Chapter 3: A Sky Full of Stars
Claire had been staring uselessly at her closet for what felt like an age. She knew what she needed to do: the thing she had been trying her best to avoid, for the intrusive questions it was sure to unleash. But the simple fact was that with Jamie due to arrive in just 24 minutes, she was in desperate need of help.
Picking up her mobile with a resigned sigh, she typed out a quick message.
You home? I need some fashion advice.
Two minutes later, Claire heard her front door open and close, followed by the click of fashionably high-heeled footsteps coming down the hall to her bedroom – where she stood surrounded by every article of clothing she owned, strewn across every flat surface available.
“Did a hurricane pass through Paris wi’out my noticin’?” Gillian asked from the doorway, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Yes, that’s obviously what’s happened,” Claire replied, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Come on, Gill. I’m short on time and you’re the fashion guru. Help a girl out.”
Gillian sidled across the room and – relocating one of the piles to make space – made herself comfortable on Claire’s bed, legs crossed and eyes narrowed.
“Alright, my snippy wee friend. Tell me what it is that you’ll be doing, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Claire ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “That’s the main problem. I don’t know!”
This bit of information was greeted with a quick twitch of perfectly sculpted eyebrows and an injunction to “Explain. Now.”
“All he said was that he’d pick me up at 7. Which is in….” Claire glanced nervously at the clock. “19 minutes.”
Gill’s face lit up in a mischievous grin. “Oh, so we’re no’ talking about a work function, then? Does this ‘he’ have a name? And why do you no’ just text him and ask what the plan is?”
Claire proceeded to give Gillian a quick rundown of the situation, knowing she’d receive zero helpful advice until she’d spilled the dirt. Yes, he had a name. No, she didn’t have his number. Yes, he’d exited her apartment somewhat...precipitously...the previous evening. No, she didn’t want to talk about it.
“And what might this mystery man look like, eh? Please, Claire, tell me he’s handsome and not another drab history professor.”
“First of all, let’s not bring up Frank right now. Or ever again, actually,” Claire huffed, glancing once more at the clock. “And secondly, you’ll see him for yourself in 15 minutes, and I’d rather not still be naked when he gets here!”
“Och, I dinna think he’d mind so much, but as you wish.”
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