I hold it up.
“What the fuck is that?” She snatches it. “This isn’t swimwear, this is a nun’s habit with leg holes. Absolutely not.”
“I think you’re being slightly dramatic. It’s perfectly fine—”
“Perfectly fine for the 1950 Olympics.” She holds it by the straps, gaping at the shape. “Is this monster reinforced? Are you planning to go deep-sea diving in it?”
“I like that it’s supportive!”
“Oh my God. Don’t move.”
She storms off toward her bedroom.
I don’t have time for this. I’m meant to be getting ready for a day at sea with a man who makes me forget how to breathe. Instead, I’m being swimsuit-shamed by someone scrambling eggs in a silk kimono.
I pack my things in my backpack carefully and apply some lip balm and a touch of blush.
Five minutes later, she returns wielding something red and terrifying. “Here we go.”
It’s not a bikini. It’s a suggestion of a bikini. Two red postage stamps strung together with dental floss.
“I can’t wear that,” I squeak.
“You can and you bloody will.” She thrusts it at me. “You’ve got an amazing body. Great tits, tiny waist. Stop hiding it.”
I gape at it. One rogue breeze and I’ll be flashing the entire west coast of Scotland.
“Fee, he’s the CEO. This isn’t a date. I can’t turn up looking like I’m trying to seduce him.”
“Oh, darling.” She sighs. “This man is pouring millions into your nerdy IT system. You want to move up in the company? Show him you’re confident. A grown-up. Not a nervous child still coloring at the adults’ table.”
She holds up my trusty one-piece. The swimsuit equivalent of mashed potatoes, I guess. “This thing says you skipped the adults’ table entirely and went straight to the nursing home. Honestly, Georgie, it’s tragic. You’re with the high rollers now; it’s time to start acting and dressing like one.”
I narrow my eyes. I’m pretty sure Fee’s still half-stoned from the weed she smoked last night because this pep talk is… a lot. But annoyingly, she might have a point.
“It’s so red,” I whisper, like saying the color out loud makes it more dangerous.
Fee rolls her eyes.
“No, seriously. You know there’s psychological research showing men find women in red more sexually desirable? Evolutionary psychologists think it’s because female primates display red, um… swollen bits when they’re fertile, so basically this bikini is screaming‘fertile female’directly into his lizard brain.”
She stares. “Did you just compare yourself to a baboon?”
“It’sscience,” I squeak. “I’d be weaponizing his evolutionary programming.”
She blinks. “You are an absolute nerd. But genuinely fascinating information. Thank you, David Attenborough.” She smirks. “Now go unleash your baboon magic on our handsome lizard CEO.”
Before I can protest, she tosses denim shorts, a white tank, and a knitted jumper into my arms. “Wear these over it. Casual but put-together.”
I hold up the shorts. “They’re so short.”
“Yes,” she says, exasperated. “That’s why they’re called shorts. Not mediums. Not longs.Shorts.”
I peel off my leggings and pull them on.
Fee studies me like a proud coach. My legs actually look good, which is both thrilling and terrifying.
“Look,” she says, gentler now. “I’m not telling you to throw yourself at him. Just stop hiding. Show him you exist.”
