I laugh. ‘No way.’
‘Why not? It’ll be fun.’
‘Will it?’
Paloma grins. ‘If her designs are awful, it’ll be a scream. And I have very high hopes that they might be.’
‘No. No way on this earth.’ I shake my head firmly. Lucy has to be joking if she thinks I’m going to do that. Really, wild horses couldn’t drag me onto—’
Someone puts their arm round me and squeezes hard.
Lucy.
‘Twilight! Thank you so much for agreeing to rescue me and my little show!’
I turn and Lucy’s face is right there, looming large, a little scary in its proximity. But at least her hand is clamped around my shoulder on this occasion, not my neck.
So I gnash my teeth and endure it.
‘You can’t imagine how grateful I am,’ she says as I practically gag on her perfume with all its horrible associations.
Paloma, in the background, is mouthing, ‘Do it! Just do it!’ with a big grin on her face. So I find myself relenting.
‘Fabulous! Oh, you’ll be brilliant. Trust me.’ She hurries over to Olivia, doing a thumbs-up, and the tension in my body subsides.
Paloma comes over. ‘It’ll be a hoot. Honestly. The collection’s called “Space Exploration Goes to the Movies”.’
‘What does that even mean?’ I whisper.
Paloma grimaces. ‘Beats me. Just a load of pretentious bollocks, I imagine.’
‘Okay, ladies.’ Lucy is back and my teeth clamp together again. ‘Twilight, you’re on last as it happens. I always like to end on a witty note. And guess what? You’re it!’ She rubs her hands together gleefully.
I force a smile and follow Paloma and Lucy into the little kitchen area off the main room that seems to be serving as a dressing room.
Paloma, who has an amazing figure, looks quite magnificent in her outfit. It’s the sexiest take on a Princess Leia dress I’ve ever seen, all skin-tight silvery Lycra with slits to the thigh and white platform boots.
She does a twirl.
‘Lovely.’ I nod approvingly. ‘Maybe I’ll be Darth Vader.’ Something black and voluminous would be just fine for covering up all the squidgy bits that haven’t seen the light of day for years, and which I’d rather remained a mystery …
‘And here we are!’ announces Lucy, producing my outfit with a theatrical flourish. ‘I call it “Big Breakfast at Tiffany’s”. What do you think?’
I stare dumbfounded at the contents of the hanger.
And carry on staring …
My face must seriously look like it belongs to Elastigirl; it’s pulling in so many different directions at once as I try to work out what’s actually going on there.
She has to be joking.
It’s a ‘big breakfast’, all right, although the only nod to Audrey Hepburn’s elegant attire in the movie is a black T-shirt dress that looks at least three sizes too small for me. Surely she doesn’t expect me to—
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ says Lucy, clocking my doubtful expression. ‘There’s such an enormous amount of “give” in this fabric. Look. It’s quite extraordinary.’ She stretches the garment out to really ludicrous proportions, so that even a portly walrus could be shoehorned into it at a pinch.
I shoot her a suspicious glance.
But she just smiles and murmurs, ‘D’you know, Twilight, I think it’s going to look fabulous on you.’
That’s when she turns it around and I realise I was looking at the back view. The front is something else altogether … and are they my shoes?
‘Come on, off with the clothes!’ Lucy urges me, with a glance at her watch. ‘Don’t be shy, we’re all girls together here.’
There appears to be a lull in conversation. And when I look up, everyone – without exception – is turned towards me, watching, as if I’m the hired stripper for the evening or something. There’s nothing else for it. Breathing in for all I’m worth, I start undressing. The zip sticks on my trousers and as I’m frantically trying to make it go down without breaking it, I can sense Lucy giving my figure the once-over.
‘Mm, the trousers are a little – um – snug,’ she comments, far too loudly. ‘I can let them out for you, if you like. I’m a whiz with a needle and thread.’
I smile at her through gritted teeth. ‘It’s all right, thanks.’
She frowns at my bottom but thank heavens, at that moment the zip unfurls and I’m free.
Finally, after lots of wriggling and twisting and panting and straightening of fabric, I’m standing there, catwalk-ready, staring at myself in the full-length mirror.
This is Lucy’s version of ‘fabulous’?
The dress might have looked okay with some armour-plated underwear and a pair of skyscraper heels. But with my legs in yolk-yellow tights disappearing into over-sized tomato-red trainers, and three fabric bacon rashers appliquéd onto the front of the dress, along with two enormous, strategically placed fried eggs, I’m clearly the comic turn of the evening.
Paloma takes one look and guffaws so loudly, I worry for her vocal cords.
No one could blame her. I look like a mobile hangover cure.
I nod urgently at the kitchen door, through which Lucy just vanished, looking for Olivia. ‘She designed this specially for me,’ I hiss. ‘I know she did.’
Paloma grins, shaking her head. ‘You’re just being paranoid.’
‘I am not! She wants to make me a laughing stock.’
‘Honestly, you’re imagining it.’
‘Oh, so you really think it’s a coincidence that you get the gorgeous diva outfit and I get the greasy fry-up?’
Paloma snorts with laughter, tears in her eyes. But she nods. ‘I do. You were the last to be kitted out, so you got the ‘witty’ costume. It was just bad luck, that’s all. Nothing personal.’
‘Hm.’ I actually feel quite shaky and, to my horror, on the verge of tears.
‘It’s true. Honestly,’ insists Paloma gently, seeing my face. ‘If I’d been last, I’d have been lumbered with the “transport caff extravaganza”. Honestly, I wouldn’t worry. You can really camp it up on the catwalk in a get-up like that!’
I attempt a smile. She’s right. Of course, she’s right. It’s all just a bit of fun. I’m daft for taking it so personally.
Lucy bursts back into the room. ‘Don’t forget the hat!’ she calls gaily.
And marching over, she slaps a giant baguette on my head.
*****
‘It was really nice of Lucy to let you borrow those recipes of her grandma’s.’
‘Hm?’ I murmur distractedly. We’re walking back from the pub and I’m only vaguely aware Paloma just said something.
‘What are you doing, Twi?’
I glance up sheepishly from Lucy’s grandma’s recipe book. ‘I’m – er – examining the ingredients for anything suspicious.’
Paloma grins. ‘What, like: Victoria sponge cake. Butter, sugar,