“Do you want to go out?”
Stan looked up from his laptop and frowned at Tone. “Out?”
“Yeah, out.” Tone looked amused. “There’s a gig tonight at the Electric Ballroom. I chatted up the girl on the box office and got us tickets. It’s sold out officially.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Tone shrugged. “Ben’s not going anywhere.”
That was true. Ben had holed himself up even more than he had before, resolutely not taking Stan’s advice and getting professional help, preferring to sweat his comedown out on his own. Stan had resolved to let Ben make his own decisions about his body, however much he hated to see Ben in pain.
It was taking a toll on them all, emotionally and the rest.
“I guess I could,” Stan said, still unsure.
“There’s a wardrobe full of your nice frocks in there.”
Stan gave him a wry smile. “I haven’t worn any of those in a long time. Years.”
“Well, you should. Your legs are too nice to hide in jeans.”
That made him laugh. “Okay. I’ll go and have a look, see what’s in there.”
“We don’t need to go out until nine. Ish.”
Stan glanced at his watch. It was only just seven. “I can be ready to go at nine.”
“Great. I’m going to the pub. Will meet you there?”
“Sounds good.”
Tone winked, and left him alone.
Stan wanted to get his article finished—or almost finished, ready for proof-reading at least—before he started getting ready.
When he was done, his laptop switched over from work to play mode with some quiet music playing, he went to dig through the wardrobe in what had become Tone’s room.
He knew, vaguely, that there were still a few things here. Everything was packed in either suit bags or dry cleaner’s bags, so even when he’d been home, there hadn’t been any need to go through them.
Carefully, Stan started unpacking.
The first bag was mostly sheer shirts, the style he’d favoured when he’d first moved to London. He’d worn them to work at the time. The next few bags were his dresses.
Stan was slightly surprised that there were so many of them here. And expensive dresses too. His body didn’t suit some designers; he preferred strange shapes and off-kilter tailoring to more classic looks.
The labels on the dresses spoke of his past.
Alexander McQueen.
Roberto Cavalli.
Dior.
Jesus. He had thousands upon thousands of pounds’ worth of dresses here. Stan flicked through them, the designs immediately evoking a time and place. He remembered that Galliano gown, the event he’d worn it to, even the pomegranate martinis they’d served. The Oscar de la Renta mini dress that he’d worn with skyscraper heels. They’d destroyed his feet.
When he found the Elie Saab dress, Stan knew it was right.
Tight, black, moody and dramatic—no one at the Electric Ballroom would know who the designer was, but he’d definitely make an entrance. Stan still made entrances sometimes, but his job now didn’t call for the red carpet events or the big, industry socials he’d attended in London. He didn’t have any dresses at his apartment in New York. None at all.
There was a time when he’d wondered if all that was in his past. Stan had never made any move to get rid of those outfits, though, just kept them safe until he was ready to look at them again. Maybe, if he really pushed himself to think about it, he associated the dresses so closely with a time and place—and a person—that it hurt to think about being the guy who wore them. He hadn’t allowed himself to be that guy in a while.
It came back to him so, so easily.
Stan didn’t keep a lot of makeup in the flat, but he could make do with what he had. The dress was a lot, and he didn’t want to over-do the occasion, so a little understated on the makeup would be fine.
He didn’t have any foundation, so he used a heavier powder to cover up some of the variations in skin tone around his eyes. He’d always kept his brows perfectly shaped, so they just needed a slick of clear mascara to hold them in place.
Instead of shadow, Stan picked a thick, kohl eyeliner and smudged it carefully around his eyes, deliberately going for a mussed, heavy-handed look. There was no way he’d be the only guy in the Electric Ballroom wearing eyeliner tonight. It was practically part of their dress code.
Mascara, bronzer, highlighter, and he was done.
Stan worked some salt spray through his hair, wanting to go for textured and messy rather than sleek and straight. It was a risk; if it rained later, he’d turn into a massive frizz-ball, but Stan was okay with that.
He glanced at the clock and decided he needed to leave soon.
There wasn’t a handbag among all the dresses, so Stan grabbed his black leather backpack and loaded his phone, wallet, and keys into that instead, satisfied he could leave it all in the cloakroom. The last challenge was getting into the dress. The hidden zip made it a twisty, uncomfortable squeeze to get the damn thing done up, especially because Stan had put on weight and muscle definition since the last time he’d worn it. The dress was tight, but he could get the zip up and still breathe, so it would be fine.
For a moment he looked longingly at his flat shoes that he’d been wearing since New York. But they weren’t good enough for the Elie Saab. There was only one pair of shoes in his collection good enough, and Stan knew already they were going to destroy his feet.
Worth it, though.
He strapped himself into the Chloé ankle boots and found his centre of balance. A quick glance into the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door turned into a full double-take.
Stan surveyed himself, head to toe.
He looked good.
Something about a fantastic pair of shoes and a beautiful dress made him hold his head higher, tighten his core, put his shoulders back. He ached for a slick of red lipstick, but he didn’t have any with him. It didn’t matter, not really.
Stan ran his fingers down the sides of the dress, smoothing it into place, and stepped into this familiar, old persona. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and smiled.
Tone was leaning against a wall, smoking, when Stan arrived at the club. He gave Stan a good look up and down, then whistled between his teeth.
“Lookin’ good.”
Stan laughed. “Thank you.”
“Those legs, bubs. Jeez Louise.”
“Should we go inside?”
Tone offered his arm, which made Stan smile, and he took it.
It wasn’t particularly late when they stumbled back to the flat, the balmy London night sticking to Stan’s skin as he laughed because Tone was being crude, as usual.
Stan hadn’t had fun like that in a while. He’d had fun, just not this specific brand of fun. The sort of fun that happened on one of those anything can happen London nights.
He pinched one of Tone’s chips as they made their way up the stairs to the flat, shushing each other to be mindful of their neighbours.
“Keep your paws off my chips,” Tone grumbled.
Stan pinched another one.
“You let me pay for your drinks, you steal my food,” Tone said as Stan fumbled for his keys. “If this is a date, you could at least put out.”