I wash my hair and try to comb it into something resembling a style, but I look ridiculous and end up shaking it out into its normal mess. I consider asking Anna to help me do something with it, maybe even trim it a bit, but I get the feeling she’d be even more hopeless than me. There’s nothing about her to indicate that she’s got any talent for fashion, or that she even cares. She pretty much wears a T-shirt and a shapeless skirt or pair of jeans every day. I’ve never known a girl who puts less effort into her appearance. Which is why I’m so surprised when she comes downstairs in a dress. A dress that’s the very opposite of shapeless. I hear her approach and look up. I must do a double take or make some other obvious gesture of surprise, because she hesitates. ‘Do I look okay?’ She pulls at her dress, smiles shyly. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You look . . . you look great.’ I lift another bag of ice, making it look like more effort than it is, hoping the heat I can feel in my face appears to be the result of the physical exertion, rather than the embarrassment I’m suddenly feeling.
