Dining out
Knuckles rapped on the door. Bother!
Jean had counted on being undisturbed. He smeared a wet-wipe across his face.
“Just a moment,” he called – but the door opened. How could he have forgotten to lock it?
“Wait!” he exclaimed, panic-stricken, but it was too late.
Michael stared at him, stared at the make-up and the mirror, stared at the dress on the bed.
“Bit of a surprise,” he said.
“But hardly unheard of.”
There was a pause.
“Can I take you to dinner?”
“Thanks.”
Jean reached for his shirt. Michael touched the dress.
“This would look nicer, don’t you think?”
