On the night of the party, Allison hung the dress on the outside of the wardrobe door. An unexpected excitement edged away any lingering reluctance and pushed her into making more of an effort. Normally, she pinned her long brown hair up… a tight chignon for work, a low ponytail at the weekend. That night, she allowed it to dry naturally rather than blow-drying it, and gentle waves framed her face before falling to her shoulders. Against the turquoise fabric of the dress, her hair looked more auburn than mousy brown.

Reaching for her usual make-up, she hesitated. For years, she’d applied the same heavy foundation, eyeshadow, lipstick. It had become as much part of her work uniform as her M&S suits. She ran her fingers over the smattering of freckles on her cheeks. Perhaps that night, she’d go au natural with maybe just a flick of mascara and a touch of lipstick. She stared at herself in the mirror, pleased with the results.

She looked like someone else. Even better, she felt like someone else. The woman from her imagination… the one who dazzled. The woman she could have been had she made different choices all those years before.

3

The party was held in the small upstairs function room of a pub near King’s Cross station. Allison had been inside it years before, not long after she’d joined McPherson Accountancy and had been eager to fit in. It had been a work night out to celebrate something or other; the reason had long since slipped her memory. The group had quickly descended into drunken bawdiness, and she’d made her exit as quickly as possible, swearing never again. She hadn’t socialised with her colleagues again, and the memory of the previous debacle swamped the excitement of her dress.

It would be better to go home, and perhaps she would have done if the door of the pub hadn’t suddenly opened and a laughing group surged out. Their laughter released some of the tension that had gripped her. What harm could it do to go in for one drink?

Inside, it was busy and groups of raucous drinkers with brimming pint glasses stood between her and the door to the narrow stairway that led to the upstairs venue. She dodged around them, one hand holding the skirt of her dress tightly to her body. Her whew of relief was lost in the din as she pushed the door open and went through.

The stairway was dimly lit. From the bottom, she could see the startlingly bright lights of the landing, and as if lured, she climbed slowly. At the top, she stopped, taking stock. Girding her loins. She smiled at the thought. It was a party, not a battle; it was supposed to be fun.