A long red skirt hung off her hips and her blouse kept slipping down, revealing an old maternity bra. She’d lost so much weight a friend asked if they should bring round ready-cooked food and countless others told her to be careful. Unhappy as she was, she was also secretly pleased with this unexpected perk. Weight loss without trying; shame about the grief and mild PTSD symptoms that had led to it.
As she walked across Waterloo Bridge towards the solicitor’s office, she had to pull her skirt up constantly, as if to stop it from slipping right off. Later, when she sat in the office at the end of the walnut conference table, all eyes on her as she wept, she was aware that the top of her blouse might have fallen down.
She looked across at the man who seemed to be in charge. Later, her memory implied he’d been licking his lips and rubbing his hands as he smiled, feigning kindness and concern at her distress. “Now, are you certain it’s over?” She wasn’t. She wasn’t certain at all. Even so, she nodded and yet more tears washed her make-up away. In her retrospective imagination, she heard the man say, “There, there, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. We’ll deal with the nasty man?”