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I tap the earbud. The music kicks back in where it left off, but it takes me a full minute to remember where the hell I was in my sequence.

CHAPTER TEN

BRIONY

I give the hem of my milkmaid-style mini dress another experimental tug, as though that might help it grow an inch or two.

“Stop fiddling,” Emmy says from my bed. She’s lying on her front, chin propped on her hands and her platform boots up in the air behind her, well clear of my duvet. “You look gorgeous. The dress is perfect.”

“I love it,” I say. And I really do. Emmy gave it to me earlier, during the birthday dinner with my family at Bertoni’s, and I genuinely gasped when I unwrapped it. It’s the soft grey-green of eucalyptus, scattered with tiny white daisies, with short puff sleeves and a ruched bust tied in a wee bow at the front. The skirt falls over my hips and thighs in soft, floaty layers.

But loving it doesn’t stop me feeling half-dressed. Milkmaid-style it might be, but I can’t imagine milking a cow in this without showing rather more than the job calls for.

Emmy waves a hand at my legs. “Briony, I’m out every single weekend, some weeknights too. Trust me, that dress is modest. And so what if you’re showing a bit more than usual? You’ve got gorgeous legs that live in dungarees all year round. It’s about time they got an airing.”

Emmy has taken her own advice about leg airing—she’s in tiny black shorts over fishnets and an off-the-shoulder metallic top. She looks like she’s in a band, probably one I’d be far too square to have heard of.

She slides off the bed and squints at me. “Hmm.” She circles a finger at my head. “Hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing. But I think half-up.”

Before I can object, she’s rummaging in the drawer where I keep my accessories. She comes back with a white claw clip, gathers a section of my curls from around my temples and crown, and clips it loosely back, leaving the rest tumbling down my back. Then she eases a few curls free around my face.

“There.” She studies her handiwork in the mirror. “Much better.”

I turn slightly from side to side. I have to admit, she might be onto something.

“And now,” Emmy says, reaching for my make-up bag. “Your eyes.”

“I’m already wearing make-up.”

“I know. And it’s lovely.” She uncaps an eyeliner pencil. “But we need to make those baby blues pop. Take a seat.”

I sit and let her work. It’s easier than arguing, and besides, she is good at this.

“So, where are we going tonight?” I ask while she works on my left eye.

“Ashton Lane. The Grove.”

“The Grove? I said a pub, Emmy!”

“It is a pub.”

“No, it’s a bar.”

“Pub, bar.” Emmy waves the eyeliner pencil. “What’s the difference?”

“Everything! Pubs are cosy, with a fire in the corner and tables you can actually have a conversation at. Bars are not that.”

“This seems like nitpicking. I just remember you saying no clubs, and the Grove isn’t a club. It’s a bar with live music, then a DJ later, a bit of a dance floor⁠—”

“Basically everything I didn’t want,” I point out.

“You spend all week making decisions at the shop. Let me make them tonight. You’ll enjoy it, trust me. Now look up.”

I look up while she applies liner to my lower lids. A couple of drinks, some chatting, home before midnight like Cinderella. I can manage that. Then tomorrow I’ll collect Penny from her sleepover at Mum and Dad’s, come home, change straight back into my pyjamas, and binge-watch something period-esque on Netflix. I’m already looking forward to it, which some might find tragic, but I don’t care.