She was wearing makeup, a tight V-necked T-shirt Clare hadn’t seen before and her best Hermes scarf. But she hadn’t been able to completely conceal the dark circles under her eyes, and her knife and fork were shaking as she cut the lamb chop into bite-sized pieces. Marla became aware of Clare’s scrutiny. ‘You’re staring. Stop it. You’re making me self-conscious.’ ‘I was just admiring your T-shirt. Is it from the shop?’ Marla nodded. She treated the dress shop as an extension of her own wardrobe, often bringing home different pieces to try out. She would tuck the price tags out of sight and wear them for a few weeks, then either hand-wash them, being careful to keep the tags dry, or take them to the local drycleaners, instructing them how to do it. Only if she really liked the garments did she buy them. ‘It looks good,’ said Clare. ‘It suits you.’ Marla looked pleased. ‘I’m going over to Susan’s.
