Jo tossed her mobile on the seat beside her and stretched her arms above her head, the wide sleeves of her robe sliding down to puddle around her shoulders. She’d changed out of the suit she’d worn that day to meet Allison for lunch as soon as she’d returned. It was hanging on the wardrobe door. Later, she’d use the steam setting on her iron to remove any obvious creases and check over it for any damage. But she’d been careful, she always was. Tomorrow, she’d take it back to the department store where she’d bought it only the previous day and explain she’d made a mistake. Or maybe she’d use the old my husband/partner/boyfriend didn’t like it. In the twenty-first century, it was amazing how easily such a lame excuse still worked.

For her next meeting with Allison, Jo would choose a different department store. Rotating was the easiest way to avoid suspicion. It was easy; she kept a spreadsheet on her computer, carefully logging details of what she bought and where. It wasn’t stealing. Not precisely. The clothes were always returned in perfect condition. When she wore these borrowed clothes, she avoided fragrance and used non-perfumed deodorant to ensure they retained their shop-fresh smell.

Only once had she had an issue.

* * *

It had been almost three months before. She’d seen an advert for an exhibition of an up-and-coming artist in a gallery in Chelsea. It would, she knew, attract an interesting attendance. And she wanted to be among them. Wanting to fit in, she’d planned to find something in one of the department stores she frequented but had been foolishly lured into a small boutique by a dress in the window. Dramatic, colourful, arty. It was perfect. The price wasn’t, but she hadn’t planned to keep it.

The exhibition was boring. The crowd attending equally so. All little cliques huddled together. Impossible to breach. She’d tried and failed, keeping her bright smile in place with difficulty at each snub, each raised eyebrow, each snigger sent in her direction. The voluminous, multi-coloured dress that had looked so suitable in the shop window, the one she’d thought made her look so right, was all wrong. Most of the women were wearing trousers, one or two wearing long skirts, a few wearing the little black dress that was saved for events like this. Jo’s dress, rather than screaming arty, shouted trying too hard.

It was tempting to run from the exhibition hall, or at least walk as fast as her stiletto heels would allow… instead she stayed to the very bitter end. Only then did she turn with a swirl of multi-coloured fabric and walk slowly from the room.