June
Chapter 1
As Rosie Butler dug around in her underwear drawer for a pair of stomach-squashing control knickers, she reminded herself that it wasn’t every day she was asked to attend a swanky eight-course dinner at a posh central London hotel.
If she was honest, she’d have preferred the invitation to have been delivered a little earlier and alotmore clearly – but she pushed this thought aside, suppressing the spark of annoyance she felt in the same way her very large, very tight pants would soon be compacting her tummy and backside.
It was the day of James’s work summer party – an annual event at which employees and their dates were invited to eat, drink and make merry. Her boyfriend of almost a decade had his eye on a major promotion, and he’d repeatedly stressed the need for the two of them to show up smiling and ready to schmooze.
Somehow, though, he’d left it until Rosie had showered and started smearing moisturiser on her cheeks to mention that the event would involve a formal sit-down dinner. The dress code, he had blithely explained, was super smart – without so much as a hint of casual.
Dismayed, Rosie had eyed the pretty cotton sundress and sandals she’d planned to wear, laid out neatly on their bed. It was the same outfit she’d shown him two days ago, and which he’d given an absent-minded thumbs up while typing something on his phone.
‘You’re telling me I needevening wearfor this thing?’ she’d asked, panic-stricken. ‘A cocktail dress? Heels? And you’re mentioning thisforty-seven minutesbefore we need to leave?’
James had merely shrugged. ‘It’s at a high-end hotel in Covent Garden. I thought it was obvious.’ The notion that Rosie – whose wardrobe largely consisted of well-worn jeans, favourite t-shirts and casual Chuck Taylors – might need time to put together a suitably elegant look had entirely passed him by.
Rosie had sat in silence as she applied blush, lipstick and mascara, valiantly resisting the urge to bring up the fact that last year’s summer party – a relaxed affair involving Pimm’s, chicken kebabs and posh burgers in brioche buns – had been held in the garden ofthevery same hotelthey were going to tonight.
Aware that she had to be in a cab in approximately fifteen minutes, Rosie stood in her fluffy pink dressing gown and riffled through her wardrobe. She watched James shrug into the custom-made suit his parents had bought him for his brother’s recent wedding, and sighed heavily. It wasn’t fair; dressing up for a posh evening do was so mucheasierfor a man.
She pushed aside an array of coat hangers that, in the main, offered her nothing more elegant than yoga pants, oversized jumpers and hoodies. Finally, she dug out a red, vintage-style pencil dress she hadn’t worn in at least five years. Made of scarlet shot silk, it was beautiful but very unforgiving. She prayed she could still pour herself into it.
Taking care not to smear her makeup or muss her blow-dried blonde hair, Rosie pulled the dress over her head and smoothed it down her body.There. She’d managed to get her hips into the snug, wiggle-style skirt without splitting a seam or giving herself a hernia. Now she could only hope that the dress would do up.
Delicately, she pinched together the two flaps of crimson fabric that hung below her right arm. With a little effort and alotof breathing in, she pulled the zip all the way into position, then fastened the hook and eye that sat above it.
Emitting a (shallow) sigh of relief, she slipped her feet into the black high-heeled shoes she’d bought for the funeral of Mr Bettini, their old landlord and the former occupant of their building’s top-floor flat. The shoes had been purchased at short notice for an event that would mainly involve sitting down, weeping and looking respectful, but they were the only appropriate ones she owned.
Rosie shuddered, somehow already able to feel blisters forming on her toes. She was an ungainly disaster in any footwear that wasn’t flat. Prone to clumsiness at the best of times, she’d suffered several near-death experiences while wearing stilettos in her younger years, and had given them up entirely after spraining her ankle so severely it swelled up like a balloon.
She smiled as she remembered Mr Bettini’s despair at her ‘mannish’ trainers and boots. He’d been a bad-tempered, seventy-something curmudgeon, but she’d liked him – and her natural warmth had worn him down until they became friends as well as neighbours.
She eyed her reflection in the bedroom mirror and realised she didn’t look anything like herself. The sensation was weird. Discomfiting.
The red dress was snug and exposed the curves Rosie usually sought to conceal. It highlighted the fullness of her backside, the hip-to-waist ratio that belonged in another century and the sizeable bosom that (at least in this outfit) could best be described as ‘heaving’.
On the other side of the room, James looked ostentatiously at his watch. ‘You almost ready?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. She glanced self-consciously at her behind. ‘Do I look all right?’
‘Fine,’ James said. ‘Nice. But I wouldn’t worry, it’s not as if you’re going to be the centre of attention anyway.’
‘Oh, great. Thanks a bunch,’ Rosie said wryly, forcing a smile.
He risked adon’t be dramaticeye roll and muttered, ‘You know what I mean.’
Under the circumstances, she thought she’d scrubbed up fairly well – but the tight set of James’s jaw reminded her that this evening wasn’t about her, and she exhorted herself to be supportive. Nodding mutely, Rosie brushed dust from a little black clutch bag she’d found lurking at the back of a cupboard, and slipped her keys, phone and bank card inside it. A car horn sounded from the street outside.
‘That’ll be the taxi,’ James said. ‘Shit. He’s early. I need to find the invitation or they won’t let us in.’
‘Seriously?’ Rosie wrinkled her nose. She hated this sort of pretentious nonsense – pointless gatekeeping for the sake of making self-important people feel more so.
‘Wecan’trisk going without it,’ James muttered. ‘There’ll be people on the door. Can you go and tell the driver I’ll be out in a minute? Make sure he doesn’t bugger off?’
‘All right.’ Rosie sighed. She turned her back on James and wobbled past the spare room, cursing the shoes that seemed tighter than ever and thanking the universe that their flat was on the ground floor.
As the irritation and stress of the past hour was finally given leave to flare in her chest, she flung the flat door aside with more force than was strictly necessary – stomping out onto the threadbare carpet in the corridor in the hope that it would release a little of her frustration.