'Two?' Her old, navy eyes widen. 'Livy, sweetheart, I know I said live a little, but I didn't-'

'Relax.' I roll my eyes, thinking she should know better, but then again, her boring, introvert granddaughter has been out more times this week than in her whole life. 'It's Gregory and his new boyfriend.'

'How lovely!' she sings, but then her wrinkled brow puckers some more. 'You're not going to one of those gay bars, are you?'

I laugh. 'No, it's a new place uptown. Tonight's the opening, and Gregory's new fellow has been organising it. He's invited me.'

I can tell by her face that she's delighted, but she's going to make a fuss, anyway. 'Nails!' she screeches, knocking me back a step in my heels.

'What?'

'You must paint your nails.'

I look down at my short, tidy, bare nails. 'What colour?'

'Well, what are you wearing?' she asks, and I wonder if many twenty-four-year-olds seek this kind of advice from their grandmother.

'Gregory made me buy a black dress, but it's a little short and I'm sure I could've done with the next size up. It's tight.'

'Nonsense!' She zooms up, all excited and enthusiastic about my night out. 'I have pillar-box red!'

She disappears from the kitchen and moves up the stairs, faster than I've ever known. It's only moments before she's back, shaking a bottle of red nail polish in her wrinkled hand.

'I save it for special occasions,' she says, pushing me down onto a chair and taking one next to me.

I can do no more than watch as she takes her time, neatly coating each of my nails, blowing little streams of air over my fingers when she's done. Sitting back in her chair, she tilts her head and I follow her gaze down to my fingers, wriggling them for a few moments before bringing them closer and running my eyes over them. 'They're very . . . red.'

'It's very cla.s.sy. You can't go wrong with red nails and a black dress.' Her mind seems to wander, and I smile fondly at my grandmother, childhood memories of her and my gramps flooding my mind.

'Do you remember when Gramps took us to the Dorchester for your birthday, Nan?' I ask. I was ten years old and in complete awe of the affluence. Gramps wore a suit, Nan a floral two-piece skirt and jacket, and I was treated to a navy-blue dungaree dress, which was covered in large white polka dots. Gramps always loved it when the women in his life wore navy blue. He said it made our already stunning eyes look like bottomless pits of sapphires.

My grandmother takes a long pull of air and forces a smile, when I know that she really would like to shed a tear. 'That was the first time I painted your nails. Granddad wasn't happy.'

I return her smile, remembering all too well the stern word he had in her ear. 'He was even less happy when you tinted my lips with your red lipstick.'

She laughs. 'He was a man of principles and set firmly in his ways. He didn't understand a woman's need to cake her face in make-up, which made it all the more difficult for him to deal with your . . .' She trails off and quickly starts s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g on the lid of the polish.

'It's okay.' I place my hand over hers and give it a little squeeze. 'I remember.' I may have only been a small child, but I remember vivid shouting matches, slamming doors, and Gramps with his head in his hands on many occasions. I didn't understand it at the time, but maturity has brought it all home, making everything painfully clear. That and the journal I found.

'She was too beautiful and too easily led.'

'I know.' I agree, but I don't think she was easily led at all. I've concluded that that's what Nan has told herself over the years to deal with her loss. I'm happy to let her have that.

'Livy.' She shifts her hand carefully to avoid smudging my polish, so she's the one gripping mine, and it's a firm grip a rea.s.suring grip. 'Everything about you is your mother, but not this.' She taps her temple with her index finger. 'You mustn't be afraid of becoming her. It'll just be another life wasted.'

'I know,' I admit. My own underlying reasons to avoid a repeat of my mother's life are good enough, but remembering my grandparents' devastation has only ever sealed it.

'You've completely shut yourself down, Livy. I know I was, well, a little bit of a handful after your granddad died, but I'm fine now have been for some time, sweetheart.' She raises grey eyebrows at me, desperate for me to acknowledge it. 'I'll never get over losing them both, but I can still live. You haven't experienced half of what life has to offer, Olivia. You were such a spirited child and teenager until you found-' she halts, and I know it's because she can't say the words. She's talking about the journal, the frighteningly vivid accounts of my mother's life.

'It was safer that way,' I murmur.

'It was unhealthy that way, sweetheart.' She lifts my hand and kisses it lovingly.

'I'm beginning to see that.' I take a deep breath of confidence. 'That man, the one who came for dinner . . .' I don't know why I don't use his name. 'He unearthed something in me, Nan. It'll never go anywhere, but I'm glad I met him because he's made me realise what life could be if I let it.'

I don't divulge any more than that, and I also don't confess that given the chance, I would have whatever that is with him, if only he would let me. It's not the s.e.x; it's the connection, the feeling of complete refuge that beats anything I've attempted to achieve on my own. It defies sensibility, really. Miller Hart is irrational, arduous and temperamental, but the times between those irritating moments are inconceivably blissful and serene. I want to, but I have no faith in finding those feelings with another man.

Nan looks at me thoughtfully, keeping her firm grip of my hand. 'Why will it not go anywhere?' she asks.

I'm honest and she must see it for what it is, anyway. She's not stupid. 'Because I don't think he's really available,' I say quietly.

'Oh, Livy,' Nan sighs. 'We can't help who we fall for. Come here.' She stands up and pulls me into her arms, giving me a big squeeze. The tension and uncertainty seems to drain right out of me under her hold. 'In every experience we have in life, we have to find a positive. I can see many positives coming from your encounter with Miller, sweetheart.'

I hum my agreement into her shoulder, but wonder if I'll be in any fit state to embrace these supposed opportunities. He's already successfully intercepted one date. If I'm going to continue to resist Miller Hart, I need to maintain my willpower and grow some resilience. The sa.s.s the Taylor girls are renowned for has eluded me, but I'm on a mission to relocate it. It's there. It's popped up now and then recently, but I need to grab on to it and never let go.

I squint as a camera is shoved in my face and Nan blinds me with the flash. 'Get a grip, Nan,' I moan, pulling down the hem of my ridiculous dress. I've been standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes deliberating on the dramatic transformation. All day, all b.l.o.o.d.y day, I've spent waxing, plucking, painting, smoothing and straightening. I'm exhausted.

'See, George!' Nan snaps a few more shots. 'Sa.s.sy!'

I roll my eyes at a smiling George and pull my hem down again. 'Stop it now.' I push the camera from my face, feeling like a teenager going to a prom. It was inevitable, but the fuss is just making me feel even more conspicuous.

'You look spectacular, Livy!' George laughs, taking the camera from Nan and ignoring her appalled glare. 'Leave the poor woman alone, Josephine.'

'Thank you, George,' I say, again pulling down my dress.

'Stop tugging at your dress.' Nan smacks my hands away. 'Walk tall, chin high. Keep fidgeting and you'll look out of place and uncomfortable.'

'Oh G.o.d, I'm going.' I grab my stupidly small bag and make for the door, desperate to escape the over-the-top reactions to my . . . enhanced look. I slam the door harder than I mean to and click on my heels down the path, hearing Nan shout at George as I do. I smile, pull my shoulders back, and set on my way, shoving my bag under my arm and resisting the urge to pull the hem of my dress down again.

I'm only a few paces into my strut when I see Gregory in the distance, walking towards me. He falters slightly mid-stride, and I know that if I was close enough, I would see him squinting. Strangely, this reaction doesn't make me feel conspicuous; it makes me feel bold, so I raise my chin and make my best attempt of impersonating a model on the catwalk. I don't know if I pull it off, but it makes Gregory grin from ear to ear and wolf whistle from fifty yards away.

'Hot stuff!' He halts and spreads his legs, holding his hands out to me. 'f.u.c.k me, I'll be fighting them off!'

I don't even blush. I perform a perfectly executed twirl before throwing my arms around his neck. 'I've been practising all day.'

'I can tell.' He removes me from his body and runs his eyes up and down me, then smooths my hair and smiles. 'Straight and sleek. You look even more gorgeous than normal. Holy s.h.i.t, look at those legs!'

I glance down at my legs, seeing curves I never have before. 'I feel good,' I admit.

His arm falls around me and he pulls me into his side. 'Well, you should, because you look amazing. Were you leaving without me?' he asks, starting us towards the main road to get a cab.

'No, I couldn't stand it in there any more.'

'I can imagine.'

'You're looking very dapper.' I give the sleeve of his pink shirt a little tug. 'Trying to impress?' I glance up at him, finding a restrained grin. It makes me smile.

'I don't need to try, Livy.' He's c.o.c.ky. 'Promise me something?'

'What?'

'You'll call me Greg tonight.'

My smile widens and my arm snakes around his waist. 'I'll call you Greg if you call me sa.s.sy lady.'

He laughs. 'Sa.s.sy lady?'

'Yes, baby girl, sweet girl, lovely girl . . .' I realize my error immediately.

'Who calls you sweet girl?'

'It doesn't matter.' I put the stoppers on his enquiry immediately, and I also put the stoppers on my trail of thought. 'The point is I'm not a girl.'

'All righty, then. Sa.s.sy lady it is.' He leans in and kisses my forehead. 'You'll never know how happy I am right now.'

'Because you're about to meet Benjamin?'

'It's Ben.' He nudges me with his hip. 'And no, not because of Ben. Because of you.'

I look up at my treasured friend and smile. 'I'm happy, too,' I reply thoughtfully.

Chapter 16.

I have my first predicament in the short dress. Gregory slides from the cab with ease while I'm deliberating the best way to exit without flashing my fancy black knickers. I hold the hem of my dress with both hands, but my clutch drops from under my arm.

's.h.i.t,' I curse, scooping it up.

'You didn't practise this part, did you?' Gregory teases, putting one hand out for my bag and his other for my hand. 'To the side. Step out to the side.'

I hand over my bag and take his hand, following his instruction and lowering my right foot from the cab, finding it rather easy to exit without bending or giving any pa.s.sers-by an eyeful. 'Thank you.'

'As graceful as a swan.' He winks and tucks my bag under my arm. 'Ready?'

I refuel on confidence by taking a long inhalation of air. 'Ready,' I confirm, looking up at the building, seeing blue lights climbing up the gla.s.s front and a red carpet stretched down the side, with piles and piles of people waiting to be granted access.

I'm a little awestruck. Robin Thicke's 'Blurred Lines' is pouring from the open gla.s.s doors, blue lights are flashing inside, and doormen are keeping guard, marking clipboards before letting people in.

My hand is grasped and I'm pulled towards the front of the queue. I don't miss the filthy looks being thrown in our direction by the waiting clientele. 'Gregory, there's a line,' I whisper loudly, just as we land in front of a doorman holding a clipboard.

'Greg Macy and Olivia Taylor, guests of Ben White,' Gregory states confidently, while I'm wincing under the fierce, stabbing eyes of the queue haters.

The doorman flicks the pages and glides down the list of names, eventually grunting and unhooking the thick rope linking two metal posts together. 'Champagne bar's on the first floor at the back to your left. Mr White is in the VIP area there.'

'Thank you.' Gregory nods, pulling me forward and pushing me gently through the door. 'VIP area,' he whispers in my ear. 'And you just called me Gregory, sa.s.sy lady.'

'I can't help it.' I glance around, seeing various levels, all accessed by frosted-gla.s.s stairs with illuminated blue lights guiding the way. Well-dressed people are everywhere, draped over the gla.s.s bal.u.s.trades, not a pint of beer or a bottle in sight . . . except champagne. Behind all of the bars three I've seen so far are stacks and stacks of champagne bottles. I've never tasted the stuff, but it looks like I might do soon.

'This way.' Gregory escorts me up the gla.s.s steps, and the practical side of me can't help considering the damage that could be done if someone was to fall down them. My heels c.h.i.n.k sweetly, though, and I look down and admire them, smiling and finding my b.u.t.t swaying a little more. 'Are you strutting?' Gregory giggles and smacks my backside. 'Work it, baby girl.'

I turn and scowl around my grin. 'Sa.s.sy,' I say, sticking my nose in the air, making my friend break out into a proper laugh.

'You most certainly are.'

We reach the top of the stairs and head left as directed, reaching the champagne bar, which is ironic because all I saw at the other bars was champagne, too, making all of the bars champagne bars. 'What would you like?'

'c.o.ke,' I say casually, looking around to avoid meeting my friend's outraged eyes.

He scoffs, but doesn't retaliate, instead leaning over the bar and ordering two gla.s.ses of champagne. The club is crammed full already, and there were at least a few hundred people in the line outside. Gregory wasn't kidding when he said it was dead plush, and the name reflects the ambience. If it wasn't so full with people generating heat, I think I'd feel cold.

'Thank you.' I take the gla.s.s being handed to me and waft it under my nose, taking a hit of a bitter smell. The strawberry floating on top takes my attention away from the aroma that's invading my nose and switches my mind to a place where I really don't want it to go.

Strawberries British, for the sweetness.

Chocolate at least eighty per cent cocoa, for the bitterness.

Champagne to round it off.

I jump, a little startled when Gregory nudges me. 'You okay?'

'Sure.' I bat the thoughts of sweet and bitter away, along with the thought of Miller's hot tongue, slow-moving mouth, and hard, warm body. 'Sw.a.n.ky place.' I raise my gla.s.s a little and take the plunge, sipping my first ever taste of champagne. 'Hmmm,' I hum as the cool, sparkling liquid slides down my throat like silk.

'I cannot believe you've never tasted it.' Gregory shakes his head as he tips the gla.s.s to his lips. 'Heaven in a gla.s.s.'

'It is,' I agree, swirling it in my hand. 'So he put you on the guest list, then?'

'Of course.' He doesn't bite to my teasing. 'I'm not queuing like cattle.'

'You're a sn.o.b.' I laugh. 'Can I eat this strawberry?'

'Yes, but don't be plunging your fingers into the gla.s.s. Be a lady about it.'

'How do I get it out, then?' I frown down at the narrow gla.s.s, wondering if my fingers will even fit in, but not daring to find out.

'Tip it in.' Gregory demonstrates, tilting the flute to his lips and catching the strawberry in his mouth when it slides down the gla.s.s. 'Best to wait until you've finished the champagne,' he adds as he munches through the fruit.

'You have a big mouth.' I sip more, not prepared to hurry my way through. Not drinking for so long has undoubtedly made me a lightweight.

'Oh, you have no idea, baby girl.'

My nose wrinkles in distaste. 'And I don't want to, Gregory,' I retort, earning myself a grin through a glare.

'It's Greg!'