I know, darling, I know. Not your fault at all. But I can’t say I’m looking forward to the new regime. What if she has brats and parties? It’s been so perfect, you and me and Maxy.’

*

Frances raised her eyebrows at Jo. They were back in the conference room at the publisher, perched at the end of the long glass table. Her editor had emailed her the day before. ‘We need to talk. Can you come in tomorrow morning around ten?’ it said. But nothing about what Frances had thought of
Tess’s Angel
. Maggie decided it wasn’t a good sign.

‘If she’d really liked it, surely she’d have said.’

Jo sat very still now, her heart fluttering with anxiety. She kept telling herself it wouldn’t matter if Frances rejected the book, but she knew it would.

‘So where did this come from?’ She indicated Jo’s novel, printed out and bound with two brown rubber bands crossed in the centre.

‘Not sure. I was having trouble with the other story – I just couldn’t get a handle on the character. And stuff was happening at home . . . my father died. Then this one sort of appeared from nowhere and I just went with it. Couldn’t do anything else.’

Frances nodded but seemed to be waiting for her to continue.

‘Look, I know it’s not what you commissioned. And I’ll quite understand if you don’t want to go ahead with it. But the other one we had the treatment for wasn’t working.’

‘Hmm . . . I wish you’d told me earlier.’ The editor shook her head backwards, stroking her auburn hair out of her face. ‘I made such a palaver about the other outline with the powers-that-be. Really pushed it. Looks so unprofessional to pitch up with a totally different title, a totally different book.’

‘I know. I’m really sorry. I got so absorbed in the writing that I didn’t think . . .’

Frances let out a long sigh, her French manicure tapping lightly on the pile of paper.

‘Well,’ she said, finally smiling at Jo. ‘I like it. I like it a lot.’

Jo held her breath.

‘It’s the best you’ve done, in my opinion. And that’s including
Bumble and Me
.’

‘Seriously? You think it’s better than
Bumble
?’

Frances nodded. ‘It’s very powerful. The Tess character is heart rending. It deals so well with teenage alienation. Generally a very modern feel.’ She paused. ‘But. I’ll have to get support.’

‘So you’d like to publish it?’

‘Definitely. But I can’t promise anything, not until I’ve had a chance to pitch it to Sales and Marketing. Swapping to the new title isn’t a problem; we often change those after the event.’

‘What might be a problem?’

Frances considered her question.

‘Hopefully nothing.’ She gave Jo a warm smile. ‘Sorry to hear about your father.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Right, well, I’ll set this all in motion and let you know as soon as we have a decision.’ She began to gather up her phone, her pen, the manuscript. ‘But well done, Joanna. And don’t worry, I’ll fight for Tess.’

Frances ushered Jo out, giving her a brief hug as they stood waiting for the lift to arrive.

As soon as Jo was outside the building, she called Maggie.

‘Woo hoo!’ her agent shouted. ‘Brilliant news.’

‘Steady on. It’s not definite yet. The others – whoever they are – might not be as enthusiastic as Frances.’

‘Oh, of course they will be. It’s a great book. It works. Who wouldn’t want to publish it?’

Jo laughed.

‘You must be thrilled.’

‘I am. And thoroughly relieved.’

‘OK, well let me know as soon as,’ Maggie said. ‘I have a feeling about this one,’ she added, making Jo smile to herself. Her agent was the cautious type; she’d rarely heard her so upbeat about her work.

*

‘Jo? Can I come in?’ Donna’s head poked through the changing room curtains.

Jo was struggling into a silver dress, shiny and skin tight, which looked like something Barbarella, from the seventies film, might have worn. Donna had insisted she try it. She pulled the curtains back to see what her friend had on.

‘You like?’ Donna twirled in front of her in an ivory, sequined bodycon dress.

‘Love it! You look about twelve.’

‘Twelve in a good way?’ her friend’s face clouded with doubt as she smoothed the material over her hips. ‘It’s short, but that doesn’t matter, does it? It didn’t say ball-gowns.’

‘Look, nobody cares in the end what anyone else wears. And it looks great. You should get it.’

Jo caught sight of the ridiculous dress she had on and laughed. ‘So you’re OK. What about me?’

Donna frowned as she looked Jo up and down. ‘Yeah, that’s not doing it. Try the black one.’