For as long as she’d been working at RSB’s iconic domed 19^th-century building in St. Andrews Square, Tara had used her rare sunny day lunch hours to stroll to the shops on Multrees Walk.

Multrees Walk was a pedestrian street fleeted on both sides by some of the biggest names in fashion. Tara had allowed herself to look longingly at all the window displays, but she’d never gone into any of the shops. That’s because the very first time she strolled over to Multrees Walk on her lunch break, she decided—with a shiver of forbidden lust—it would be far too dangerous for her to actually shop there.

So for five long years, Tara continued her over-budget relationship with Ted and Kate, but only allowed herself fleeting glances at the windows on Multrees. After all, there was a difference between going over budget and breaking the bank.

But that Saturday, less than an hour after Magnus dashed out of the apartment because, “Sorry, Tara, I cannae let my team down,” she was awoken from her nap by Iain’s smart apartment telling her a stylist named Ana Smith was outside the building requesting entry.

Ana spoke with an accent so posh, it was impossible for Tara to tell whether she was from Scotland or England. As it turned out, a famous Scottish singer who was engaged to one of Magnus’s teammates had asked Ana to help Tara get ready for her big debut.

“My big debut?” Tara said, confused. “Wait, are you talking about Magnus’s rugby match?”

As a matter of fact, she was. And because Tara was going to this game, she would need advanced wardrobe planning. Gamely deciding to play along, Tara tried leading Ana to her closet of really nice clothes, telling the stylist, “Okay, I have a ton of stuff that should work. But I was leaning toward a cute little Kate Spade sweater I bought last year.”

Ana burst into tinkling laughter as if Tara had told her a truly funny joke. And then she whisked Tara downstairs to a waiting car. A short while later, the car pulled up in front of Harvey Nichols.

“Oh, my God. This is Multrees Walk!” Tara exclaimed.

“Yes, it is,” Ana answered, wrinkling her nose at the luxury department store as if it smelled bad. “I’m afraid this is the best I can do on such short notice. Normally, I’d take you to London. Everyone on Bond Street knows me. But alas, we only have a couple of hours.”

Tara pinched herself, wondering if this was a dream and she was still napping. But no… even her wildest shopping dreams didn’t include personal shoppers, and there were two waiting for them as soon as they stepped off the escalator. Ana gave them both air kisses before explaining the “emergency” on her hands.

And as it turned out, these people believed just as urgently as Ana did that lives would be destroyed if Tara couldn’t find the perfect outfit for Iain’s big game. The next couple of hours flew by like they were part of a movie montage. And after a flurry of consults and pulls, Tara found herself staring open mouthed at her reflection in the private dressing room’s beveled mirror.

Ana and her emergency fashion team had outfitted her in a boat neck “jumper.” It looked like a normal sweater but when Tara put it on she discovered it was in a fact a miracle in disguise. It clung to her curves like a peach-colored hug. And it seemed to be made of a material she could only describe as “cloud,” because it was too warm to be a cotton blend and too soft to come from an animal.

Ana and her helpers also found her a pair of truly amazing skinny jeans. They didn’t constrict her stomach, yet they somehow made it seem like she possessed the physically impossible ethnic beauty triangle of ample hips, ample booty, and thigh gap—at the same time. Like a Kardashian. Tara kept putting her legs together and then spreading them apart, trying to figure out how the jeans were pulling off this magical feat.

And just when she thought the outfit couldn’t get any better, one of the shoppers presented her with a pair of rose python slingback heels. Tara had never heard of the shoe brand before, but the detailing was so fine, she suspected a real python had given its life so these shoes might live… on her feet. Even more impressive, thanks to a concealed platform, the stiletto heels turned out to be way more comfortable than they looked. Not that it mattered. The shoes matched her magic cloud sweater and jeans so perfectly, she would have happily limped out of the store if it meant she could wear them.

Ana stood next to her with a resigned sigh. “It will have to do,” she said with a glum shake of her head. Then she twisted a gold-and-diamond Bulgari Serpenti watch onto Tara’s wrist as if it was a cubic zirconia tennis bracelet.

“Um, correction: it’ll more than do,” Tara insisted, unable to look away from her reflection in the mirror. This was exactly what she’d dreamed of when she left her pack and during her window-shopping expeditions, drinking in all the clothes and accessories she couldn’t remotely afford to buy. And here she was, standing here in Harvey Nichols. Because of Magnus.

“It will do, Ana,” one of the personal shoppers assured the disappointed stylist. “After all, you don’t want her to look too posh during her debut. This outfit gives her a more down to earth vibe,”.

Tara screwed up her face. She couldn’t help but wonder how many down-to-earth people wore outfits to sporting events that cost nearly five figures? But aloud she said, “Thank you. This is way better than anything I ever thought I’d need for a rugby game.”

“A rugby game where every aspect of your appearance will be dissected and judged,” Ana pointed out.

Annnd… cue the trip to the salon with the two-year waiting list. Some poor woman in the middle of an ombre treatment was all but chair tipped out of her seat, so the head stylist could oversee Tara’s “emergency” keratin treatment while a middle-aged woman attended to her nails.

As much as Tara loved all the pampering, she couldn’t help but feel a little relieved when she was finally put under a hair dryer and given some time alone.

But just as Tara brought out her phone, a message appeared across her screen: “Feck this game miss you like a fuckin vital organ wish we were still in bed”

Even though it was from an unknown number, Tara read the punctuation free message and imagined Magnus’s deep grumble.

She smiled and her thumbs hovered over the touch pad, but then instead of returning the message, she swiped over to the contacts screen and typed in Iain’s name.

Tara hesitated, guilt twisting her stomach, but this was the rest of her life. She couldn’t simply take a back seat and let Magnus drive her future from here on out. And though today had been a shopping dream come true, it wasn’t enough. It just…wasn’t.

Clamping her lips, Tara pressed the green call button.

It went straight to voicemail. Which she supposed she should have expected, considering this was his satellite phone number and only meant for emergencies.

“Hi, Iain,” she said at the beep. “This is Tara. I know you’re probably in some jungle somewhere, but I have to go home to my pack…and I was hoping I could borrow your private plane…”