Tight
by Elizabeth Coldwell

I blame the dry cleaner. Though maybe a little of it was my fault. After all, I should have braved the rain and gone to the cleaner I’d been using for years, rather than simply dashing to the one in the precinct by the tube station because I didn’t fancy getting wet.
The fact the bored-looking bloke behind the counter only flicked one of his iPod headphones out of his ears before acknowledging my presence should have given me the clue he wasn’t paying too much attention when I asked him to take good care of my suit. Even so, he did promise it would be ready for me to pick up by five, as I’d requested.
I needed the suit cleaning because I had a job interview the following morning, and I needed to do well at the interview because I’d been out of work for five months and was starting to feel the pinch financially. At the age of 40, I suspected I was too old and too over-qualified for the position, but this was the first interview I’d been called to attend after sending out more applications than I could count, and I was determined to do whatever it took to create a good impression.
The suit was indeed ready when I called for it just after five o’clock, sheathed in protective plastic and still retaining a faint smell of the chemicals which had been used to clean it. That, I knew, would have faded by the morning. Teamed with a crisp white blouse and shiny patent heels, the smart pinstripe suit would make me look efficient, reliable and eminently employable.
At least, that was the plan. Despite all my intentions to be professional and give myself plenty of time to have a filling breakfast and make my way to the offices of Simms and Simms, my alarm clock failed to ...