‘What?’ I try a laugh. He doesn’t join me in it. ‘This old thing?’
‘A cocktail dress and heels. And a pearl necklace.’
‘Oh, is it a cocktail dress?’ I glance down, trying to look surprised, as if I might have imagined myself to be in tracksuit bottoms and one of my myriad grey hoodies. ‘I just threw on the first thing I could pull out of the boxes …’
OK, I give up. I’m a crap liar. And I hate lying to Olly.
‘I’m going out,’ I admit. ‘And I’m really sorry, I should have told you the truth. Especially when I know you wouldn’t really have minded anyway.’
‘Who says I wouldn’t have minded?’
He looks annoyed. No, scratch that: it’s worse. He looks disappointed.
‘Come on, Olly, it was only eating badly made stew in my crappy flat. I’m sure you’ve got about a million better ways to spend an evening than that!’
He presses his lips together for a moment, then says, tightly, ‘I cancelled other plans with some friends to hang out with you this evening. Actually.’
‘Ol, you really, really shouldn’t have!’
‘So where are you off to,’ he asks, ‘anyway?’
‘Well, you won’t believe this, but I’m going to a party with Dillon O’Hara.’
‘Dillon O’Hara from the show?’
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