The smell of hair fixative flooded the atmosphere. John could smell the scent of Chanel #5’s perfume emanating from your skin even when you hadn’t yet left the bathroom. The first thing he saw was the blue skirt on your dress. He inspected you from top to bottom without losing any detail. The size was ideal, the length of the skirt was perfect because it showed nothing above your knees.

John whistled softly. He gestured to you with his fingers, telling you to rotate over yourself, he wanted to check every possible angle. You didn’t disagree with this inspection, because John was your husband and wanted what was best for you. He was older, he would know what to do. What kind of wife would refuse to listen to her husband’s advice?

He took a few strands of your hair between his fingers, frowned softly as he removed the cigar from his mouth. You looked forward to his verdict.

"Black hair. And more makeup." He finally said. He wasn’t talking to you, he was talking to the stylist he hired for you. "Also straight hair, but bulky. Curls make her look young."

Your smile faded a little. You’d been so excited to see her reaction. Heavy makeup and black hair would give you an older look, and it wouldn’t reveal the ten years difference between the two of you.

John had some friends there. They were playing pool before you showed up at the door. They were watching the scene, and that made you feel a little more humiliated.

"Don’t make that face." Your husband chuckled. He squeezed your cheek. "It gives you even more baby face, honey. Isn’t that right, guys?"

The men laughed: Johnny, a leading Scottish economist whose investments benefited John’s company; and Simon, an upper-class lawyer. All men of high birth.

John seemed to notice your sad face, because his laughter calmed down a little more.

"It’s a joke, babe," he said, adding, "Everyone’s joking. We’re laughing, aren’t we?"