Little did James know precisely how ready I would be for him. That evening, I was the one who would be thoroughly f****d.
I made my way into the bathroom, whistling “Alfie.” On the hook behind the door, I hung the dressing gown I had slipped out one day to buy for James. The young man who had helped me pick it assured me the shade he referred to as “heather” would go perfectly with a redhead’s colouring, but it had too much purple in it for my taste, and we finally settled on a luminescent pearl grey. It was silk moiré, the material cool but quick to warm against the skin, and I’d been hesitant to give it to James, afraid it might be too personal a gift.
Now, because of how things stood between us, I felt it was perfect. I pinned a brief note to the lapel. Wear this, in anticipation of w
