"Not that one," Tiff said firmly. "You look like a mandarin orange." She paused. "A mouldy mandarin orange."

Isla frowned. Her blonde flatmate was squinting out of her iPhone screen, a spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. Fruit Loops, no doubt; Tiff had an addiction to the cereal after spending a summer in New York. She had also, Isla thought wryly, picked up some of the American brutal honesty. Or maybe that was just Tiff.

"I like it," Isla said mildly.

"Oh dear." Tiff took another bite of cereal. "I always suspected you were colour blind. Now I know for sure."

Isla twirled around in front of the mirror. The dress wasn't that bad. Admittedly, Tiff had a point about the orange-and-green spots, but the fit was good; it hugged her waist and waterfalled out to her knees. And Lucas always said that he loved her in green. This was sort of green, wasn't it?

"What if I wore a shawl?" Isla suggested. "That could improve the... er..." She picked at the lacy collar. "Well, the neckline could be improved."

"Honey," Tiff said, "the only way you can improve that dress is by burning it."

"Tiff!" Isla hissed.

Isla glanced nervously at the shop assistant. But the girl in pigtails was watching the television in the corner of the shop, her eyes fixed on the telly. Race cars zoomed around a track, and an Australian commentator was saying something about Matthew Carr taking the lead. Isla's heart fell. Shit. If Lucas lost, he wouldn't be happy tonight.

And she needed him to be in a good mood.

Isla thumbed through a rack of dresses. She could have gone to the race, she supposed, but that would have required sitting next to Lucas's parents. And his Team Principal. And listening to thousands of fans chanting his name.

She couldn't face that. Not yet.

No, Isla thought, pulling out a floaty green dress, she would see Lucas tonight at the party. They could fix things. She was sure of it.

She held up the green dress. "What do you think?"

Tiff wrinkled her nose. "It's very Tinkerbell."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Try on the black one," Tiff suggested. "The one in the corner."

Isla followed her eyes to where a little black dress hung on the wall. It was silky and dipped low at the front, offering about as much coverage as Vodafone in the remote Scottish Highlands. She frowned.

"It's very..." Isla hesitated. "Form-fitting."

"Exactly," Tiff said.

She frowned. "Lucas isn't like that. He likes long dresses."

Come to think of it, Lucas used to tease her for wearing red lipstick. I don't understand, he'd say, shaking his head. It's so bright. She'd started wearing nude or pink after that. No, Lucas had never been one for tight clothing or crazy parties. Saint Lucas, Matthew always called him, and Isla had to admit that he had a point.

No.

Isla put the green dress back, appalled. The day she started agreeing with Matthew Carr was the day that lizards fell from the sky. Pink, flaming lizards wearing small hats and singing "God Save the Queen."

She hated Matthew.

Hated him.

Tiff snorted. "Lucas is an idiot, then." She crunched on cereal. "You have great legs. It would be a crime not to show them off."

"Tiff!"

"What?" Tiff held up her hands. "I'm just saying." She rose, rinsing out her cereal bowl. "Look, are you sure you want him back?"

"Of course I do," Isla said.

"Why?"

"Because I love him," Isla said, exasperated. "Don't give me that look, Tiff. I know what you're thinking." She held a blue dress up to her body. "But Lucas still loves me. I know he does. Why else would be pay for that hotel room?"

Tiff peeled a banana. "You don't know that he paid for it."

"He did." Isla's voice was firm. "I know he did."

Oh, the hotel receptionist had made up some story about Isla winning a free room with British Airways, but Isla knew the truth. She couldn't afford BA; she'd flown to Australia with Jet2. Lucas had paid for her room. Who else could it have been?

He cared for her. If nothing else, Lucas still loved her, in some way.

She could work with that.

"Fine," Tiff sighed. "If you want gearbrains back, I'll help you. But it's against my better judgement. Just for the record."

"Noted."

Tiff took a bite of banana. "Now try on the black dress."

Isla frowned. "No."

"Humour me."

"We're wasting time," Isla said. "I have to be at the party in an hour."

Isla consulted her phone and winced. Shit. More like forty minutes. It was 9 a.m. in London, but almost 6:00 p.m. in Melbourne; the race would be ending any minute. She glanced at the screen; the boys were on their final laps, and Matthew was still leading. Lucas was in second place.

Double shit.

"The dress, Isla," Tiff sing-songed. "Now."

Isla sighed. Still, she plucked the slinky dress off the rack, scurrying back into the change room. Tiff had moved onto coffee — black, without any sugar — and was eating what appeared to be the last of Isla's chocolate biscuits. Typical.

Tiff pointed a finger at her. "Remember that time we went on holiday to Ibiza? And I told you to wear sunblock? But you didn't listen, and then you got so burned that you had to miss our snorkeling tour the next day?"

Isla wiggled into the dress. "Is this a lesson about how I should listen to you more often?"

"No," Tiff said. "I just wanted to remind you to wear sunblock tonight." She munched on a chocolate biscuit. "You're far too ginger."

Isla shot her a rude gesture, and Tiff grinned. Isla zipped up the dress. The material clung to her like a second skin, dipping dangerously low in the front. Isla did a little twirl in front of the mirror, her red hair rippling around her. The dress was tight. Really tight. But she had to admit that it looked...

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

"Well?" Tiff's voice was smug. "What do you think?"

"It's a little small," Isla said slowly.

"It's sexy."

She picked at the hem. "Do you think I should get a bigger size?"

"It's perfect," Tiff said firmly. "Now buy it. Or I'll buy it for you."

The girls said goodbye, and then Isla was trekking towards the cash register, the black dress tucked under her arm. The pigtailed shop assistant didn't look up. A middle-aged man carrying folded jeans stood next to her, and they were both watching the television screen with rapt attention. The race cars sped towards the finish line.

"Walsh is closing in," the Australian commentator said. "He's neck-and-neck with his teammate, Matthew Carr, and it's the battle we've waited all race to see. The question is, will Carr let him pass?"

Isla almost snorted. Fat chance of that. Matthew was like a dog with a bone; once he had something, he didn't give it up.

The commentator's voice grew louder. "Matthew Carr is defending his position. He won't let Walsh sneak by. No, wait." A pause. "I don't believe it, folks; Carr is getting out of the way. Walsh is speeding past his teammate. And he's done it!" Cheers exploded from the television. "Lucas Walsh wins the Australian Grand Prix!"

Isla frowned. What the hell?

Well.

At least Lucas would be happy.

Pigtails pumped her fist, doing a little dance, and the middle-aged man sighed. He set down the pile of jeans.

"Wrong again," the man said gloomily. "You're going to wipe me clean." He rummaged around in his pocket for a tenner. "I have to stop making bets."

Pigtails tucked it into her pocket. "You have to stop making dumb bets."

He frowned. "Carr was winning for most of it."

"But not when it counted."

"Odd overtake." The man shook his head. "It was like Carr just gave up. I've never seen anything like that." He took Isla's black dress mechanically, scanning the tag. "What do you think Walsh does to celebrate?"

"Who knows?" Pigtails shrugged. "Cocaine? Champagne? A trip to Macca's for a really good burger and—?"

"He dances," Isla cut in.

Both shop assistants stared at her. Isla smiled.

"Lucas dances," Isla repeated. "He puts in headphones and has a dance party to Eminem." She winked. "Don't tell anyone I said that, though. He'd kill me."

"Oh, my god." Pigtail's eyes widened. "Are you Isla Morris? Lucas Walsh's girlfriend?"

Something raw and messy unfurled in her chest. Isla paused, her credit card clutched in one hand. Girlfriend. She wasn't that anymore, was she? A gaping void opened under her feet, so vast and empty that it was dizzying.

"I'm..." She swallowed. "Yeah, I'm Isla Morris."

Pigtails made a squealing sound. She immediately launched into a series of questions, each more oddly specific than the last. Did Lucas live with her? How long had they been dating? What brand of toothpaste did they buy? Isla was grateful when the purchase went through and she could leave, new black dress in hand.

There had been a lot of incidences like that over the years. Paparazzi snapping photos of their dinner dates. Girls sending their knickers to Lucas in the post. Isla had grown used to all the attention over the years.

Still.

It was odd to go shopping in a foreign country and have someone inquire about her oral hygiene habits.

"Crest Whitening," Isla muttered. "For the record."

A passing cyclist gave her an odd look.

Isla booked it back to the hotel, changing quickly, and then flagged down a cab. It wasn't a long drive to the restaurant — only about ten minutes — but her heart fell as she hurried up the steps, taking in the space.

This had to be some sort of cosmic joke.

The whole venue was disgustingly romantic. Gauzy white curtains fluttered in the breeze, leading out to a stone patio with a view of the water. Palm trees twinkled with tiny lights. Everything seemed to be wrapped in a hazy, rosy glow.

Isla swallowed.

Find Lucas.

That was the priority.

She plucked a glass of champagne off a tray, weaving around the white tables. It wasn't normally hard to spot him; as the drivers, Lucas and Matthew were at the heart of every party. The guests rotated around them, like planets orbiting the sun.

It was just a matter of figuring out which was which.

She saw Matthew first. He was lounging in a chair, a half-drunk glass of whisky in his hand. Matthew's blond hair was rumpled, his cheeks flushed. He was drumming his fingers on one thigh, his restless blue eyes scanning the room. Who was he looking for?

I don't care, Isla told herself. I hate him.

That was mostly true.

Isla just wished that it was the only thing she felt for Matthew Carr, especially after what he did to her last year.

A familiar flash of dark hair caught her attention.

Lucas was sitting on the opposite side of the room, half-hidden by a throng of people. He was chatting with a reporter, waving a hand around, and something green sparked at his wrist. Isla's throat swelled. Her emerald cufflinks: Lucas was wearing them again. That had to mean something, right?

"Lucas!" she called.

Lucas glanced up and paled.

"Isla?"

She smiled. Isla hurried towards him, resisting the urge to tug at her dress. Would he like it? She hoped so. She'd spent a small fortune on it. The crowd parted, revealing Lucas fully, and Isla stopped dead. Sickening pain punched her in the gut.

There was a girl sitting on his lap.