Hence, why I moved here from Scotland to help out my brother and his wife. Though if a friend in need asked me for help, I’d drop everything in a heartbeat. We tend to solve our own problems and find our own way.

The fairy tale should have been Cinderella freeing herself, making her own damn dress, and walking her arse to the ball all on her own. I actually hate the whole concept of a fairy godmother. “Just pretend you’re Cinderella, and we’re your fairy godmothers!” Leslie adds excitedly, pulling me out of my inner musings. Therefore, I needed a dress, and Freya’s best mates who own this fabulous high-end boutique in east London were all too willing to whisk me away for a makeover.

And that apparently includes taking her place at a football charity gala this Friday. But now I’m back and here to help Freya in any way she needs me. I was a buyer at Fortnum and Mason and climbing the corporate ladder before…well…before I decided to move back home to Scotland. Thankfully, I have a master’s in business retail and a fair bit of experience from my time working in London over five years ago. It’s an ordeal as she’s right in the middle of selling her trendy line of pet clothing to a major department store and can’t exactly delay the negotiations. I’m here indefinitely helping my brother, Mac, and his wife, Freya, because Freya was restricted to bed rest with her pregnancy midway through her second trimester. “Your brother is excited to show you off to his football friends, so you need to feel gorgeous.” My nose twitches with nerves because this event will be my first proper night out since arriving in London three weeks ago. “Sloan! Tilly Logan is speaking blasphemy in our shop.” Sloan Harris’ voice cuts through the fabric curtain next, also another American. I could have just popped over to Primark and found something cheap and easy,” I add as I struggle to slip the dress on. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble. “You’re Freya’s sister-in-law, which means you’re a VIP and have to look gorgeous for this charity gala on Friday.” I cringe and try to shake away my guilt over Freya’s friend’s generosity. “Sorry, I’m just really excited,” the person that I can now identify as Leslie Clarke answers back. “Erm…I’m still naked,” I reply as I pull the dress off the hanger.

How’s that gown fitting?” an American accent calls through the thick curtain of my dressing room.

Sweeper by amy daws read online