She slammed the door, locked it off. Entered the living-room, threw her purse on the sofa, kicked her high heels off and left the room.

She headed towards the dimly-lit bathroom, peed in the dark. The digital clock was on.

Bridget squinted so as to guess what time was hiding behind the red halo.

23:38? 22:58?

‘Fucking Fifties’, she groaned.

She stood up, took off her tights and hobbled towards the sink. Turned on the light and started removing her make-up.

As applying the cleansing milk on a cotton pad, she began to calculate.

£149 for those bloody shoes which had blistered her feet with so much cruelty.

Plus £75 for the magical hyaluronic serum, which was supposed to lighten up her complexion.

Plus £96 for the new haircut, which she would never be able to maintain on her own.

Plus £224 for the evening dress, whose spectacular neckline would undoubtedly blow his mind, as asserted by the saleswoman.

Her eyes casually fell on her décolleté, crudely reflected by the mirror. Her décolleté, then her neck, then her face. She suddenly lost count of her expenses and slowly felt overwhelmed by a rising tide of anger and despair.

How could she be so naive? Why on earth did she accept such a humiliating idea? What could she really expect from a blind date, at almost 52?

She had never felt so bad in her whole life. So bad and so lonely. Even after their divorce. Even during their marriage.

She was cleansing her face, now, standing in front of the mirror. Some milk remover was covering her cheeks. A grumpy old lady was watching her, clenching teeth, holding up the pads.

Then Bridget remembered. She remembered everything, and suddenly felt tears running down her greasy face. She remembered their joy, their laughter, as visiting London together. She remembered the National Gallery. She remembered that portrait of an old grotesque woman. She remembered how much they both laughed about that Ugly Duchess, who was looking down upon their brand new love. Now, she was looking at Bridget... with a most satirical smile.