The Trouble with Love by Cathy Cole

confused.
    â€œI don’t know,” Polly said. She still hadn’t figured that out. People generally didn’t vanish the way Sam had. “But I did. So I’ve had that on my mind too.”
    â€œNo wonder you’ve been so preoccupied,” said Lila. “I’m sorry it went wrong for you, Polly. But how romantic! Meeting a boy and kissing him straight away. Was he a good kisser?”
    â€œAmazing,” said Polly, flushing at the memory again. “I mean, I don’t have anything to compare it to, but . . . it felt really great.”
    Lila laughed. “He was, then.”
    Polly wanted to tell Lila so much more. About California, and how she’d seen Eve and Max kissing, and all the worries and anxieties that were eating her up all the time. But she couldn’t.
    â€œSo you’ll definitely be at the harbour at two?” Lila checked. “There’s no way Ollie and I are going if you’re not coming too.”
    Polly left Lila with the promise that she would be there at two. Then, after a long shower, she straightened her room and went downstairs, hunting for something to eat. Her mum was at work, showing buyers around houses, and had left a note on the kitchen table saying she wouldn’t be back until five. Weekends were always busy for estate agents, who often had to fit around other people’s normal working weeks.
    And don’t answer the phone if your father calls again , her mother had added to the message. I want him to leave you alone.
    Polly finished a tub of hummus, two pittas, a carrot and an apple, then went back upstairs again. What was she going to wear?
    Everything she took from her wardrobe seemed wrong like it had the day before, ill-fitting or badly made. She discarded the uneven trousers at once, and didn’t even look at the dress with the missing shell button. She took the dress she had been hemming out of the bin and studied it carefully.
    She had found it in a car boot sale, its bright yellow flowers and splashes of blue catching her eye at once. It was stupid to throw it out before she’d had a chance to wear it. Maybe she could sponge the stain out. The hem wouldn’t take long.
    After ten minutes at the sink, the bloodstain had gone. Polly threaded a needle and stitched the hem in properly. Then she ironed it and prepared to put it on.
    It was a seventies style, with a flared skirt and no sleeves. She twirled in front of the mirror, trying to decide if the hem was straight. When she stood front-on, it looked OK. But was it riding up at the back?
    Calm , Polly told herself. She checked her watch. She still had an hour before the boat left. She stood with her back to the mirror, checking the hem. The yellow and blue pattern blurred in front of her eyes. It was definitely uneven.
    Wriggling out of the dress, she attempted the hem again, and reironed the result. Again she positioned herself in front of the mirror. Was it shorter on one side now, or was it her imagination?
    She slammed her wardrobe door. The mirror wasn’t helping. She still had to do her make-up and jewellery.
    Settling on a pair of white-and-yellow daisy earrings, she slipped her feet into a pair of black flats she had customized over the summer with a row of silver beads across the toe, and opened the wardrobe door again to study the result, resting her hands on her hips and turning in a slow circle with her eyes on the mirror.
    It’s all wrong , she thought in despair.
    Ten more minutes passed as she took off the dress and hunted for something else. The clock on her bedroom wall now said one-thirty. She started to panic. She couldn’t be late. The boat would leave without her.
    You’re worrying too much , she told herself. The dress looked good. You’ll be fine.
    Wearing the yellow and blue dress again, make-up done and her hair swishing around her face, she let herself out of the house. But halfway down the road, a voice started up