She took a somewhat excessive amount of time getting ready - usually, she hardly had time to put her lipstick on when she woke up late in the morning, but tonight was special, she had to admit. Clive was coming at seven, and she'd got home just after five, immediately running herself a bath with the most expensive oil and putting Unknown Pleasures on her record player, pouring her first glass of wine as she sank into the hot water. She shaved her legs, taking great care not to cut them for once, and washed her hair, wrapping it up in a towel as she made her way to her bedroom. The dress was laid out on the bed, and she stroked the skirt, smiling to herself.
Six o'clock, her hair dried, she poured herself a second glass of wine and sat at her dressing table in her matching black lace underwear, staring at herself hard in the mirror as she began the process of applying her makeup. She left her lipstick until last, lining her lips with pencil and peering into the mirror as she applied the bright red lipstick and checked the rest of her makeup for a smudge of eyeshadow in the wrong place. She searched her wardrobe for the shoes and bag, eventually finding them in a box she'd obviously forgotten to unpack when she'd moved into the flat years previously, and slipped her dress on, looking at herself long and hard in the mirror as she zipped it up and adjusted it slightly, though there was no need. It was beginning to get dark outside, and the light from the streetlamps shone through her bedroom window and made the gold fern brocade on the black skirt shine - it was the sort of dress that meant she found herself constantly watching her reflection, such was its intricacy, and she had to admit, it was beautiful. Bethany really had excelled herself.
Half past past six, she returned to the bottle of wine in the kitchen, walking barefoot across the floorboards so as not to cripple herself in her shoes more than strictly necessary. She stared out of the window, her hand shaking very slightly, which she put down to the sheer quantity of caffeine she'd consumed that day rather than nerves. She was not nervous; going to a dinner with Clive, her best friend of the best part of twenty years, she told herself - that would be ridiculous. She downed that glass and poured another.
She returned to her dressing table at quarter to seven, having polished off most of the wine and turned her rarely used curling iron on, beginning to add waves to her blonde bob and deciding about five minutes into her attempts that she couldn't be bothered, turning off the curling iron and slipping her black high heels on, sitting on the edge of her unmade bed, buckling up the straps around her ankles and standing up, teetering for a moment before her balance caught up and she strode over to her dressing table, picking up her lipstick and applying it carefully again where it had transferred from her lips to the wine glass, just as the doorbell rang.
She swore under her breath as she went to the door, heels clicking on the stairs. She inhaled deeply before answering the door, reminding herself that she was absolutely not nervous in the slightest as she twisted the lock and opened the door to Clive, stood in his best suit and bow tie, tall and God, he was handsome.
"Wow," he murmured when he saw her, as though he didn't realise he was making the sound as he looked her up and down, "You look incredible, Marth."
"Thank you. Come in," she smiled, stepping back and letting him in; their bodies close in the hallway, "I'll be two minutes," she gabbled, looking down at her feet as she went back to her room to get her handbag, "Help yourself to wine."
He picked up the full glass of red wine on the kitchen worktop, the bright lipstick stains giving away the fact that she'd been drinking whilst getting ready, leaning against the cupboards and taking a sip as he waited for her. Martha looked the most beautiful he'd ever seen her; the long black dress accentuating the curves of her slim body, her hair slightly wavy and her makeup flawless, like she'd spent an age preparing for tonight. He smiled to himself - Martha was funny like that; she'd never tell him that she'd spent that much time preparing for the dinner, but he could see the details that told him; the smell of bath oil, the dress which was definitely new and expensive, not to mention the fact that she'd left chambers hours early and taken Bethany with her. He shook his head and smiled at the thought.
"Ready?" she asked, closing the black clutch bag she held in her left hand and looking at him from across the kitchen. He stared at her blankly for a moment, thinking to himself that he was the luckiest man alive that night, then nodded, holding out his arm for her to take as they descended the few steps to her front door and left, Martha locking the red door and putting her keys in her bag before taking his arm again and beginning the ascent up the stone steps to street level.
"Are you sure you're going to be able to pull off all your preposterous dance moves wearing that?" he asked as she climbed the steps slowly, and she gave him a gentle dig in the ribs with her elbow before responding;
"Oh don't you worry, Fred Astaire, I've got my rave outfit ready and waiting for The Clash."
"I look forward to it."