The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

and she found that she had no particular desire to call Dee, or not call Dee, or do anything at all, really. She had accepted that her instincts were only as good as her luck, and it felt like there was really no point in even making decisions any more.
    I’m not going to call,
she concluded eventually, closing her phone. It sounded like Dee was having a great time, and Jane didn’t think she could bear to bring her friend down . . . or, if she was being honest with herself, to hear about how wonderfully everything was going for her.
    ‘So now what?’ she asked the empty room. Her voice sounded strange and hollow. Jane had never been one to just calmly accept her fate, and somewhere deep inside her something was screaming at the useless fatigue that had taken her over. She couldn’t do anything to fix her messed-up situation; that much was clear. But in her heart, she also knew she couldn’t sit in her room waiting to gather dust, either. If her original plan hadn’t worked out and she couldn’t think of another one, she would just have to push herself to do something – anything.
    As she reached to push her phone into her purse, something about her hand caught her attention.
Didn’t I notice Ella’s nail beds at first?
she wondered. She had, she decided: she could vividly picture the white half-moons glowing against the tawny skin that was just two shades lighter than the walnut of the rest of her hand. Now, though, the white semicircles were floating against a background that looked much more like the unremarkable pink Jane had known her entire life.
    I’ll go see Misty,
she decided.
She’ll be able to tell if it’s wearing off, or if I’m just getting too used to this body to tell it apart.
    She held her breath for a moment, waiting to feel a renewed sense of purpose once her decision was made. It didn’t come, but she made her legs move towards the bathroom anyway. After her long, dull flight, the needling hot water of the shower felt like heaven, and Jane let it run over her hair and body for considerably longer than she really needed to. Finally, though, she reached for the restocked Bulgari shampoo and conditioner and got serious about starting her day.
    She made it out of the hotel and into a cab without bursting into tears at the thought of her recent failure, and decided that pushing herself into action – any action – had been a very good idea. She paid and hopped out of the car when she saw the familiar black awning of Book and Bell, and almost smiled when she spotted Misty’s wild, bleached curls through the window.
    Five minutes later, Jane was installed in the back room with a paper cup of (bourbon-less) jasmine tea and Misty making sympathetic noises as she poured out everything that had happened in the week and a half since Jane had last been in the store.
It felt more like a year.
    By the time she finished, Misty’s repertoire of noises had expanded to shocked, angry, and frightened, in addition to the sympathetic ones. She plucked Jane’s empty cup out of her hand and crossed the room to refill it while Jane sat, feeling inexplicably as if she were waiting for a judge’s verdict.
    ‘Well,’ Misty said finally, and Jane straightened a little in her uncomfortable wooden chair. ‘I have a few things to say.’ She folded her permanently tanned hands in her lap and looked expectantly at Jane, who took a gulp of her tea and nodded. ‘First – and I know you didn’t ask – but I think you’re jumping to conclusions about Dee.’
    Jane raised an eyebrow; whatever she had expected to hear, this wasn’t it. Then she remembered that it was Lynne Doran’s favourite facial expression, and forced the second eyebrow up to match it. Then she felt silly, relaxed her face, and said, ‘Please go on.’
    ‘Things are going well for her – amazingly well, under the circumstances,’ Misty began, and Jane frowned a little; this, she knew. ‘But it’s the “under the circumstances” part that she’s trying to get you to ignore when she tells you how great everything is. She knows you feel responsible for what happened back in March, and she’s afraid you’ll feel guilty, or get distracted by worrying about her. She’s not trying to throw anything in your face, Jane; she’s trying to show you there’s no reason for you to cut her out of your life . . . again.’
    ‘I didn’t—’ Jane began, but that wasn’t true: she had. For three weeks after her disastrous wedding day,