‘A little black dress!’
‘Well, I suppose that would probably be all right …’
‘Darling, a little black dress is always all right.’ She’s already delving into the clothes in the box, shoving aside marl grey hoodie after marl grey hoodie. ‘Do you have one by Hubert, by any chance?’
‘Do I have a little black dress by Hubert de Givenchy? No. No, I don’t.’
‘Well, there’s no need to worry about that; I’m sure we’ll find something else lovely …’ Though her elegant bare shoulders sag, visibly, as she casts aside yet another (when did I buy all these?) grey hoodie. ‘You do own a dress, darling? One is all we need.’
‘Yes, I own a dress! Look, I obviously need a bit of a wardrobe update, OK?’ But fortunately I’ve just spotted a different sort of grey fabric in the heap of grey fabric, and I pull it out – it’s the Whistles slate-grey silky wrap dress I’ve worn on several Big Occasions over the past few years: my first date with Daniel; my last birthday drinks; the after-party when Cass was nominated (but didn’t win) for a National Reality Television Award for her appearance on Mary Berry’s Celebrity Cupcake-Off. ‘Ha! A dress!’ I declare, waving it at her in triumph.
Audrey Hepburn stares at the wrap dress. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes! It’s a wrap dress!’
‘But darling …’ She’s looking appalled. ‘It’s just a piece of material. It has no line. No structure.’
‘It doesn’t need to! It’s universally flattering! It skims over your curves. It creates a waist.’
I realize that I’m simply parroting everything I’ve ever read about wrap dresses, which is why I spent a small fortune on it in the first place. And now I come to remember it, this dress didn’t skim over my curves or create a waist; all it did was hang rather limply off my negligible chest and threaten to expose unflattering amounts of upper thigh every time I took more than three steps in succession. But it’s the most expensive dress I’ve ever owned, which is why I’ve hung onto it instead of consigning it to the charity bin.
From the expression on Audrey’s face right now, it really needs to be consigned to the charity bin. Or, more likely, the rubbish bin.
‘Fine,’ I say, putting the wrap dress down. ‘You win. I won’t wear this one.’
‘I think,’ she says kindly, ‘that would best.’
And then she practically disappears into the box, head down like a dabbling duck, leaving nothing much of herself visible except for the embroidered train of her ball gown. It’s a moment later when she pops back up again with a triumphant look on her face and a black dress in one hand.
‘Now, this looks much more the sort of thing!’
The dress she’s holding is a rather sober shift with a boat neckline and a tricky-to-pull-off hemline that sits, if I recall, at mid-calf. I bought it from Primark without bothering to try it on, in the futile hope – funnily enough – that it would make me look like Audrey Hepburn.
Needless to say, it didn’t, and, even more needless to say, it’s never seen the light of day since the depressing trying-on session when I got home and took it out of its carrier bag.
‘Are you sure?’ I look at the dress with a lot less enthusiasm than she’s displaying. ‘It’s just a cheapo thing from Primark.’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m familiar with Mr Primark’s work …’
‘No, no, it’s not a Mr, it’s just a—’
‘But I think this will do very nicely indeed!’ She holds the dress up against me. ‘All you need is that rather smart trench-coat of yours, slung over your shoulders, and a few well-chosen accessories. That neckline, for example, is simply crying out for a sweet little diamond pendant, or an elegant string of pearls.’
‘Right, well, I’ll call my bank in Zurich, then get them to crack open the largest of my safety deposit boxes and have a selection flown over to me by private jet.’
‘Unfortunately I don’t think there’s going to be time for that,’ she says, in deadly earnest. ‘But didn’t I see you with a pearl and diamond necklace when I first met you?’
‘I highly doubt that … oh, you mean Nora’s wedding pendant?’
‘All I know is that you put it in your little box over here.’ Audrey is swooshing over to the kitchen counter, where my bead-box is still sitting, and opening it up. ‘Oh, this will be wonderful on you!’
‘I don’t know. It’s for my best friend, on her wedding day. And I’m not even sure I’ve quite finished it yet.’
She’s ignoring me, placing the necklace around my neck and doing up the clasp. ‘Like I thought,’ she says. ‘Wonderful.’
It does feel rather nice, I have to admit, with the cool weight of the diamanté charm against my skin, and the silky smoothness of the vintage pearl beads … Well, I’ll just have to justify it as a trial run for Nora’s special present: helping me decide whether the necklace should stay as it is, or if it needs that double layer of pearl beads after all.
‘Now, the right shoes, of course, always make or break any outfit. Do you have a nice simple pump?’ Audrey asks me. ‘Something with a kitten heel, perhaps?’
‘Oh, no. I’m not wearing a kitten heel. Not when I’m going to spend the evening with a bunch of six-foot-in-their-bare-feet models.’ I haven’t forgotten the way Rhea towered over me at FitLondon this morning; there might be all kinds of reasons why I feel small and insignificant at this party tonight, but I’m not about to let my shoes be one of them. ‘I’m wearing these,’ I say, delving back into the box and rooting around for the only pair of really glamorous shoes I own, a pair of silvery sandals with an ankle strap and a teetering platform heel.
This time Audrey actually looks ill.
‘But you could break your ankle in those! And surely … well, a kitten heel would be so much more chic …’
‘That’s what you said before you mangled my fringe last night,’ I tell her, glad of the fact that she only exists in my imagination, because I’m not sure this is an argument I’d feel confident having if I really were talking to one of the most ineffably stylish women that has ever existed. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t care less if they’re chic or not – they make me look five inches taller and half a stone lighter. I’m wearing them. Now, do you think I need any Spanx?’
‘Oh!’ Her hands fly to her cheeks, which are burning red all of a sudden. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s going to be entirely up to the proclivities of the gentleman you’re going out with this evening! And really, Libby, what you want to do in the privacy of the bedroom is really none of my—’
‘Spanx knickers!’ I say, even more mortified by the misunderstanding than she is. ‘It’s a kind of underwear … look, never mind. I really need to start getting ready.’
‘Of course.’ She looks relieved by the change of subject. ‘What time is he picking you up?’
‘He’s not. I’ll meet him at the party.’
‘Why on earth isn’t he coming to collect you?’
‘For one thing, because I told him I wasn’t coming. And for another thing, because it’s London. In the twenty-first century.’
‘That’s no excuse!’ She looks genuinely upset. ‘When a man takes you out for the evening, he should come to collect you at your door! With a bouquet of your favourite flowers!’
Again, I’m starting to see what life really is like if you’re a beautiful movie star.
‘Libby …’ She’s peering at me, curious now. ‘Has a man never brought you flowers before a date?’
‘No.’
I don’t add – because she’s a figment of my subconscious, and my subconscious already knows this – that I’ve never really been on a date before. That all my so-called relationships (Horrible Daniel, Unreliable Iain, Brief-but-Mistaken Martin) have started in the same fuzzy, ill-defined way that they went on and the same fuzzy, ill-defined way they all finally ended. A few too many drinks and a bit of a snog, followed by a few months (or in Martin’s case, thank heavens, only weeks) of not-that-satisfactory sex and introduci
ng each other, uncomfortably, to our respective friends as ‘the person I’ve been seeing’. No dates. No flowers. No fun.
‘Then you’ve been treated very badly.’ Audrey Hepburn sounds quite cross. ‘And frankly, this Dillon fellow is going to have to wake his ideas up a bit if he’s lucky enough to be in with a chance of dating you.’
Now, this, right here, is why I always wanted Audrey Hepburn to be my best friend.
I know she’s a figment of my imagination; I know, therefore, that what she’s just ‘said’ is actually the equivalent of a positively affirming Post-it Note stuck on a bathroom mirror (‘You Look Thin And Beautiful Today!’). But still, the warm glow that’s spreading through me is no figment of my imagination. And it’s good, even if only for a moment, to believe that what she’s just said is true.
‘Now,’ she goes on, ‘you’d better be taking a nice long bubble bath, then when you get out I can help you with your make-up.’
‘Actually, there’s only a shower. But some help with my make-up afterwards would be lovely.’
Because make-up isn’t like a haircut, is it? Getting my hallucinated Audrey to help me put on some nice smoky eye make-up isn’t going to involve any setting about my head with a dangerous implement. The very worst that will happen is that, in (what I assume to be) my current dream-state, I jab myself in the eye with the mascara wand or something.
‘Then help I shall!’ She’s already setting off for the coffee machine. ‘Off you go and perform your ablutions, and I’ll make you a nice fortifying espresso to drink while we make you up. Some fluttery eyelashes, elegant red lips … we’ll pull out all the stops, darling! This Dillon fellow isn’t going to recognize you!’
*
OK, I’m not sure Dillon is going to recognize me.
The trouble is that there’s a very good chance he’s going to mistake me for a drag queen.
‘Are you quite sure,’ I ask Audrey Hepburn, as I look at myself in my little round mirror, ‘that this looks all right?’
‘You think one more layer of mascara? Another strip of eyelashes?’
‘No, no, Christ, no!’
‘More eyebrow pencil?’
‘Definitely no more eyebrow pencil.’
I’m regretting, in fact, that I ever dug around in the far reaches of my make-up bag to find an eyebrow pencil, an item I’ve never once used since it came Free With Purchase from No. 7 a few years ago. I was hoping I might be able to emulate Audrey’s trademark strong eyebrow, but I’m a little bit concerned that it actually looks like I’ve superglued two sunburned caterpillars over my eyes instead.
‘Well, I’ve already set your lipstick with powder, darling, so I don’t think I can go back and put more of that on …’
‘No, look, I’m not saying I want more of anything. In fact, I think maybe I ought to go with a bit less.’
‘But you look so glamorous! So ladylike! And really, Libby, that dress is so simple, it won’t look finished without proper make-up. This tinted moisturizer nonsense,’ she adds, regarding my tube of the stuff with almost as much horror as she looked at my shoes. ‘And whatever that fruity gloop is that you wanted to put on instead of a nice elegant lipstick …’
‘Juicy Tube.’
She shudders at the mere memory. ‘Darling, I’m telling you. You look like a proper grown-up woman. Doesn’t that give you the most wonderful feeling of confidence?’
Given that I’m fairly convinced that what I look like is a proper grown-up man, it doesn’t give me all that much confidence. But she’s so glowy with pride that I don’t feel I can just scrub it all off with a flannel and bung on the tinted moisturizer and lip-gloss I’d normally use. Anyway, let’s face it, on some level, I must want to look like I’ve run amok at the Estée Lauder counter, because it’s obviously really been me who’s trowelled it all on. Perhaps because the only way I feel brave enough to mingle with the Beautiful People at this showbizzy party is under the protection of a full layer (or four) of war paint.
‘All right, I’ll keep it on.’ I get to my feet – tricky, because I’m sitting on the cavernous Chesterfield and wearing these absurdly high heels that (whisper it) I’m already starting to regret – and grab the little Accessorize clutch bag that Audrey located in the bottom of my clothes box. Which is the first time I realize that my hands are shaking. And realize, ridiculous though it sounds, that I’d actually really like it if I could take my imaginary Audrey to the party with me this evening.
‘Now, you must have a wonderful time! And don’t worry in the slightest about me,’ she adds. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right here on my own.’
‘You’re … er … staying here for the evening?’
‘Just for a little longer. If it’s all right with you?’
‘But don’t I actually need to be here in order for you to … You want to stay and play around with the Nespresso machine,’ I add, with a sigh, as I see her feline eyes wandering in the direction of the kitchen worktop, ‘don’t you?’
Audrey turns a delicate shade of pink. ‘Well, I did rather fancy trying the cappuccino frother.’
‘Fine. Whatever.’ My brain isn’t capable of stretching to the limits of understanding this, so if my imaginary Audrey claims she’s going to spend a happy evening here with a jet of air and a pint of milk, that’s just something I’m going to have to accept. ‘Froth away all you like.’
Looking delighted, she leans forward in a L’Interdit cloud and gives me the lightest, gentlest peck: first on one cheek, and then the other. Then she picks up my trench-coat from where I’ve slung it on the arm of the sofa and drapes it, stylishly, over my shoulders.
‘I know you’ll have the most wonderful evening,’ she says.
And then somehow she’s managed to manhandle me to the door, opened it, given me a little shove out onto the landing, and then closed the door behind me.
I can hear a shriek of frothing-related delight as I tread my way carefully down the four flights of stairs to the bottom.
When I open the door to the street, there’s someone standing right outside it, their hand on the buzzer.
It’s Olly.
‘Sorry,’ he begins when I jump, ‘I was just about to ring up to my friend’s fl …’ He stops, and looks at me again. ‘Libby?’
‘Hi, Olly, I …’
‘But I thought … you look … aren’t you ill?’
Shit – I never should have put on all that face powder, should I?
And then I realize. He’s not telling me I look ill because my make-up is so unflattering. He’s telling me I’m meant to be ill, because that’s why I told him I couldn’t do dinner.
‘Yes. I am ill. Well, I was …’
‘And now you’re … off out?’
‘Mmm, I suddenly started to feel a lot better. And you know how it is, when you’ve been feeling ill, sometimes you just need to have a bit of fresh air, a walk around the block …’
‘You’re quite dressed up for a walk around the block.’
‘What?’ I try a laugh. He doesn’t join me in it. ‘This old thing?’
‘A cocktail dress and heels. And a pearl necklace.’
‘Oh, is it a cocktail dress?’ I glance down, trying to look surprised, as if I might have imagined myself to be in tracksuit bottoms and one of my myriad grey hoodies. ‘I just threw on the first thing I could pull out of the boxes …’
OK, I give up. I’m a crap liar. And I hate lying to Olly.
‘I’m going out,’ I admit. ‘And I’m really sorry, I should have told you the truth. Especially when I know you wouldn’t really have minded anyway.’
‘Who says I wouldn’t have minded?’
He looks annoyed. No, scratch that: it’s worse. He looks disappointed.
‘Come on, Olly, it was only eating badly made stew in my crappy flat. I’m sure you’ve got about a million better ways to spend an evening than that!’
He presses his lips together for a moment, then says, tightly, ‘I cancelled other plans wi
th some friends to hang out with you this evening. Actually.’
‘Ol, you really, really shouldn’t have!’
‘So where are you off to,’ he asks, ‘anyway?’
‘Well, you won’t believe this, but I’m going to a party with Dillon O’Hara.’
‘Dillon O’Hara from the show?’
‘That’s the one!’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes.’
‘He asked you out?’
‘Thank you,’ I say, frostily, ‘for the vote of confidence.’
‘I’m just … surprised.’
His surprise hurts, more than I’d have thought it would.
‘Well, you know, I did promise him I’d leave the larger of my two heads at home for the evening. And that I’d try to disguise the worst of my hump.’
‘I didn’t mean … look, let’s just forget it.’ He turns away. ‘You have a good night, now.’
‘Olly …’
‘Oh.’ He turns back again, reaches into the huge pocket of his donkey jacket, and takes out a folded-over brown paper bag, one of the kind he serves toasted sandwiches in from his catering van. ‘Chicken soup,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘In a thermos, so it should stay nice and warm. And a banoffee pie. You can offer some to Dillon O’Hara as a late-night snack.’
‘Olly …’ I say again.
But he’s started walking, fast, down the street, and my shoes are way too high and uncomfortable for me to be able to follow him.
The row with Olly hasn’t exactly put me in the mood for a party.
The thing is that we don’t argue, Olly and I. I’m not sure we ever have, in all the years we’ve known each other. We’ve bickered a fair few times, but never once have we had a proper, serious quarrel, one that ended with him walking off and refusing to answer his phone.
At least, I assume that’s what he’s doing. Because I’ve tried him three or four times since I got out of the tube at Liverpool Street – to apologize for lying to him and cancelling at short notice, and, to be honest, to see if he might fancy apologizing to me for implying that I’m far too much of a hideous old crone for Dillon O’Hara to even agree to breathe the same air as me – but it just rings out every time. And Olly always answers his phone.
A Night In With Audrey Hepburn Page 13