Page 38 of The Happiness Project

‘He said yes!’ yells Charlie, holding out Peter’s hand towards me, where there is a slender gold band.

We leap up and kiss them both, ordering a bottle of prosecco because they don’t have champagne. There isn’t time to hear more about the proposal because the opening chords have started. Our little group heads to the front to encourage the dancing to start and sure enough, the rest of the audience starts to sway along.

They play their eighties classics, everything from soft rock to cheesy pop, and the rugby club quickly gets into the spirit, cheering each intro as soon as they recognise it. The Granny-Okies give it all they have and are called back for an encore when the set is finished. When I hear what they’re about to do, I realise Patty was prepared for this. It’s the song she started strutting to after the audition, ‘Hot Stuff’ by Donna Summer. They’ve changed their costumes — they’re in miniskirts with very low-cut V-neck T-shirts in blue, pink and yellow. Patty strides across the stage, flirting with any men in the front row, shaking her cleavage at them, singing the chorus and telling them that she needs some loving tonight. She attempts a very clumsy slut-drop, revealing flesh-coloured surgical stockings and bloomers and getting a few wolf whistles.

Then Sheila flumps onto a chair at the back of the stage and starts waving a hand in front of her face. Kath and Patty go over to her and when they turn round, they’ve all got fake sweat stains under their armpits and breasts which the coloured T-shirts show up to great effect and their faces are bright red. It sounds disgusting but the effect is hilarious — even more so as they pick up oversized lace fans from the side of the stage and change the words to ‘hot flush’.

‘Can’t remember why I went upstairs, baby,

Thinking I might need HRT . . .’

They’re fanning themselves and it’s so perfectly choreographed it turns into the most unerotic burlesque dance I’ve ever seen. By the end of the number the audience has turned from being men on the front row to a crowd of middle-aged women belting out the new lyrics. ‘I’ve had a hot flush!’ they’re yelling at the top of their voices. The cacophony must sound riotous outside the building and as the number ends, I spot a couple of younger guys standing on the edge of the cheering crowd sneering. They don’t look like typical patrons but by this time, no one is checking tickets. One finishes his bottle of beer and I can absolutely tell he’s going to throw it at the stage. He raises it behind his shoulder and I move quicker than I have ever done in my life. Before he’s fully pulled back I’m in front of him and grabbing at it. He looks down at me in astonishment and tries to push me off, but by now a couple of staff have spotted him and they wrestle him and his group out of the door.

From the stage, Patty makes a heart sign with her hands and tells the audience that she has one more song and it’s just for me. She calls me up on stage and puts her arm around me.

‘Because you’re the one I’d like to be a Golden Girl with,’ she says before singing the title track, ‘Thank You for Being a Friend’.

I lean my head into her and look out at my friends smiling along with us. Turns out I did spend Valentine’s with the people I love.

Chapter Twenty: All Dressed Up

‘You were incredibly brave at the gig, he was twice your size,’ Patty says to me as we stroll arm in arm towards the pub come the weekend.

‘Small but mighty,’ I say in a low, gruff voice, holding my free arm out in a bodybuilding pose.

A group of joggers in glow-in-the-dark vests run past us clutching little water bottles. We move aside to let them pass — in my case, it’s as much about not wanting to be covered in the sweat that’s dripping from them as it is about politeness. It’s a bright, brisk day, definitely one to be out in the fresh air but wrapped up and cosy rather than torturing yourself in Lycra.

‘I don’t think they’re New Year’s resolution runners, do you?’ Patty asks me.

‘No, they look as if they’ve been at it for quite some time. And I’m sure they’re all very healthy, but from their faces they never really look as if they’re enjoying themselves, do they?’

‘Runner’s face . . .’ Patty pulls a pained grimace. ‘Wine drinker’s face . . .’ She relaxes into an expression of bliss and sighs.

‘You see, they’ve got it wrong — a little of what you fancy, that’s the key to a youthful countenance,’ she concludes.

‘I’ve never known you to stop at a little.’ I smile and hug her arm a little tighter.

The walk through Chorlton takes us down Beech Road, which is filled with trendy shops and cafés catering to a cosmopolitan crowd. Yummy-mummies with off-road baby buggies and middle-agers with empty-nest-filling puppies sit side by side eating avocado on sourdough and flat whites. The vibe is friendly and the street has a buzz that I love. Chorltonites know they’ve become a bit of a cliché but embrace it anyway. It’s a great place to live — only a short tram ride to Manchester city centre yet just by the canal, so with a short walk you could almost feel as if you’re in the country.

Patty stops at an independent clothes store and looks at the dress in the window. It’s a deep-red shirt dress with a kind of abstract floral pattern so that it doesn’t look like a nan dress or as if you’re wearing a florist’s window.

‘Do you think I could get away with that?’ asks Patty.

My best friend is a tall blonde who was probably a shield maiden leading Viking raids in a previous life. People notice Patty when she walks into a room; wearing this, their eyes would be on stalks.

‘I think you’d look stunning,’ I say.

‘Not too young for me?’ she asks.

I check my watch and tell her that we have time to go and try it on; we have a big day ahead of us but nothing to stop us clothes shopping.

The assistant looks over and says hello as we walk in and trigger the little door bell. It’s a small space but very busy with customers browsing the clothes rails. It’s nothing like a department store with identikit ranges — the shop owner has each piece in a couple of sizes but the range is broad and eclectic. At first glance it looks a fairly random selection but as you browse you can see a capsule wardrobe in the making. It all works together without looking manufactured. Patty asks to try on the red dress and takes it into a changing room which has been formed behind an old-fashioned wardrobe door.

‘That looks very Narnia,’ I say to the assistant, who thanks me and tells me it was one of her favourite books and the reason for the shop name — Pevensie. I nod but haven’t a clue what that reference means.

‘You walk into the wardrobe a normal person and come out a magical creature,’ she adds, smiling.

And indeed my best friend does.

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