The Cure

Chapter 18

It was an idyllic early September evening. The air was heavy on the skin of the six P.M drinkers, and the sun was edging to its slumber, still blissfully warm; the rudimentary bustle of being pattered in the streets as workers headed home, and pleasure seekers headed out.

Lola was one of the latter, uncomfortable in a floor-length, backless, black silk dress that she had dragged from a heavily stocked charity shop rail.

Its cowl neckline was flattering, the thin straps light on her slender shoulders, the sleek material slipping well over the curve of her backside, the long slit up the side making her nervous for a breath of wind.

Her hair tumbled freely in loose curls down her bare back. She wasn't really one for heels, but the dress was too long, otherwise, and she tried nonchalance on their inches as she wandered down the High Street, turning heads – though that was nothing new – and earning whispers as she passed.

Jared gave a low whistle when he saw her.

'How do you expect me to keep my hands off you in that?' he muttered as she pressed a hand to her face, embarrassed, and kissed him on the cheek. He looked just as uncomfortable as she did, in a tight black shirt and a pair of grey trousers; but he carried it well, tossing a heavy arm about her shoulders as they wandered towards the theatre, making her struggle on her heels.

She was thankful when they arrived outside the tumbledown theatre, camouflaged instantly by other long dresses, and tuxedos, and finery; the building's old steps fissured but its walls recently painted a deep red, Carmen posters tacked haughtily along its walls, in front of which she took a picture, as promised, for her mum.

'Thanks for doing this with me,' Lola tucked her hand into his, and he smiled at her with real affection, squeezing her fingers companionably. 'Mum will be chuffed I got to go.'

'You owe me at least four pints afterwards, Nicks,' he said with his feral grin, looking about him. 'Now where's that little piece of work—'

'Frieda?' Lola tried to hide her surprise.

'—yeah, she said she'd catch us for a drink before we went in.' He grinned. 'And hopefully join us when we get out.'

'You invited her?'

'Should I not have?' Jared squeezed her hand again, 'Sorry – if you wanted it to be just us, I can call—'

'It's OK,' Lola said, too brightly. 'I owe her one – she put my name forward for the gig—'

'Frieda!' He ignored the end of her sentence, dropping her hand to raise his own into the air, signalling the girl's attention.

Lola couldn't help her pang of indignance – she hated being interrupted – and then a second pang, this time of jealousy, as the girl sauntered forward, easy in an impossibly sweet dress and flip flops, her sleek bob glittering under the sun's sleepy eye.

Lola felt immediately ridiculous, overdressed at her side; but Frieda seemed unaffected, so self-assured was she, to be amongst formally framed operagoers in a cheap cotton sundress.

Her confidence all but beamed out of her skin. Lola swallowed her envy.

'When I'm a lawyer, I'll be at this kind of shit every week,' she chuckled, pressing herself onto tiptoes to kiss Jared's cheek, then holding her arms out to Lola. 'You look amazing.'

'Thanks. Heels are a pain in the ass,' she said stiffly into the glossy bob.

'Want my flip-flops?' Frieda kicked one off with a wink. Lola laughed dutifully, and they turned as an uncomfortable three into the relative cool of the foyer, ordering three extortionate beers, awaiting their arrival in silence until Jared excused himself to go to the bathroom.