She’d fallen asleep on the floor, no doubt assisted by wine and despair. Crawling onto her hands and knees and slowly getting to her feet, Belle groaned at herself. Her dress was so crushed she’d be lucky if it ever ironed flat again. Her face felt lumpy and, sure enough, she could feel the pattern of the carpet pressed into it as she ran her fingertips over her cheek. Her hair — She patted her head. Her hair didn’t bear thinking about. ‘Hold on!’ she called out. ‘I’m coming.’ The banging paused for a moment, but recommenced immediately after, and Belle scrapped her plan to try to fix herself up before answering the door. She checked the clock in the kitchen – barely eight a.m. On a Sunday! Whoever it was better have a damn good reason — Belle’s stomach dropped as she thought about the potential reasons someone could be banging on her door. What if something had gone wrong with her phantom lover?
