Highly Strung by Justine Elyot Page B

mind. Give me a name. Your friend at the cinema.”
    “Are you really this paranoid? You don’t believe me, do you?”
    “Her name, Lydia.”
    “Uh, Mary.”
    “And who is Mary? You studied with her?”
    Lydia swallowed. “Mary-Ann.”
    Milan’s fingertips pinched her arm.
    “Not…the Mary-Ann I know?”
    Lydia didn’t answer and Milan stopped dead, swinging her around to face him while the crowds tutted and stepped around them.
    “Mary-Ann McKenzie?”
    Lydia made a face and looked away.
    “It is! What is this? Whose side are you on?”
    “I’m not on any side,” pleaded Lydia. “I like her and I like you. Can’t I be friends with you both?”
    Milan tipped his head to one side, considering this.
    “You know, perhaps you can,” he said thoughtfully. His lips curved in a devilish smile and he squeezed her hands. “Perhaps that would work very well. Come on. Let’s get you dressed.”
    He grabbed her by the upper arm and began to walk even faster than before, parting the sea of shoppers and tourists like a torpedo cutting through water.
    The shop was called Maximum Vamp, and Lydia scarcely had time to admire its window display—of multicoloured feather boas and glittery scanty things—before they were through the door and inside its sartorial carnival of sex.
    “This was Tilda’s favourite shop,” he muttered. “They know me here.”
    “Milan!” exclaimed a voice, as if in confirmation. A saleswoman, who looked very much like a more mature version of Liza Minnelli in Cabaret , emerged from the rails of velvet and satin, teeth agleam.
    “Tilda? Really?” muttered Lydia, rather surprised that Milan’s ex, with her polished exterior and conservative little skirt suits, had ever set foot in this place.
    “Hidden depths. Like you, Lydia. Hello, Maxine, how are you?”
    “Can’t complain, dear man, can’t complain. The season isn’t our friend, of course, but we had a terrific Christmas. Now, what can I do for you? Hello.”
    She offered Lydia a belated nod and a smile that owed more to curiosity than genuine welcome.
    “This is Lydia. She needs intensive re-styling. From the inside out.”
    “Hmm,” said Maxine, too polite to agree but not polite enough to demur. “We can do that, of course. So you want the full service? Underwear to outerwear?”
    “Yes. The full service. I trust your exquisite taste.”
    She simpered, then beckoned to Lydia sternly.
    “We had better go into the back room. I’ll send Lily out front.”
    They went into a room that was, if anything, even more overstuffed with sparkly fabrics than the shop. A younger woman finished her task of labelling the stock and disappeared out to the front, leaving the three of them alone to embark on Lydia’s transformation.
    “I’ll need you to strip right off,” said Maxine briskly. “Chop chop. Milan, come and have a look at the rails with me. I have some ideas, but I’ll need your input.”
    Lydia took a deep breath. She was expected to stand naked in front of this intimidating woman? A woman, moreover, who had dressed the immaculate Tilda Fox-Boyce? She felt small and inconsequential, an inferior shop dummy, but she began to tug off her parka all the same.
    “Don’t worry about Maxine,” said Milan over his shoulder, fingering a pile of corsets. “She has seen every beautiful woman in London out of her clothes.”
    But I’m not beautiful , thought Lydia woefully.
    “And you are beautiful,” said Milan, as if reading her thoughts. “You just need some help to bring it out.”
    She gasped, flushed and suddenly felt super-confident.
    The hiking boots, woolly socks, cheap jeans and fleece were soon piled neatly on a chair, leaving Lydia shivering in sensible cotton underwear. She was very aware of the congealed essences from her cinema adventure that stained the gusset of her knickers.
    Milan and Maxine emerged from the clothing jungle, laden with pieces. They exchanged a glance and smiled while Lydia hugged herself,