I sneak in, teased by the dusky tones of Chanel. I’m quite sure you’ve just left. The silver Victorian hand mirrors lay guarded on your dressing table, about to keep my secret. I gently pick one up and allow myself a seat. I tilt my head and raise my chin – pouting just a little - casting high ivory cheek bones swept with glittering bronze, your pearls wilting around my neck. My soft mousy wisps transform into deep chocolate curls and my lips become slicked with pink. I’m so ready for the man of my dreams; I’m now thirty, not thirteen.