Love Islands…The Collection. Jane Porter

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      People were doing things to Ellen. She had no idea what, and she didn’t care. Even about the painful bits that involved tweezers and razors, hot wax and skin peels. She shut her eyes mostly, and let them get on with it, focussing her mind on what she’d do with the ten thousand pounds she’d get for the charity when they’d finished with her.

      There were three of them working on her, stylists, beauticians, hairdressers. Whatever they were, they were chattering away. They were all stick-thin, just like Chloe, all wearing ultra-fashionable clothes and four-inch heels, with sharp hairstyles and loads of make-up—which was par for the course, Ellen reasoned, if one worked in the beauty industry. Their conversation seemed to be about clubs and bands, film stars and fashion brands, about which they were intimately knowledgeable.

      They looked about twenty and made her feel like thirty. She hoped they were getting paid generously by Max, considering the impossibility of what they were attempting—making her look good enough to go to a ball. Because of course that was impossible. How could it be otherwise?

       Dear God, how Chloe would laugh like a hyena if she could see this. She’d be filming it on her phone, posting it to her bitchy friends on social media, and they’d be squealing with laughter. Elephant Ellen, trying to look glamorous! How hilarious! How beyond pathetic!

      Cold ran through her at the thought. Well, she’d be spared Chloe’s mockery. Because the moment she had that cheque for ten thousand pounds in her hands she’d wipe off all the gunk the stylists were putting on her, get back into her school suit and head home. Back to the safety of Haughton—blessedly hers alone for the next few weeks while Pauline and Chloe were away. Hers to make the most of...the very, very most...

      While she could.

      Fear bit at her. Max Vasilikos was powerful, rich and ruthless. He’d clearly set his mind on trying to eject her, and he probably had the financial means to do so. It would cost him—but did he care? Maybe he was one of those men who had to win at any price. Wasn’t what he was attempting this evening proof of it? Resorting to trying to flatter her into submission?

       Telling me I have the body of a goddess!

      She heard his voice again in her head, low and husky.

      She silenced it.

      She realised that one of the stylists, who was busy painting her nails a dark crimson—or the nail extensions that had been stuck on—was talking to her.

      ‘You are so lucky to be going out with Max Vasilikos tonight.’ There was open envy in her voice. ‘He’s just to die for!’

      Mortified, Ellen steeled her jaw. ‘This isn’t a date,’ she said, horrified at the implication and trying desperately to sound composed. ‘It’s a charity fundraiser.’

      Her protestation was ignored. ‘He took Tyla Brentley last year,’ the second stylist confirmed, doing something with long pins and a curling tong to Ellen’s newly cut, coloured and piled up hair. ‘She was a sensation.’

      ‘Her dress was stunning’ said the third, applying yet more mascara to Ellen’s eyelashes, having already lavished eyeshadow and eyeliner plentifully upon her.

      ‘It was Verensiana, and the shoes were Senda Sorn,’ the first rattled off knowledgeably. ‘She wore Verensiana to the film awards this year too—he’s her totes fave designer. She went with Ryan Rendell, of course—they are so an item now!’ She sighed soulfully, and then her eyes brightened as she smiled encouragingly at Ellen. ‘Don’t worry—she is, like, so totally over Max Vasilikos now. So the coast is completely clear for you.’

      Ellen let them babble on, not bothering to try and refute their insanely wrong assumptions. Nails finished, the stylist dried them off with a hairdryer, before standing back with the other two stylists, who’d also finished whatever it was they’d been doing to her.

      ‘OK,’ announced the first stylist, ‘let’s go for the gown!’

      Resigned, Ellen got to her feet, as requested, shedding the cotton robe she’d been inserted into after bathing, standing there in underwear that consisted of a low-cut underwired bra that hoicked up her breasts, plus lacy panties and black stockings—a universe away from her usual plain and serviceable underwear. As for the gown that had been selected for her, she had no idea and didn’t care. It wouldn’t be on for long anyway—just long enough for her to tell Max to hand over the cheque for ten thousand pounds.

      But as she watched one of the trio fetch the gown out of the wardrobe she gasped. ‘What is that?’ she breathed.

      ‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ came the answer.

      ‘But it’s...it’s...’

      ‘Edwardian,’ said one of the others confidently. ‘You know—like Victorian, but later. But not flappers like the roaring twenties.’ She looked at Ellen. ‘Didn’t you know it was a costume ball?’

      No, Ellen had not known. Had not known anything of the sort.

      And right now, as the trio started to help her step into the stiffly draped dark red skirts and draw up the whalebone bodice so that it fitted tightly over her bust, pulling narrow straps over her shoulders to flare outwards in a spray of black feathers, her only conscious thought was that it was going to be hellish getting herself out of the dress again when she changed back into her own clothes. There must be a zillion hooks to undo.