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“Say A Little Prayer” over the store’s hi-fi system. I love this song. I should put it on Christian’s iPod.

“This will look wonderful on you, Ana.” Mia holds up a scrap of silver material. “Here, try it on.”

“Um . . . it’s a bit short.”

“You’ll look fantastic in it. Christian will love it.”

“You think?”

Mia beams at me. “Ana, you have legs to die for, and if we go clubbing tonight”—she smiles, sensing an easy kill—“you’ll look hot for your husband.” I blink at her, slightly shocked. We’re going clubbing? I don’t do clubbing.

Kate laughs at my expression. She seems more relaxed now that she’s away from Elliot. “We should throw some shapes this evening,” she says.

“Go try it on,” Mia orders, and reluctantly I head for the changing room.

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While I wait for Kate and Mia to emerge from the dressing room, I stroll to the shop window and look out, unseeing, across the main street. The soul compilation continues: Dionne Warwick is singing “Walk On By.” Another great song—one of my mother’s favorites. I glance down at The Dress in my hand. Dress is perhaps an overstatement. It’s backless and very short, but Mia has declared it a winner, perfect for dancing the night away. Apparently, I need shoes, too, and a large chunky necklace, which we’ll source next. Rolling my eyes, I reflect once more on how lucky I am to have Caroline Acton, my own personal shopper.

Through the boutique window I’m distracted by the sight of Elliot. He has appeared on the other side of the leafy main street, climbing out of a large Audi.

He dives into a store as if to duck out of the rain. Looks like a jewelry store . . .

maybe he’s looking for that watch battery. He emerges a few minutes later and not alone—with a woman.

Fuck! He’s talking to Gia! What the hell is she doing here?

As I watch, they hug briefly and she holds her head back, laughing animatedly at something he says. He kisses her cheek then runs to the waiting car. She turns and heads down the street, and I gape after her. What was that about? I turn anxiously toward the dressing rooms, but there’s still no sign of Kate or Mia.

I glance at Taylor, where he’s waiting outside the store. He catches my eye then shrugs. He’s witnessed Elliot’s little encounter, too. I blush, embarrassed to have been caught snooping. Turning back, Mia and Kate emerge, both of them laughing. Kate looks at me quizzically.

“What’s wrong, Ana?” she asks. “You gone cold on the dress? You look sensational in it.”

“Um, no.”

“Are you okay?” Kate’s eyes widen.

“I’m fine. Shall we pay?” I head to the cashier joining Mia who has chosen two skirts.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The young sales assistant—who has more gloss coating her lips than I have ever seen in one place—smiles at me. “That’ll be eight hundred and fifty dollars.”

What? For this scrap of material! I blink at her and meekly hand over my black Amex.

“Mrs. Grey,” Ms. Lip Gloss purrs.

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I follow Kate and Mia in a daze for the next two hours, warring with myself.

Should I tell Kate? My subconscious firmly shakes her head. Yes, I should tell her. No, I shouldn’t. It could just have been an innocent meeting. Shit. What should I do?

“Well, do you like the shoes, Ana?” Mia has her fists on her hips.

“Um . . . yeah, sure.”

I end up with a pair of unfeasibly high Manolo Blahniks with straps that look like they are made from mirrors. They match the dress perfectly and set Christian back just over a thousand dollars. I’m luckier with the long silver chain that Kate insists I buy; it’s a bargain at eighty-four dollars.

“Getting used to having money?” Kate asks not unkindly as we walk back to the car. Mia has skipped ahead.

“You know this isn’t me, Kate. I’m kind of uncomfortable about all this. But I’m reliably informed it’s part of the package.” I purse my lips at her, and she puts her arm around me.

“You’ll get used to it, Ana,” she says sympathetically. “You’ll look great.”

“Kate, how are you and Elliot getting along?” I ask.

Her wide blue eyes dart to mine.

Oh no.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it now.” She nods toward Mia. “But things are—” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

This is unlike my tenacious Kate. Shit. I knew something was up. Do I tell her what I saw? What did I see? Elliot and Miss Well-Groomed-Sexual-Predator talking, hugging, and that kiss on the cheek. Surely they are just old friends? No, I won’t tell her. Not right now. I give her my I-completely-understand-and-will-respect-your-privacy nod. She reaches for my hand and gives it a grateful squeeze, and there it is—a swift glimpse of pain and hurt in her eyes that she quickly stifles with a blink. I feel a sudden surge of protectiveness for my dear friend. What the hell is Elliot Manwhore Grey playing at?