There’s no way to quantify how much it hits me and there’s no such reaction that would do it justice. I know how much Noah means to me at this point, but I had no clue it was so mutual.
I don’t know how long I am silent, but it’s seemingly too long. His face quickly morphs from its shyness to abject horror.
‘Sorry, that was a lot. Too much actually – way too much to put onto someone else. Forget I said that,’ he says quickly, panicking.
He holds his hand to his hair, staring back at the water as his breath quickens. I reach for him, grab his arm and bring his palm into mine, squeezing it softly and encouraging him to look back my way.
‘Noah, chill,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I’m touched that I could help you feel connected to her. Thank you for sharing.’
He lets out a sigh of relief, his whole body softening limb by tightly constricted limb. ‘Thank you for coming with me today. I don’t think I had it in me to do this alone.’
‘Anytime.’ I smile softly, before pulling out my phone. ‘Now let’s get that pic of you anyway. Honour her memory.’
. . .a cruel confession
We barely spoke on the coach ride back. Not in a weird, awkward way, but in a way that I think we both really needed. He took the window seat this time, leant against it the whole journey as I quietly rested my head on his shoulder. I couldn’t sleep with him on me. Every time that I tried I felt a surge of electricity, shot straight from where he lay. So, after a while, I stopped trying, hooked my headphones up and let my five-hour-long travel playlist keep me company.
It had just gone 8 p.m. by the time we got back and I was more than ready to order a takeaway in front of the TV. My body ached from the coach and the lack of sleep, but Noah was armed with a newjoie de vivre. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me until I agreed to go clubbing with him. It was a bad idea. The last place I need to be with Noah is a dark, sweaty room where we’re forced to dance together. So I took the opportunity to push myself and approach people myself. Which just so happened to lead me to Johann.
He stared at me from his table, his confident demeanour drawing me in from the moment our eyes met. He had a dignified air about him, but little did I know just how far that air would stretch. The more we spoke, the more I learnt that Johann is not only incredibly cultured, butfilthy rich. He paid for both my and Noah’s drinks for the rest of the night, sent us home in a car with mirrored windows, and invited me to the opera with him tonight, for which I realised I’ve packed nothing formal to wear.
I refused to let that stop me, however, waking up bright and early and dragging Noah with me to the Golden Quarter, Vienna’s premium designer destination, packed full of shops I could only dream of. We grabbed fifteen-euro coffees and strolled into a couple of the big hitters, before realising we’re not quite Golden Quarter ready. Then we made a prompt U-turn back down the street and found ourselves in H&M. But after a solid forty minutes of scouring rack after rack, the store only had four full-length dresses in my size. One of them was too beachy, the other too casual, so now we’re down to the final two.
I do a spin in my latest offering: a black, lacy, figure-hugging maxi-dress with floral appliqués lining the top. The built-in slip underneath stops midway down my thigh, leaving the rest of the skirt lacy and translucent.
Noah sits up straighter. ‘Yep, yes, that’s the one. You look... Yeah, that one’s good. Get that one – he will love it.’
I feel my cheeks flush with heat as he looks me up and down, mouth slightly ajar as he does. I know it doesn’t mean anything. It can’t be – he’s just nice, but it doesn’t quicken my pulse any less.
‘Are you sure?’ I twist awkwardly in the mirror, attempting to get a rounded view. ‘When I searched “opera dresses” on Pinterest, most of them were a lot more... conservative and highbrow.’
‘But conservative and highbrow don’t seem veryyou,’ he says.
I turn to him. ‘I don’t like what you’re inferring.’
He chuckles. ‘You dress great – anyone with eyes can see that. I’m just saying, you need to stay true to who you are.’
And I love his optimistic way of thinking, but I sadly have to wipe it clean from my brain. I’ve never been to the opera, or the ballet, or anything but West End musicals, and nowadays you can pretty much rock up to those in anything. I look down at my legs, glistening under the lace. It’s a gorgeous dress, that’s forcertain, but it doesn’t exactly scream formal. Or at least the type of formal expected of one at the opera.
I groan. ‘I don’t have it in me to go to another store after this.’
‘It’ll be fine, it’s fine – you’ve got a couple more, right?’ Noah asks, still leering at my dress.
‘One more,’ I sigh.
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed.’
He holds them up at me, already linked as I run back into the dressing room.
The final dress feels like butter as it slides up my body, softly skating past my hips on its way. I toggle with the zip and then let the satin fall into place, glancing to the mirror and startling myself with my own reflection. It’s so much better than I expected. The fabric droops delicately around my neck, accentuating my figure in a subtle yet deliberate manner, and the wine-red colour pops against my skin, the brown undertones glowing against my own. I check the price tag – forty euros, which surprises me based on its quality, so will hopefully deceive the rich opera goers tonight.
Noah applauds as I exit. ‘Yep, that’s it, that’s the one!’
‘Agreed!’
I twirl for emphasis, marvelling at how the satin catches the light.
‘I’m thinking leather blazer, hair up, dangly earrings and a pair of heels... Which I do not own, so I will need to buy,’ I say, mentally noting it down.
