He opens the champagne, pours it into two glasses, previously chilled. 

I sit nervous, tapping my foot, surveying a relationship I thought had been killed.

Wondering what subject we will dance around next, parties or fashion?

He takes me to his room, shows me his new shoes, seemingly his only real passion.

New accessories on his dresser and a heated marble floor in his en-suite, 

I sit on his bed, noticing the new 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets.

I have butterfly's in my stomach, and wish I could sip my drink more slowly, 

I'm wearing the best dress I own, I bought a new clutch bag especially.

Yet I still feel under dressed, wishing I'd had my hair blow dried, 

Wishing I hadn't had my nails painted this colour, and wishing I could hide.

We walk back to the kitchen, more alcohol, liquid lunches are the thing you know?

It matters little that he saw me pop my medication fifteen minutes ago.

Lunch is light, of course, a salad and another glass of champagne. 

I wonder what I'm selling and why I'm on this campaign. 

It's time to leave, he calls me a cab, 

Hands me a wad of cash which I place in my new handbag.

A kiss on the cheek, and a tear forms, 

My mask is slipping, its time to be gone. 

'Bye Dad, thanks for having me'.

'My pleasure darling, I'll stay in touch'- we'll see.