Page 75 of While I’m Still Here

“Personal development.”

“You're very supportive.”

“I try.”

I close the notebook, and I don't tell him that while he was talking, I thought about Danny.

I'm not hiding it.

There’s simply nothing to tell.

Yet.

* * *

On Monday, I decide to wear the red dress to work.

This, as it turns out, is a massive fucking mistake.

Not because it doesn’t fit. It does, although sitting down requires a little more commitment than I remember, and the neckline is low enough that I spend the first hour wondering whether I’ve accidentally dressed for a cocktail bar rather than the office, where the most exciting event this week is somebody stealing Susan’s yoghurt.

The problem is Danny fucking Clarke.

He looks up when I walk in and stops halfway through whatever he was saying to the man beside his desk. His eyes travel from my face to the dress and back again. Slowly. I pretend not to notice. This is difficult because I notice so hard I nearly walk into a filing cabinet.

“Morning,” I say. Danny doesn’t answer immediately, and I put my handbag down. “Danny?”

“Give me a sec. I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous,” I tease.

“Extremely.” He leans back in his chair and gives me another deliberate look. “Is there a reason you're dressed like you're about to ruin someone's marriage?”

The compliment hits exactly where he intended it to. I turn on my computer, trying to hide my red face. “Maybe I’m ruining my own.”

“Do you have a husband I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“Then I’m available,” he says, smirking at me.

“Good to know.”

“I've never seen that one.” his eyes travel the length of it, then back up.

“That's because I've never worn it.”

“Why?”

“I was waiting until I lost weight.”

Danny looks at me, then at the dress again. “That was fucking stupid.”

“The waiting or the dress?”

“The waiting.”

I smile despite myself, and that's all he says.