Her Melting Point

Going Out

Jackie ran her palms over the familiar satin of her favourite wrap dress on her hips. She'd changed her mind three times while getting ready: first, she'd chosen her other dinner dress, a baggier, frumpier one; more of a midi-length flour sack. It worked great for semi-work dinners. Men took her seriously when she wore it; women didn't see her as a 'threat' to their own appeal. It clearly let everyone know that she'd put thought and money into an appropriate outfit, but she'd had no 'feminine aspirations.'

Then, she thought that maybe she needed to scale it down even more; and she'd pulled out a maxi skirt and a knitted cardigan, with neat little pearl buttons and a dull princess collar that was trying and failing to have a minuscule drop of charm. In this outfit she looked even blockier and was as much as invisible to men.

She also had a couple of floral gowns that could be accessorised to make her underdressed or overdressed, depending on which she was aiming for on a particular occasion. "A divorcee trying too hard on a rare night out" and "a woman beyond her prime who only has work clothes" were both excellent strategies to make people let their guard down.

The wrap dress was the only item in her wardrobe that didn't elicit a defeated sigh out of her when she saw herself in a mirror. It had a vintage vibe, a flattering silhouette with a cinched waist and a voluminous skirt, which concealed the parts of her body that she was most insecure about: her squishy stomach and heavy hips.

This dress also didn't require any shapewear, which Jackie owned but never could force herself to stuff herself into - not since her divorce at least. After she'd lost all that weight, Gabe had still insisted that she needed those bodysuits. To this day, she'd have flashbacks of the humiliation of escaping to the bathroom to peel them off to change into lingerie, whenever he'd felt 'up for it' after an outing.

Jackie closed her eyes and took a measured breath in. This wasn't an outing, or a date, or even a work dinner. She was going to a restaurant with her agent and her landlord. She'd wisely looked up the menu online and had prepared herself for the bill. They'd have a polite chat; she'd order and eat anything she wanted, because she didn't need to make an impression; and then her full, even rounder stomach would be comfortable and happy under the puffy folds of the skirt.

***

Alexander was standing outside, near the entrance to the restaurant. His phone was pressed to his ear, but he didn't appear to be talking.

He saw her, pushed the mobile in his back pocket, and stepped to her cab. He opened the door and offered her his hand.

"Evening," Jackie greeted him.

Her eyes dropped to his feet. There was one fashion skill she'd never managed to master; and that would be wearing heels. She could do court shoes, if necessary; and ballet flats - but her old athletic injuries strongly preferred trainers. Coincidentally, that was exactly what Alexander wore with his well-cut black suit and a white shirt. She wondered if he looked so fit to her because of her transgression with him back in her cottage - or this was indeed a modern and stylish look.

"Hey." He was still holding her hand. "You look nice."

"Thank you," Jackie croaked. "You too. Look nice, that is."

"Michael's not coming."

She stared at him.

"He's just texted us," he added, frowning. "Did you not see? We should still go in."

Jackie bit her tongue before she hollered 'There's no us!' It took her a second, but she remembered that they'd had a group chat for the letting negotiations.

"Can I have my hand back, please?" Jackie gave out a shaky laugh. "I think I might have my phone on silent."

He immediately released her.