They stare at me with the same amazement that buzzes through my unsuspecting bones. Amy Waters. Twenty years ago I loved her with an intensity I didn’t understand. I never told her, but looking at her now, at the way the edges of her mouth quirk up, suppressing that distinct pout I dreamed of for months on end, I realise she must have known. “I have the name Jane Smith here in my appointment book.” Amy’s eyes quiz me. Or maybe they mock me for the dreariness of my chosen alias. I never was really good at reading her. Too much emotion in the way. “People tend to freak out when I book under my real name.” “And they don’t when you show up?” She bites her lip. There are many reasons why this situation could unsettle her. None can be as nerve-racking as unexpectedly standing eye-to-eye with the girl—a woman now—I silently adored in high school. “Sure, but then at least I’m present to manage the fuss.” I look different in real life than I do on TV. Some call it dressing down, but I’m never more comfortable than in jeans and t-shirt.
