‘When?’
‘Next weekend, I think. He said he’s a bit busy with work but he’d let me know.’
We fell silent as she scrubbed, rinsed, repeated, then wrapped my head in a turban and ushered me to yet another chair. She pinned my damp hair into sections, and handed me a plastic keyring of nail colours before snapping her fingers at the reception desk.
‘Skyla, hun, can you get going on my friend’s toes? It’s not going to be a quick job.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, looking down at the keyring. They had moronic names too but Boudoir Nights, a cherry-coloured varnish, was the closest to my shoes.
Skyla was a small woman with a shaved head, who pulled up a stool and started hacking at my toenails, poor thing, while Jaz snipped around my face. I tried to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. Nobody ever looked worse than in the harsh light of a hairdressing mirror.
‘You nervous about tonight?’ she asked.
I was more nervous about the metal blades slashing around my ears but I didn’t want to be unsupportive.
‘Kind of. But I’ve got the dress and Mia’s lent me some shoes.’
‘Will you send me pics?’
‘Course.’
Then the roar of the dryer put a stop to any talking and I sat flicking through a bad magazine, trying to concentrate on the story of a woman who claimed her dog was psychic.
‘Ta-daaaaaa,’ Jaz said finally, having flicked off the dryer.
I glanced up in the mirror and shook my head from side to side so my hair caught the light. It was like a L’Oréal advert; the frizzy dullness had gone and, running my fingers through it, my hair felt soft and smooth. She’d snipped away so my hair was layered towards the ends and it looked thicker. Together with my new eyebrows and cherry-coloured toes, I felt more like the sort of woman who could wear that red dress.
‘Happy?’ Jaz asked.
I nodded with a bashful grin. ‘It’s perfect, thank you.’
I tried to pay but both Jaz and Carlo refused. The only problem was I didn’t have any flip-flops, so I walked back to the shop in a pair of sticky, disposable orange flip-flops.
Eugene gasped and clapped both hands to his chest when I walked back in. ‘It’s like an episode of Ugly Betty!’
‘Just the reaction I wanted.’
‘Your hair!’
‘Shhhhhh. Can we not make it a big deal?’
‘Why not? You look ravishing.’
Another bashful smile. ‘Actually?’ Nobody had ever described me as ‘ravishing’ before. Ruby was the hot one. Mia was the sophisticated one. I was the nerdy one.
‘But what’s going on with your feet?’ he added, waving at the flip-flops.
‘My nails need to dry, so do you mind if I stand behind here?’ I said, gesturing at the counter.
‘No, you stay, I’m going to go and have a go at Margaret Atwood’s piles.’
Surreptitiously, when nobody was looking, I took a disgraceful number of selfies. Half of me wanted to send one to Rory, half of me wanted to keep it a surprise for later, until I’d got changed and put on my make-up as Mia had demonstrated. She’d even lent me a red lipstick that didn’t make my teeth look yellow.
While waiting for the clock to drag round to six and everyone to leave, I allowed myself a brief daydream of my grand entrance: in my red dress and heels, with my new eyebrows and toenails, I’d arrive to gasps. Other guests would prod one another to look as Rory and I passed them, my arm linked through his. In the most glamorous outfit I’d ever worn, I wouldn’t be the Florence who played Consequences or counted stairs. I’d be Florence Fairfax, elegant, sophisticated woman of mystery who definitely did not eat the same cheese sandwich every day. ‘Oh, how simply fascinating, Prime Minister,’ I’d say, ‘you must tell me more about the situation in Brussels.’
Well, maybe some of that was overly optimistic. But it would be nice if Rory gasped at least.
When the shop closed, I locked myself in the bathroom, along with my dress, the shoebox and my make-up bag. I did my face first, listening to Mia’s instructions in my head: moisturize properly, foundation, eyes, mascara. Oh no, shit, eyelash curler before mascara. Too late. Bit of powder on the nose and chin. Blusher where you smile. I grinned in the mirror and rubbed a light pink into my cheeks. Finally, the lipstick, applied with a shaky hand.
I pulled my work T-shirt over my head with extreme care, kicked off my trousers and dropped my bra on the floor. No bra required for this dress. I stepped in and wiggled it up my body to where th— Shit! The zip on the back. Mia had helped last night since I couldn’t reach the top and fasten the little hook. Shit, shit, shit.
OK, Florence, no need to panic. Was going to Uber to the party in Battersea Park anyway. Could simply slide on duffel coat and ask Rory to do it up when I arrived. But what if he was talking to the Prime Minister? ‘Hello, Prime Minister, nice to meet you. I do want to hear about the situation in Brussels but would you mind if my boyfriend did up my zip first?’ No other option, I’d have to chance it.
I lowered the loo seat and sat to fasten the ludicrous shoes, then crouched to stuff the clothes littering the bathroom floor into my tote bag and throw a few make-up items into my clutch bag. Pinching the folds of the dress with my free hand, I waddled towards the stairs and hoped it didn’t fall down.
The lights in the office were on, which meant Zach had forgotten to turn them off. Presumably he’d have left for his date with Ruby and they’d be in a bar or a pub somewhere already; Ruby flicking her hair like a dancing horse at the Olympics, Zach flexing his Greek tattoos.
This was why, when his head appeared from behind the office door, I dropped the clutch bag and empty shoebox and clapped my arms across my chest so my dress didn’t slide to my ankles.
‘Hi,’ I squeaked.
Zach looked at me but didn’t say anything.
‘Actually, can you do my dress up? As you’re there? It’s the back, I just can’t reach the top of the zip. If you wouldn’t mind?’
He remained frozen; I carried on gabbling.
‘Is it my lipstick? Do I look like I’m going on Strictly? I feel like I’m going on Strictly.’
He still didn’t move.
‘Or my shoes? I know they’re mad. They’re Mia’s and I can hardly walk in them. I’m probably going to kill myself tonight. Or fall and break a few ribs, anyway.’ I stopped. ‘Zach, you all right?’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ he said, before a small cough into his fist. ‘I mean yes, fine, but you look…’
I laughed at his confused expression. ‘Is it weird to see me like this? I don’t really feel like me. I feel like Cinderella off to the ball. Although I bet her glass slippers were more comfortable.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘You look ridiculously beautiful. Truly. That’s why I can hardly speak. You look… perfect.’
I blushed, obviously. ‘Thanks.’ Then I angled my shoulder at him. ‘Actually, could you do me up?’
‘Course.’ The shop felt very quiet as he stepped around me and I flinched at the sensation of his fingers on my lower back.
‘You all right?’
‘Yep,’ I squeaked, staring at an old tea stain on a patch of carpet in front of me. Concentrate on the tea stain, Florence, do not dwell on the fact you can feel Zach’s breath on your neck.
‘What’s the occasion?’ he asked, as he started tugging the zip upwards.
I twisted my head to answer.
‘Stand still please, Cinders,’ he said, nudging my shoulder forwards with his hand.
‘Sorry. And don’t laugh but it’s a Conservative party.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Zach?’
‘You said don’t laugh so I am maintaining a diplomatic silence,’ he said, as I felt his fingers reach the nape of my neck. ‘There, you’re done.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, turning round to smile at him, and then, because I couldn’t help it, ‘Why are you still here, anyway? Aren’t you seeing Ruby?’
&nb
sp; He looked surprised. ‘Er, yeah. Yeah I am but not until seven, so I’m just finishing off a few bits and pieces.’
I nodded but felt embarrassed at having pried, so I picked up my skirt and made for the stairs.
‘Florence,’ he shouted, when I was halfway up and already cursing the shoes. I felt like a stilt man about to make his entrance at the circus.
‘Mmm?’ I said, pausing to glance back at him. It was just one word, my name, but he’d sounded strangely solemn.
‘Have a good time. And I mean it. You look, no, I mean you are very beautiful. A modern-day Helen of Troy.’
I frowned. ‘Which one was she?’
‘The one they fought over, the Trojans and the Greeks, because she was supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘All right, let’s not go overboard,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘But thanks. And you too. Have a good night, I mean.’ Then I turned back and stomped up the stairs because this situation was awkward and I needed to get my Uber.
I played a quick round of Consequences while the Uber dawdled at a set of lights. If they went green in the next ten seconds, I wouldn’t fall from my heels, say anything embarrassing in front of Rory’s colleagues or go to the loo to see my lipstick had run down my chin and I looked like I’d had a bloody session at the dentist.
Two, four, six… The lights changed at eight seconds and I felt a sense of relief as the Uber moved again. I looked at my phone. Rory was waiting outside the marquee. The thought of him, my boyfriend, in black tie and taking me to a party like this made me shake my head in wonder. It sure beat my usual Friday night: a bowl of pasta on the sofa, Marmalade draped over my stomach like a draught excluder.
I spotted Rory before the car stopped. Light blazed out from the marquee entrance, illuminating him in the dark. His hair was slicked in a side parting, his jacket was perfectly cut across his shoulders and his shoes shone like soldier’s boots. Standing there, nodding at people as they passed, he looked like Jay Gatsby welcoming people to his party.
I opened the car door and stepped out carefully. This was my grand entrance; I mustn’t trip, stumble or drop my bag. Rory bounded forward as soon as he saw me and I bit my lip, hoping for that approving gasp.
‘It’s red!’ he said, his eyes spherical with alarm.
‘What?’
‘Your dress, it’s red.’
I looked down and smoothed the velvet over my stomach. ‘Yes. Is that… bad?’
‘Florence, it’s called the Black and White Ball! Look!’ He swung a hand around him as other couples walked past and I felt all my jittery excitement about the party turn to dust. Every other woman was wearing black. Black sequins, black silk, black velvet, black fur coats in several cases. But no red.
‘I didn’t realize, I didn’t think. Sorry, Rory, I just…’
‘It’s too late now. Let’s go in,’ he said, putting a hand underneath my elbow and pulling me towards the light. ‘Come on, we need to meet everyone.’
‘No kiss?’ I asked, blinking quickly to discourage tears. He sounded so cold, so cross, and all I’d wanted to do was impress him.
Rory turned to face me and rotated his fingers around his mouth. ‘You’ve got all that… stuff… on your lips. I don’t want it to rub off.’
‘OK,’ I said, sinking my nails into my palm to stop my eyes from blurring. Don’t cry, Florence. Can’t cry. You’ve got too much eye make-up on. You’ll look like a sad stilt man.
We walked along a short stretch of carpet – also black – and into the marquee. I tried to keep up with him but every step on my shoes felt like it could be my last and I lagged behind. While queuing to hand my coat and bag into the cloakroom, I counted the heads in front of us. Heads of silver, slicked-back hair. Heads of bouffant curls that smelled of Elnett if you got too close. Bald heads that shone like lightbulbs.
You could smell the money in that marquee. It was full of real-life Vogue mannequins and men in black tie. Eyes followed me as we pushed from the cloakroom deeper into the heart of the party. Rory stayed silent, his hand still gripping my elbow as he led me to a small circle of people, and my spirits drooped even further when I spotted a familiar blonde head: Octavia.
‘Evening, all,’ said Rory.
They spun to look at us.
‘Lady in red!’ said Octavia, with a squawk of laughter.
I grimaced. ‘Yeah, Brainiac here didn’t realize that being called the Black and White Ball meant you actually had to wear black and white.’
‘I think you look marvellous,’ said a tubby man whose shirt was buckling at every button. I wanted to fling my arms around him in gratitude but I worried it might cause a button to ricochet free and blind a partygoer on the other side of the marquee.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, smiling at him. I could still sense embarrassment wafting off Rory as he snatched two glasses of champagne from a waitress and handed one to me.
I’ll get drunk, I decided. That would help. Ninety-three glasses of champagne would definitely help.
Rory introduced me to the others in the circle. I knew Octavia and Noddy. ‘And you remember Lord and Lady Belmarsh?’ he said, as I looked at an older couple – haughty as a pair of owls – and realized they were Octavia’s parents who I’d met in Norfolk. ‘And this is my boss, Clive, and Marigold, his wife,’ he said, of the man with the alarming buttons and a rotund woman standing beside him.
‘At least you haven’t come as the Scottish widow like the rest of us,’ said Marigold, which quite made me want to hug her, too.
We drank and made small talk about the cold weather and Clive and Marigold’s new puppy, a Dalmatian called Stripey. I reached for another champagne and ignored a tray of unappealing canapés that looked like baby’s thumbs.
My feet started to ache and I shifted my weight from foot to foot as if I was standing on hot sand. The marquee was vast, held up by several large poles like a big top, with purple lights swirling across the canopy roof. At the other end, dozens of tables were decorated with cascading white flower arrangements, and there was a chequered dance floor with a stage behind it. I changed leg again as a man waddled on to it and announced dinner.
‘We’re on table seven, over there,’ said Clive, pointing to the right of the dance floor. He led us and I caught half-sentences as we went. ‘Oh helair!’ people said to one another. ‘Helair! I haven’t seen you in yonks!’
Among them were faces I thought I recognized. There was whatshername, the Education Secretary. And wasn’t that the footballer who won I’m A Celebrity last year? And in the distance, standing next to table one, I could just see the top of the Prime Minister’s head, surrounded by a gaggle of disciples. That explained the men with necks as thick as elephant legs positioned around the edge of the marquee. Security.
‘Florence, white or red?’ asked Noddy, holding a bottle of wine in the air.
‘Red, quite obviously,’ said Octavia.
I did my fake laugh again. I was getting quite good at it. ‘Red, please,’ I replied, swallowing a huge swig as soon as it splashed into my glass.
Dinner was also black and white. A small mound of risotto with flaked black truffle to start, followed by monkfish and blackcurrant pavlova for pudding. I managed four glasses of wine, which perked me up. Sitting next to Noddy, I realized, was just like sitting next to Hugo; you asked what his golf handicap was and off he went.
Every now and then, I stole a glance at Rory, sitting on my other side. He was in entertaining mode, charming Marigold or Lady Belmarsh with an anecdote, asking them about their children, about their next holiday, about where they were spending Christmas. Nobody else would have known he was embarrassed, but I knew because he didn’t touch me once throughout dinner. I was momentarily distracted by the image of Zach and Ruby, heads bent together in a pub, but shook the thought away as an auctioneer leapt on stage and began selling off Verbier chalet holidays and safaris in Kenya. Clive bid for the chance to have Stripey painted by an ‘eminent pet portraitist
’ and eventually won it for £12,250. I wondered if all the dignitaries gathered in this marquee had more money than brain cells.
When the auction had finished, Octavia leant towards me, a wide smile stretching her lips. If a snake slithered towards you in the wild, its face would look much the same.
‘I gather you ambushed Rory about our little discussion in Norfolk,’ she said.
I felt so many emotions at this that I wasn’t sure which one should come first. Anger at Rory for telling Octavia this? Betrayal that he hadn’t then told me he’d spoken to her? Embarrassment? Astonishment that Octavia would raise it again? But before I had a chance to reply, she’d carried on.
‘Do forgive me for upsetting you. Nothing would thrill me more than you and he getting married.’ As a performance, this was even less convincing than one of Eugene’s, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that because Marigold misheard her.
‘Sweet! You pair of lovebirds. I didn’t know you were engaged!’ she said, looking from me to Rory and clapping her hands together.
‘Is someone getting married?’ piped up Lord Belmarsh.
‘Nobody’s getting married,’ I replied, rallying myself and smiling back at Octavia. ‘He’s just very good in bed.’
It slipped out. I couldn’t help it. I was that fatal combination of fairly pissed and fairly cross.
The table fell silent and Lord Belmarsh’s face turned so puce I thought he might be having a heart attack.
Under the table, Rory’s hand gripped my thigh. ‘Florence, darling, let’s try a glass of water.’ He reached for a bottle and topped up my glass.
‘Lucky Rory,’ said Clive, winking at me.
‘Clive!’ reprimanded Marigold.
‘Perfect timing,’ muttered Rory, as a band started up on the stage. He stood and held a hand out for me. ‘I think we should dance.’
I’m scared of dancing. At teenage parties, I used to watch the girls who could sway in time to Britney Spears with envy. There seemed to be a direct correlation between those who knew the steps to ‘Oops!… I Did It Again’ and those who had boyfriends. I didn’t know the steps and never had a boyfriend. So, over the years, on the rare occasions I needed to dance, at a wedding or a birthday party, I’d developed tactics to avoid the dance floor. I needed another drink or I needed the loo. But here was Rory’s outstretched hand, no avoiding it.
The Wish List: Escape with the most hilarious and feel-good read of 2020! Page 23