It had been a failure of a night. At home, she’d have liked to have torn off the dress and dump it out the window to watch it float from the fourteenth floor and sail into oblivion. She didn’t have that luxury. Instead, she took it off and hung it on the wardrobe door. Only when that was done and she was swathed in her robe did she open a beer and guzzle it straight from the can, gulping it down in a desperate attempt to rid her mind of the memory of the horrendous night.

The one beer and a good night’s sleep helped restore her equilibrium. She even managed to shake her head in amusement when she looked at the dress. Seriously, what had she been thinking? After a quick check to ensure it was in shop-shape, she wrapped it back in the same tissue paper the assistant had so carefully folded it in two days before and brought it back to the boutique.

Deciding to go with my partner doesn’t like it, she’d placed the smart, shop-logoed carrier bag on the sales desk and smiled at the same assistant she’d dealt with on her previous visit.

‘Such a shame, I think it’s fabulous.’

‘It looked so good on you too.’

‘Yes, but if Emmet doesn’t like it, there’s no point in keeping it really.’ Emmet, a nice strong name for a man. The kind of man she’d have thought would attend exhibitions of up-and-coming artists. Her sigh was heavy.

‘A shame.’ The assistant unfolded the tissue paper and held the dress up. Shaking it slightly, she frowned. ‘Oh dear!’

Oh dear? Jo felt a dart of worry. Had she missed a spillage? There were quite a few people floating around the exhibition with drinks in their hands… had they slopped some on the dress? She usually checked so carefully before she wrapped a garment up. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ The dress was folded and placed on the counter.

Jo stared at her, then down at the dress. It had cost three hundred and seventy-five pounds. She had to have the money back. ‘I don’t understand. What’s the problem?’

The wooden counter was topped with glass. Various notices and business cards had been slid underneath. Instead of answering, the assistant tapped a long, bizarrely embellished fingernail on the glass over one of the cards.

Realisation hit with a lick of horror as Jo peered at the words. ‘That’s ridiculous! I never saw that notice.’

The assistant folded her arms. ‘There’s one in the dressing room too and I put a copy with the receipt when I gave it to you.’

Jo had a vague recollection of taking the receipt out and putting it carefully to one side before tossing the other bits of paper into the bin.