12. Twelve

Twelve

T wo hours later, I'm stepping off the sun-soaked pavement and through the double glass doors of Chanel's Bond Street store. Art leads the way across the shiny white floor as I take in my surroundings, trying my best to act as if this weren't a big deal. I've walked past the place often enough when I've been shopping with Lucy and Mum but never bothered coming inside.

What would be the point in torturing myself, knowing that I couldn't afford anything?

White backlit walls illuminate the items on show on the glass shelves and cabinets dotted around the room. There are no rows of hangers displaying ten of the same items in this store. Each piece of clothing or accessory has been carefully selected – a black signature quilted handbag, a colourful houndstooth hat. I couldn't be more excited, and I know I'm staring, but I don't care.

A short woman, dressed head to toe in black, pounces on us within a matter of seconds. Maria is emblazoned on the white name badge pinned to her black T-shirt. "How can I help you both?"

"We're looking for formal evening wear," Art replies, glancing around the shop.

"Of course, sir. This way, please."

We follow her to the back of the store and through an archway to the left, which leads into a changing room. In the centre is a black two-seater sofa and glass coffee table. White curtains line the changing booth.

"Would sir care to take a seat while I show madam the latest collection?" Maria says, but Art's already making himself comfortable.

This isn't the first time he's shopped in a designer store.

He shoots me a warning look as he settles back against the seat. "Nothing too revealing."

We'll have to see about that , I think to myself.

Maria gives me a wide smile. "Shall we make a start, madam?"

I beam. I'm ready as I'll ever be.

Half an hour later, I practically skip back into the changing room, where the three outfits I've selected are already hanging from the rail behind the curtain, waiting for me to try them on. Maria has left me to do this bit on my own, thankfully.

Art looks up from his phone, his brows drawing into a frown. "I was about to call a search party. Does it always take you this long?"

"Don't be so grumpy," I reply, walking into the booth and swinging the curtain closed. "There's a lot to look at."

"Do you need me to come and give you a hand in there?"

"No. Otherwise, we'll never leave."

I reach for the first dress. Maria talked me into this one. It's a bronze-coloured semi-sheer lace number with an off-the-shoulder V-neck and short skirt. It will show off my figure and complement my dark hair , she said. The dress is beautiful, and I refrain from looking at the price. As I turn this way and that, admiring myself in the three-way mirror, I decide Maria's right. It's not something I would have ever chosen myself, but it suits me.

I push open the curtain and pose with my hand on my hip. Art's eyes lift to mine, but his head remains still.

"No way. That's too everything."

I frown. "What do you mean, too everything?"

"Too short, too low, too tight. No way."

I roll my eyes and close the curtain in a huff. This is going exactly as I imagined. If he's paying for the dress, I guess he should at least like it.

I'm not sure about the second outfit. I pull it on and inspect my reflection. The white satin material nips in at my waist and falls to my ankles. I know he'll have something to say about the plunging neckline, which comes to a stop just above my navel. I'm wearing completely the wrong bra for this. I don't even know what the right bra would be. I take mine off anyway.

As soon as I pull back the curtain, I know the response I'm about to receive.

Art sits back in the seat, pushes a hand through his hair, and cocks an eyebrow. "Sophie, this is for a charity event. We're not going clubbing."

"Are you going to hate every dress?" I ask, yanking the curtain closed behind me.

"If they show too much of you off, then yes, probably."

I sigh heavily and try on the third and final dress. It's a halter neck, so it's not too low-cut, and it's floor-length, so it's not too short, although there's a split in the skirt that comes up to my right thigh. It's got a subtle, sexy quality to it, which I like. And you can never go wrong with black.

I tear the curtain back and wait, hands on hips, for the criticism to arrive. Art's eyes drag up the length of my body, and then he gets up and walks over to me.

"Breathtaking."

"You like it?"

"It's a very sexy dress, made even sexier by you." His hands rest on the curve of my waist, and his eyes haven't left my body.

"I thought you'd moan about the split."

He tilts his head to the side and inspects it. "I like it. It reminds me what I'm missing without showing the world."

His phone begins to ring, and he pulls it from his pocket, tearing his eyes away from my bare thigh. For a few moments, he doesn't move a muscle as he stares at the screen, and then a crease appears on his brow, and he cancels the call, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

Judging by his expression, he wasn't expecting the call and didn't want to speak to whoever was calling.

"Is everything okay?"

"Erm, yes." He shakes his head lightly, the frown line dissolving. "This is the one." His hands grip my waist tighter, and he kisses me once, resting his forehead against mine. His eyes travel down my body. "You need to take this off; otherwise, I'll take it off for you."

I smile, pleased at the impression the dress has made. "If it has this effect on you, it's definitely the one."

He kisses me again and looks into my eyes. "It's not the dress. It's you."