Page 14 of The Love Hack

Evidently, there was a theme. What exactly, I couldn’t put my finger on – angels, maybe, or unicorns, or sparkles, or perhaps just pink. Whichever it was, the girls were attired in thigh-high slinky dresses, cerise glitter trainers, fluttery white feather boas, and tops so skimpy they looked like they’d nicked a hanky from somewhere and stuck it over their chests with a couple of bits of sellotape going round the back.

I hadn’t got the memo – literally. Once the WhatApp chat had started to escalate, I’d muted the group, only checking in once a week or so to ask if there was anything I could do, other than hosting the before-party, and I’d been assured it was all under control. So I was wearing black jeans, purple Docs and a baggy charcoal vest top with the Metallica logo on the front.

Actually, thinking about it, it was me who looked like an alien, foreign and abandoned on their shiny pink planet. Even Astro had taken disgruntled refuge in his favourite shelf in my wardrobe, where his furry form was half-buried by jumpers. Amelie was doing her best to look out for me, but it was her night, and understandably she could only give me regular ‘Are you okay?’ glances, or comforting squeezes on the shoulder, before flitting back to her friends.

Determined to conceal – or ideally drown – my awkwardness, I poured yet another glass of fizz and set to work ferrying empties to the recycling, wiping up spills and crumpling empty crisp packets.

‘Is it time to go?’ the tall redhead asked, checking her reflection in her phone’s camera and topping up her lip gloss.

‘Our table’s booked for seven thirty at the restaurant,’ said a twin.

‘And then ten at the club,’ said one of the blondes.

‘We’re getting an Uber, right?’ asked another. ‘There’s no way I’ll make it further than down the stairs in these shoes.’

‘But Lucy’s not ready yet,’ Rosa pointed out.

‘Yes, babe, you’d better get changed,’ urged Eve.

All at once, a dozen pairs of eyes had turned on me like searchlights.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ I muttered. ‘I was going like this. I haven’t got anything pink.’

‘Don’t be mad!’ protested one of the twins. ‘You need to be in the theme!’

‘Hasn’t someone got something Lucy can wear?’ demanded her sister.

‘Come on,’ Nush grabbed my elbow firmly, her other hand clutching a squashy silver leather backpack. ‘I brought a spare outfit. I always spill food on myself and end up looking like I’d been in a fight with it. But you can borrow this. I’ll just have to tuck a napkin into my top, won’t I, Amelie?’

As she frogmarched me into my bedroom, I heard my sister say, ‘Only if you want to, Luce. You must wear whatever you’re comfortable in.’

But it was too late. The door had closed behind us, and Nush had produced a sparkly silver garment from her bag. It looked about big enough to fit Astro.

‘It’s stretchy,’ she encouraged. ‘And besides, you’re way smaller than me. I’d kill for your figure. Come on.’

Reluctantly, I perched on the bed and unlaced my boots, then pulled off my jeans and top and stood there in my underwear and socks, resisting the urge to cover my boobs with a forearm like some swooning Regency virgin.

‘I’m afraid it’s a bit of a braless wonder,’ Nush said, shaking the dress at me like a matador goading a bull. ‘I mean, you could wear a bra if you want, but it’d show. And you really don’t need to, you’re…’

‘Flat as an ironing board?’ I joked, trying unsuccessfully to conceal my awkwardness.

She tsked and shook her head. ‘Lovely and perky, you lucky thing. Try it. I won’t look.’

She turned away, as if this was a game of hide and seek and she was counting to a hundred. I unclipped my bra and frantically tried to figure out the dress, putting my head through first one armhole and then the other before I finally got it right. I pulled it down as far as I could, but it still barely covered my bottom. It was lurex, mercifully lined at the front, but with the back made up of little more than a series of criss-cross straps. There was no mirror in my bedroom, so I couldn’t see the full effect, but Nush looked delighted when she turned around.

‘Oh my God! It’s like it was made for you. Fabulous.’

‘What shoes will I wear, though?’

‘Your DMs are perfect. Pure rock chick. Come on, stick them on and we’ll get Miranda to do your eyes. She’s a genius with make-up.’

Seconds later, I was perched on a stool in my kitchen, Miranda (who turned out to be the Asian girl) fluttering over my face with brushes and sponges while someone else opened another bottle and everyone exclaimed over how amazing I looked in Nush’s dress.

‘You’ll want to do your own mascara,’ Miranda said after a bit. ‘I’m so cack-handed I’d probably poke your eye out.’

She held up a compact mirror in one hand and proffered a mascara wand with the other and, as if mesmerised, I slid the brush over my eyelashes, trying not to blink before it dried, my glasses clutched in my lap. Miranda wafted her hands in front of my face a few times, then said, ‘You’re all good. My work here is done.’

I slipped my glasses on again and the room came back into focus, but Miranda had already snapped her mirror closed, Amelie was putting the last half-drunk bottles of fizz back in my fridge, and everyone was shrugging into tiny cropped coats, oversized biker jackets and one long swishy trench coat, and heading for the bathroom or the front door.

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