Even in the depths of the wardrobe it seemed to shine, perhaps because of the tiny, glinting beads that covered and stiffened the bodice. Cory brought it out, but he made no move to help as I unwrapped it and slid it off its hanger.

“Red?” he said as I held it up. “On you? No. You wouldn’t suit red.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

“It would clash with your hair.”

I was stumped for a moment, then: “What about the walls? We painted the gallery walls Pamplona Red, and you never said anything about it clashing with my hair.”

“That’s completely different; that works.”

I snorted.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you angry? Since when have you had a burning desire to wear red?”

Diana’s scarlet satin flowed from my collar-bone to my toes, the precise shade of red that had run through my recent dreams. I wanted to run my hands down its liquid sheen, but I was afraid of leaving sweaty marks. Cory was right—dress and hair clashed, like musical notes in a crunchy chord.

“I just happen to like it. That’s all.”

Cory didn’t exactly laugh, but he stuck his bottom lip out and puffed.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m sorry. Take it from me, it’s not your colour. It makes you look—”

“Makes me look what?”

But he wouldn’t say.

He wrestled the dress back into its cover and shunted it to the far end of the wardrobe. Briefly he fingered a pink floral number, and the blue one we’d already looked at.

“It’s got to be the white one,” he said, as the wardrobe doors closed with a bang.

The red, I retorted inwardly.

I knew better than to argue out loud. It didn’t matter. I’d get changed in secret later on and come downstairs to a hall full of guests, and Cory wouldn’t be able to object for fear of making a scene. Dad would be there, milling about and taking notes. Tom would be pocketing his car keys and staring around. Freya! he’d say, when I tapped him on the shoulder. It’s been ages.

At which point I’d be safe, no matter what colour I was wearing.

All the way downstairs, Cory talked about what shoes I ought to wear, if any; what jewellery; whether my hair should be pinned up or left loose. Walking through Byrne Hall with those long white skirts clinging round my legs, I was taken back to the summer—a lifetime ago; three months ago—when the floors had been lovely and cool on my feet. I was chilled to the bone now. I shouldn’t have left my jeans and jumper in Diana’s room.