'Great!'

I try to cool down my burning cheeks before I turn to face my . . . date. He's really smiling now, and he's scribbling down his number on a napkin. It draws an unwanted memory, which I quickly toss to the back of my mind. I can go on a date with Luke. Actually, I need to go on a date with Luke. 'When were you thinking?'

'Tonight?' He looks up at me hopefully, handing me the napkin.

I take it, pushing my doubts away. I can't go on like I have, even more so after my encounters with Miller Hart. I need to start living, forget about him, my mother, and start living . . . sensibly. 'Tonight,' I confirm. 'Time, place?'

'Eight outside Selfridges? There's a little bar down the side street. You'll love it.'

'Great. I look forward to it.' I collect my tray and leave Luke smiling around the first bite of his Tuna Crunch.

'Hey, you're not going to stand me up, are you?' he calls, his words m.u.f.fled by his full mouth. That stupid little thing alone reminds me of manners and . . .

'I'll be there,' I a.s.sure him on a smile, his mouthful of sandwich while he talks only spurring me on. He might not be in the same league as Miller Hart, but he's still cute, and his carefree att.i.tude and lack of manners is even more reason to accept his offer.

When I push my way through the swing door, Sylvie's pink lips are smirking at me. 'I'm so proud of you!' she sings in my face.

'Oh, stop it!'

'No, really, I am. He's cute and normal.' She starts to help me unload the tray, the big smile on her face pulling one from me. 'Think of it as new beginnings.'

I frown, wondering if I should do exactly that. I've not known Sylvie for very long, although it seems like years. 'I'm just going on a date, Sylvie.'

'Oh, I know. But I also know that Olivia Taylor doesn't do dating. It's just what you need.'

'What I need is for you to stop making such a fuss about it.' I laugh. By need, she means that I need to get over someone, but I'm slowly concluding that I am, in fact, already over someone. Someone doesn't have a name. Someone doesn't even exist. Someone is long forgotten.

'Okay, okay.' Sylvie holds her hands up, still grinning, still delighted. 'What are you going to wear?'

I feel my face pale as I consider Sylvie's question. 'Oh G.o.d, what am I going to wear?' My wardrobe is full of Converse in every colour, piles and piles of jeans and endless tea dresses, but they are floaty and girly, not tight and s.e.xy.

'Don't panic.' She holds my shoulders and gives me serious eyes. 'We'll go shopping after work. We'll only have an hour, but I think I'll come up with something.'

I look down at Sylvie's skin-tight black jeans and chunky, studded boots and wonder if I should go shopping with her. But then I have a thought. 'No, don't worry!' I break free of Sylvie's hold and hunt down my satchel, finding my phone. 'Gregory is off work today. He'll come.' I don't even consider that I may have offended Sylvie until she heaves an exasperated sigh of relief.

'Thank f.u.c.k for that!' She flops against the worktop. 'I would've endured Topshop for you, Livy, but it would have been pure h.e.l.l.' Her brow puckers. 'Gregory? As in a bloke?'

'Yes, my best friend. He's got terrific fashion sense.'

She looks suspicious. 'He's gay, isn't he?'

'Only eighty per cent.' I run out the exit door from the kitchen to the back alley and dial Gregory as I pace up and down.

'Baby girl!'

'I have a date tonight!' I blurt. 'And I have nothing to wear. You have to help me!'

'With him?' Gregory spits. 'I'm doing nothing except pinning you down. You're not going out with that p.r.i.c.k!'

'No, no, no! It's Mr Wide Eyes!'

'Who?'

'Luke. A guy who's been asking for a few weeks. I figured why not.' I shrug to myself, and I can practically hear the excitement bubbling down the line before Gregory's even spoken. Then he does speak, confirming my suspicions.

'Oh my G.o.d!' he shrieks. 'Oh my G.o.d, oh my G.o.d, oh my G.o.d! What time do you finish work?'

'Five. And I'm meeting Luke at eight.'

'Buy an outfit and get you ready in three hours?' he gasps. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, it'll be a challenge, but it's doable. I'll meet you at work at five.'

'Okay.' I hang up and rush back into the kitchen before my absence is noticed by Del. It'll be a rush, but I have every faith in Gregory. He has impeccable taste.

As soon as Del's gone for the day, I run to grab my satchel and denim jacket, giving Sylvie a kiss on the cheek and throwing a wave at Paul, leaving them laughing in the kitchen.

'Good luck!' Sylvie calls.

'Thank you!' I burst into the fresh air and find Gregory waiting across the road.

He waves his arms frantically, signalling for me to hurry. 'We have three hours to dress you, preen you, and deliver you to your date. That's my mission, and I choose to accept it.' He grins and throws his arm around me, leading me quickly towards Oxford Street.

'You look cheerful.'

'I am,' I admit. Surprisingly to me, I'm looking forward to going on a date. 'Nice hair.'

'Thanks.' His hand glides over his scalp on a smile, prompting one from me.

'Isn't it sad that I've never actually been on a date?'

'Yes, it's tragic.'

I nudge him in the side. 'You've been on enough for both of us.'

'Yes, that's tragic, too. But I might be a one-man guy soon.'

'Aren't you already?' I ask, hoping Gregory isn't about to be c.r.a.pped all over. He's stupidly good-looking, and should probably hold all of the cards when it comes to a relationship, but he's too nice and he's paid for it in the past. He's a player when single but devoted when captured.

'You have to remain open to offers, Livy.' He sounds resolute, but that look is there again, and it's screaming fallen.

I'm utterly exhausted by the time we get home. I've spent practically every penny I've earned since working at Del's, and I have three outfits all short and not really me and two pairs of shoes, neither of which are Converse. It's a waste. I'll probably only wear one pair of the shoes this evening, and as for the dresses . . . well, I don't know what I was thinking.

I'm standing in my towel in front of my wardrobe, running my eyes over each of my new outfits.

'It has to be the black one.' Gregory skates his hand down the short tight dress on a sigh. 'Yes, this one and the black pointed stilettos.'

I feel a little overwhelmed as I look at the dress, then down to the shoes. It's been a long, long while since I've worn heels. 'I'm scared,' I murmur quietly.

'Rubbish!' He dismisses my worry on a snort and heads for the bed, picking up some of the fancy underwear he forced me to buy. We both wasted at least twenty minutes in La Senza arguing over the lacy matching sets, one of which he's currently having a thorough inspection of. He's right, though. I can't wear white cotton under these sorts of dresses. 'You know, I might be eighty per cent gay, but there's something about a woman in s.e.xy underwear.' He chucks the set at me. 'Put them on, then.'

I keep my mouth shut for fear of objecting and shimmy into the knickers while deftly holding my towel in place. The bra's not so straightforward, and I end up turning away from Gregory, who doesn't seem in the least bit perturbed by the potential of copping a load of my nakedness.

He starts laughing as he watches me battling with the bra, and I grumble to myself, not amused by his amus.e.m.e.nt as I arrange my poor excuse of a chest into the cups. I look down, surprised to see something close to a cleavage.

'See,' Gregory says, grabbing the towel and whipping it away. 'Push-up bras are the best things ever invented.'

'Gregory!' I cross my arms over my chest, feeling shy and exposed, as he moves to stand in front of me.

His eyes are slightly bugged as he drags them down my pet.i.te frame. 'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, Livy!'

'Stop it!' I attempt in vain to steal the towel back, but he's having none of it. 'Give me it!'

'You look steaming.' His mouth is open, his eyes wide.

'You're supposed to be gay!'

'I still appreciate a woman's form, and you've got form, baby girl.' He throws the towel on the bed. 'If you can't stand in front of me in your underwear, then who can you?'

'I'm going on a date, nothing more.' I escape Gregory's appreciative stare and grab my hair dryer. 'Will you stop looking at me?'

'Sorry.' He seems to shake himself back to life before plugging in some hair-styling device: straighteners, I think. 'What are you going to drink?'

The question catches me off guard. I've not thought that far ahead. Accepting a date, getting ready for the date, and getting myself to the date has been enough for me to get my head around. What I'm going to drink and talk about while I'm actually on the date hasn't entered my head. 'Water!' I shout over the roar of my hair dryer.

He recoils, a disgusted look all over his face. 'You can't go on a date and drink water!'

I'm scowling across the room at him, not that he's bothered. 'I don't need alcohol.'

His shoulders drop dramatically, as does his a.r.s.e to my bed. 'Livy, have a gla.s.s of wine.'

'Listen, the fact that I'm going out with a man should be enough, so don't start pressing me on drinking.' I flip my head upside down and blast my blond everywhere. 'Baby steps, Gregory,' I add, thinking that I need to keep my wits about me, and alcohol won't help me do that. But I didn't need alcohol in the equation to make me lose my mind in the company of Miller Ha- I throw my head back up in the hope of physically tossing the thought from my mind. It works, but it has nothing to do with head tossing and everything to do with Gregory gawking at me. 'Sorry!' he blurts, immediately busying himself with unpacking my shoes.

I drop my dryer and look dubiously at the straighteners that are steaming on a heat mat on the carpet. They look dangerous. 'I think I might leave my hair.'

'Oh no,' he pouts. 'I've always wanted to see your hair straight and sleek.'

'He won't recognise me,' I complain. 'You're sticking me in that dress and these heels, and now you want to iron my hair, too.' I start rubbing some E45 into my face. 'He asked me on a date, not the polished thing that you're trying to create.'

'You wouldn't be a polished thing,' he objects. 'You'd be you, just enhanced. I think you should surrender all decisions to me.' He stands and fetches the dress, taking it off the hanger.

'How do you know what a man wants from a woman?'

'I've gone out with women.'

'Not for over two years,' I point out, remembering each and every time that he has, and it was always after a break-up with a guy.

He shrugs nonchalantly and holds the dress up. 'How did this become about me?' he asks. 'Shut up and slip that neat little body into this delightful dress.' He jiggles his eyebrows cheekily, and I reluctantly drag myself over to him, letting him put the dress over my head and down my body. 'There.' He steps back and gives me the once-over while I slip my feet into the painfully high shoes.

I look down at myself, seeing the black dress clinging to every curve that I don't have and my feet at a stupidly high angle. I feel unsteady. 'I'm not sure,' I say, feeling far too overdressed. When Gregory doesn't respond to my wavering, I look up, seeing a dumbstruck face. 'Do I look stupid?'

He snaps his gaping mouth shut and seems to mentally slap himself. 'Er . . . no . . . I . . . He starts laughing. 'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, I have a hard-on.'

I huff, flaming red instantly. 'Gregory!'

'I'm sorry!' He starts adjusting his groin, prompting me to swing around to escape the view, which subsequently prompts me to stagger in the stupid heels. I hear Gregory gasp. 'Livy!'

's.h.i.t!' I go over on my ankle, losing a shoe, then proceed to hop around like a demented kangaroo. 's.h.i.t, that hurt!'

'Oh G.o.d!' Gregory is clearly in pieces behind me, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. 'Are you okay?'

'No!' I snap, kicking the other shoe off. 'I'm not wearing them!'

'Oh, don't be like that. I'll control myself.'

'You're b.l.o.o.d.y gay!' I yell, picking up a shoe and waving it around above my head. 'I can't walk in these.'

'You've hardly tried!'

'You put them on and tell me how easy it is.' I chuck the shoe at him, and he laughs as he catches it.

'Livy, that would make me a drag queen.'

'Be a drag queen, then!'

Gregory loses control altogether and collapses on my bed in a helpless fit of laughter. 'You're making me cry!'

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' I spit, yanking the dress off. 'Where are my Converse?'

'You can't.' He dives up, immediately noticing that the dress has been ditched, as well as the shoes. 'Oh no! You looked fabulous.' His eyes run down my semi-nakedness.

'Yes, but I couldn't walk,' I mutter, stomping over to my wardrobe. This irritation is a good enough reason alone to maintain my boring lifestyle. I've been bombarded with new situations recently, and for the most part I've mainly felt angry, p.i.s.sed off, or useless throughout. Why the h.e.l.l am I doing this to myself?

I viciously yank down a cream layered dress and shove it on, quickly realising that my underwear is black and you can see the d.a.m.n stuff through the material, so I set about removing everything all over again, telling Gregory to stick his face in the pillow so I can do it all quickly and comfortably. When I'm done, I have my white cotton underwear back on, my cream dress in place, my denim jacket over the top, and my navy Converse gracing my feet. I feel so much better.

'Ready,' I declare, quickly brushing over my cheeks with some blusher and putting a pink sheen on my lips.

'What a waste of a shopping trip,' Gregory mutters, removing himself from my bed and strolling over. 'You looked lovely.'

'Don't I now?'

'Well, yes, you always look lovely, but you looked less of a walkover in the black number. It would've empowered you given you confidence.'

'I'm happy the way I am,' I counter, wondering if that's strictly true. I don't even know any more. My head's not been my own in recent weeks. It's thinking things I never considered and making my body do things I definitely never considered.

'I just want you to express yourself a little more, like you did just then.' He grins at me as he fluffs my hair.

'You want me to be mad?' I ask, because that's exactly how I feel. Moody. Irritable. Pressured.

'No, I want some sa.s.s to surface. I know it's there.'