The lift in the badly maintained old building was always slow. She took the stairs instead, feet clattering on the stone steps as she raced downward. Too fast. Almost at the bottom, her leather soles slipped on the smooth, worn surface. An awkward twist to grab the handrail failed and with a cry of pain she tumbled down the remainder of the steps and landed in an ungainly heap of legs and rucked shirt.

Stunned, she didn’t move for a few seconds. It was tempting to stay there. Cry at her stupidity, curse her clumsiness. Instead, tentatively she moved each limb, relieved to find everything still in working order. Nothing damaged apart from her dignity, which luckily hadn’t been witnessed, and – she groaned – a rip in her almost-black tights. ‘Damn it to hell.’ Getting to her feet, she kicked off her shoe and tried to manoeuvre the ladder to the inside of her leg. It wasn’t a vast improvement, but it would have to do. There was a spare pair in her office drawer, but it would take too long, and she was already late. With a tug, she pulled her skirt straight and brushed dust from the black fabric with her hand.

Picking up her bag, she pushed open the bar of the emergency door and exited onto the street, moving as swiftly as she could along the busy pavement. She’d wanted to make a good impression on this first meeting with Jo; now here she was, twenty minutes late, a ladder in her tights, and bedraggled from having to rush.

13

Jo Kirby had found Allison years before after a long and frustrating search. The first time she saw her she wasn’t sure – Allison had changed so much – then she saw her eyes. They hadn’t changed. Still cold and hard. For years she’d followed her in person, ducking and diving, lurking. The switch to social media was a natural progression. Jo was surprised to see Allison’s life was as dull and boring as hers.

It was almost a relief to see they had so much in common, despite everything, and perhaps Jo would have got bored after a while looking at someone who was a reflection of herself if the next time she looked hadn’t made her weak with jealousy.

At first, Jo assumed she’d made a mistake, that she’d stupidly opened the wrong Facebook page, realisation coming slowly, painfully. Married! It took a third can of beer before she could bring herself to open Allison’s Instagram account and see the truth in full, glorious, over-the-top colour. The dress, the flowers, the handsome… gorgeous… husband. Everything so beautiful, so larger than life, so fucking unfair.

Jo drained the can and flung it across the room, white flecks of foam flying from it, peppering the air like confetti.