Marianne Sheridan

Enough is enough.

She's happier than she's been in a long time, but, underneath the surface, there's an itch that she can't scratch. Her and Pal spend a lot of time in each other's company, and there's plenty of kisses, plenty of hand-holding, the odd occasion when they get carried away and fumbling is involved. What there isn't is anything more than that, and Marianne just isn't used to waiting. For her, sex has always been this frentic, immediate thing.

So she's a little bit off balance here.

This might not be the best course of action. She arrives at Pal's door (having texted Cam to make sure that he's home). She's wearing a comfortable dress, black, knit, that she knows that he likes. And underneath it, she's new black lace.

She just hopes she isn't making a mistak

When her phone goes quiet, her messages unanswered for almost a week, Marianne broods over it for a while. Her feelings are hurt, not that she'd admit it to anyone and her confidence wobbles, more than it has for a while. She stands naked in front of the mirror, studying herself, criticising herself as she turns this way and that. And then she starts to get pissed off with herself.

"Fuck it," she says. Still naked, she leans across her dressing table, putting eyeliner and mascara and lipstick on and fluffing her fingers through her hair and then she picks up her phone and she takes a picture, her lips and her tits and her eyes through her eyelashes, and she texts it to Nathan with the message, want to come over?

Marianne loves the library. She's always loved libraries (how could you not, when you went to Trinity?), but this one feels particularly comfortable because it's here she's starting to find her feet. Her hair is wet from a swim, twisted back from her face and she's based herself at one of the desks tucked away in a corner. There's a book that she wants, though, and that's lead her to the stacks, barely paying attention to her surroundings as she runs her fingers along the spines.

Which is why it's a shock when she walks straight into someone.

"Shit," she says, softly. "Sorry. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Sam had invited her for dinner, told her that he'd make soup, so, when she goes to his front door, Marianne is carrying a few bottles of decent beer (she feels like that's a more solid choice for Sam than wine?) and some good bread. She's feeling a lot less shaky than she had earlier; her afternoon had been mostly sleeping and she'd taken a long hot bath. Things have started to feel out of control again and she knows enough, knows herself well enough, to know that she has to get a handle on herself now.

She knocks on the door and waits.

Honestly, she's just sick of being in all the time. She can't keep sinking into herself, lonely and tired and lost. Shopping, she'd browsed a range of dresses, finally picking something floaty and pretty, strappy with a trapese hem that hits mid-calf, black with a print that's a scattering of stars. It makes her feel elegant and feminine, which is better than leaden and sad. In front of the mirror in her bedroom, she curls her hair and puts on makeup, mascara and concealer, heavy eyeliner. It feels like being herself again, the version of herself that saw Connell that first time at Trinity. Invincible. Growing into herself.

It's a start.

The bar is only a few blocks down from Ocean View. She texts Sam (though she's not convinced that he can use his phone) to let him know where she'll be and then she walks to the club and pushes the door open.

Inside, the club is dim and quiet, soft lights burning on each of the tables. There's a few people, sitting around various tables and Marianne makes her way to the bar and slides onto one of the stools, smiling at the bartender.

"Hey," she says, softly.