Page 47 of The Happiness Project

It’s very dark in there. I can hear the three of them shuffling in the corner but can’t quite make out what they’re doing. There’s a chair not far from the door and Patty tells me to sit down then close the door. I do as I’m told, plunging the room into further darkness as the only shard of light disappears.

‘Are you ready?’ Patty calls out.

My eyes are adjusting to the light and I can tell that they’re all wearing something long and shiny. If it weren’t for the giggling I would suspect a satanic ritual were about to take place with me being the victim. As it is, I’m merely being experimented on in the name of entertainment.

Suddenly, the opening chords of an eighties classic starts up and then that famous thrash of the cymbals and drums — dah, dah-dah-dah. It’s ‘Eye of the Tiger’ and I can’t wait to see what they do to this.

A single light bulb goes on and I’m puzzled as Patty has strip lights in here usually. I realise she’s rigged up the single work light that her hubby used to use to work on the car and thrown the cable over the garage beams so it hangs just above her head.

Sheila and Kath appear from the corner: the shiny outfits are boxing robes and underneath they’re wearing silk boxing shorts and vests. They even have the little boxing boots on in matching colours. As the intro plays through, they pretend to skip and spar with each other, then the vocals begin and they stop fighting to sing the verse, but as the chorus begins Patty emerges from the darkness.

Oh my word, what is she wearing? Yes, the robe, the shorts and the boots, but she appears to be topless and then she reaches the light and I see it’s an inflatable fancy-dress bodysuit that looks like a muscled six pack. It’s very disconcerting to see my friend looking half naked and with a man’s upper torso. I reach out to touch it but Patty flicks my hands away then licks her finger and sizzles it down her fake chest.

A boxing match ensues with Patty defeating first of all Sheila and then Kath, all while not missing a beat of the song. As it fades and she’s doing her victory lap, the girls get up and pull the stoppers on Patty’s outfit, making it deflate.

I stand and give a round of applause when it’s over.

‘Did it work?’ asks Patty, breathless.

‘If you lot can sustain all those little boxer skips every night then I think the audience will love it,’ I tell her. ‘Although it was very weird seeing you come on stage topless, even more so when you went all saggy.’

‘It was even more weird looking at myself. I have to say, you see all of these articles for women about being “beach ready” but at least we have the option of wearing a one-piece and covering up. Men have to have their torso exposed all the time and it’s not a comfortable thing to do — even when it’s fake. No wonder most of them opt for baggy T-shirts.’

‘Are you saying they have it harder than us?’ I ask.

‘Just reflecting that I’ve found another reason why I prefer being a woman.’

She then launches into Shania Twain’s ‘Man! I Feel Like a Woman!’ and the four of us conga dance to it all the way back to the wine bottle in the fridge.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Young at Heart

I spend a lot of time getting ready the following morning. Although I hate to admit that I am this shallow, I tossed and turned all night with terrified imaginings about today.

The audience were sitting at those little round tables they always have at award ceremonies. Everyone looked glamorous as they ate tiny portions of food and took tiny sips of wine from impossibly fine china and crystal. I’ve obviously been watching too much Bridgerton because they were all in Regency era dress with huge powdered wigs too. There’s a catwalk running down the centre of the tables and suddenly the emcee from Cabaret appears and calls out, ‘Mesdames and Messieurs, I give you la plus belle dame du monde.’

The curtains part and my mother glides out looking like a supermodel as the audience gasps then erupts into cheers and applause. She reaches the end and holds out her hand for me to join her; the Regency ladies turn to look as I stand. Their faces become masks of horror as I walk to my mother. I’m like Fantine after she has to sell all her hair. And yes, I know I’m mixing up my musicals here but what can I say? I watch a lot of them. Inspector Javert intervenes and decides it’s off to the gallows with me. His officers grab each arm and drag me along the catwalk as the audience yells, ‘Off with that hideous head!’

And worst of all, my mother joins in — so all in all, one might conclude that I’m fairly nervous about today.

* * *

‘You need to reframe this,’ Patty shouts through the bathroom door after I’ve told her for the fifteenth time that I’m nearly ready. She’ll know I’m lying as she’ll still be able to hear the bath water splashing around.

‘You need to be proud that you and your daughter have worked together to help your mother fulfil one of her biggest wishes.’

I hadn’t thought of it like that, and when I do, suddenly my dream changes and there’s no emcee leading my mother down the catwalk; instead it’s me and I’m getting a round of applause for the makeover as people ask me to organise the same for them. I really am shallow.

I take the facecloth off my face (one of the new cupcake ones that Patty bought me) and pull the plug out of the bath. I must look as steamed and plumped up as I’m going to and indeed, when I look at myself in the mirror, I’m nowhere near as bad as the Fantine of my nightmares. I open the door and Patty is standing there, arms folded.

‘I thought you might actually dissolve if you didn’t come out soon,’ she says. ‘Now, what are you wearing? We don’t have time for an existential wardrobe crisis too.’

‘Did you take lessons in tough love or did it just come naturally?’ I ask with a friendly jab.

I inform my friend that I have decided to act on her wise words and dress to ensure that my mother shines out. I call Zoe and ask if she knows what colour Mum will be wearing for the grand reveal and tell her that I’ll choose something that doesn’t clash or match. Zoe won’t give me any clues, so I run through the colours I have in the wardrobe and she eventually says I can wear the midnight-blue dress she chose with me on a shopping trip last year. I put it on and accessorise minimally then look at myself in the mirror. It’s smart but blends into the background, like something one of those hostesses at haute couture stores might wear, showcasing the new season to their high-end customers. And yes, I’ve only ever seen this in movies, so once again my references have no real-life substantiation.

I drive us to the event, which is luncheon rather than dinner. I get a little shiver of déjà vu walking into the events suite, which is set up with large round tables either side of a red-carpet catwalk. It’s almost identical to my dream. I sigh with relief as the first group of ladies walk in and they’re wearing jumpsuits and shift dresses with no sign of a powdered wig in sight.

‘We’re here, Mum,’ says Zoe as she hurries towards me. She shows us our spaces then rushes off to greet some guests and shake some hands.

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