Chapter Twelve
Later that day when Lisa knocked on her door, unlike the last time it had happened, Connie was fully prepared. Following a lengthy and heated discussion about outfits, which had resulted in Lisa scurrying off, only to return with vast armfuls of clothing for Connie to try on, Connie had showered, scrubbed, plucked, shaved, moisturised and painted. She now walked on slightly wobbly legs—due to the black patent skyscraper heels hastily borrowed from one of the waitresses—to the door, and opened it.
Lisa’s jaw practically hit the carpet. “My God, girl,” she said, once more striding into the room without an invite. Connie closed the door behind her. “Look at you.” She took in Connie’s artfully pinned-up hair, her carefully applied makeup, her polished finger and toenails. And,
