Which is how I ended up wearing Mary Jane heels, red lipstick, and cake mascara everywhere I went, emulating the Hollywood starlets of the forties Toby was so enthralled by.
My face feels lighter now, with only a hint of mascara and lip balm.
I stare up at the red dress longingly. Where the daisy dress was all sweet innocence and sunshine, this one radiates something else entirely. It’s bold. Sophisticated. A little sexy, even.
It wouldn’t hurt to try it on.
I’ve hardly taken a step towards the door when Toby chides, “And what do you think you are doing?”
I grind to a halt. His shadow has found me, even here. I turn to leave, but the dress is stamped red into my vision.
Ignoring the urge to retreat, I take a breath, straighten my spine, and march myself into the shop to ask if I can try it on.
Minutes later, I’m staring at my reflection in the changing-room mirror.
I shift, the skirt swishing lightly as I catch myself from another angle. The woman looking back is the same as she ever was—average height, slim frame, Mum’s brown eyes, natural blonde waves—yet something feels altered.
I smooth the skirt, a tentative smile gracing my features.
The dress may be Hollywood red, but this time, the colour is my choice. And it transforms everything. Where Toby’s choices made me look like a cutout from his world, this feels foreign in a different way.
I’d hoped to see the version of myself I’d forgotten, but instead I’m seeing someone I barely recognise. Someone I could be. A woman who’s unafraid, carving her own path without waiting for permission.
A new me. I don’t feel like her, but I think I could be.
I didn’t even realise how small I’d become, trying to fit Toby’s mould.
Never again.
I step out of the changing room wearing the dress.
“Oh, that’s beautiful.” The shop assistant beams.
I smile back, though I pull my green cardigan over it as I pay. It’s silly, maybe, but it makes me feel safer.
Then I leave the shop with a stupidly pleased smile on my face, the warm breeze rustling my skirt.
Toby’s shadow lags behind, unable to keep up.
He spent so much time being dissatisfied with everyone and everythingaround him. I thought he was wise and discerning, that he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.
In reality, he was just a controlling asshole.
I’m about to turn back when the sound of a guitar drifts through the air—bright, rhythmic, alive.
My pulse quickens, my feet moving before I even realise I’m following it. I’m lured across a small courtyard where a drizzle catches the sunlight, turning the air to glitter and speckling my skin with cool pinpricks. The mix of sun, rain, and music is refreshing, and when I spot the chalkboard sign outside the café the sound is coming from, my mood lifts even more.
WILLOUGHBY’S – LIVE MUSIC, COFFEE, COMMUNITY
Beneath it, someone’s scrawled:Try the house blend. Strong enough to wake the dead.
Today’s specials: tomato and basil soup, focaccia melts, and lemon drizzle cake.
The menu almost makes me wish I hadn’t filled up on a big breakfast, but it’s the musician silhouetted through the window that has my attention.
He begins to sing, his easy tenor and lazy vowels curling pleasantly around the room, a pop beat thrumming beneath the guitar. It’s a Dustin Willoughby classic—one of those soft rock songs still played on wedding playlists, somewhere between Paul Simon and Ed Sheeran.
Intrigued, I enter.
