She passed me her phone and I scrolled through a minimalist page that suggested the web designer had been briefed to make it look hyper exclusive, as opposed to including any actual information beyond some artfully photographed cocktail glasses and a neon sign on a bare brick wall that said, ‘Alcorithm’.
But there was no way I was going to let Dani see that I wasn’t convinced this was the best thing ever.
‘Of course I’ll come. It’ll be brilliant. But what the hell am I going to wear?’
I ran through my wardrobe in my head, thinking of my jeans, T-shirts and Converse, and regretting my resolution to buy no new clothes for a year in a one-woman bid to save the planet.
‘Whatever you find at your posh charity shops,’ Dani said. ‘Or, failing that, go to TK Maxx. You’ll look amazing whatever you wear, anyway. This is it, isn’t it? He must really like me!’
In my flat the next afternoon, I found myself wondering if Dani had developed a sudden case of adult-onset blindness. I looked as far from fabulous as it was possible to get. My hair had staged a protest and was standing out from my head in a shock of frizz. My legs were milk-bottle white and I had no fake tan to put on them, not that that would have helped, because I knew from experience that they responded to that by turning a violent shade of yellow, like your wee does after you’ve drunk a Berocca.
The dress I’d bought, a lilac satin slip with black lace edging, made me look like the heroine of a Victorian novel who was about to die of consumption and was – I could now see in the full-length mirror – totally the wrong length, hitting my legs at the widest part and making them look the shape of milk bottles, as well as the colour.
‘Shit, Frazz, why did I agree to this?’
My cat opened one eye and turned over, saying quite clearly that if I changed my mind about going out, that was absolutely fine with him.
But there was no way I could let Dani down. I slapped on some foundation that was meant to make my skin glowy and pearly, but was slightly the wrong shade and made me look like I needed a good wash. I tried to tame my hair with serum, but it refused to co-operate so I attacked it mercilessly with straighteners, knowing I’d pay the price in split ends.
I might as well give up, I decided. It didn’t particularly matter what I looked like – this was going to be Dani’s night. And I had no intention of pulling one of Fabian Flatley’s friends, no matter what the Stargazer app said about the location of Venus in my rising sign. I’d settle for being her corpse-like, frizzy-haired wingwoman, and make my excuses and leave as soon as I could see things were going okay with her and Fabian.
I looked longingly at my trusty Converse, lying next to the bed ready for me to slip my feet into them as I did practically every morning. ‘Come on,’ they seemed to be saying, ‘wear us! We could do with an exciting outing! We’ve barely left the postcode in months! And we’re so comfortable!’
But there was letting myself be outshone by Dani, and there was letting the side down entirely. Besides, I’d painted my toenails for the first time in ever so long, and I wasn’t going to let that annoying, tedious effort go to waste. I rummaged underneath my bed, which was where my shoes lived because the flat had no wardrobe, and pulled out my one and only pair of high heels. I’d last worn them when I was a bridesmaid at my friend Nadia’s wedding four years ago, before she’d moved to New Zealand with her husband. Four years is a long time, but the blisters were as fresh in my memory as if it was yesterday.
Too bad, I told my feet, deal with it. Strappy silver stilettos it is today. I forced on the shoes, put my phone, keys and lip balm in my little silver backpack (which I promised myself was actually quite retro cool and didn’t make me look like I was hopelessly unprepared to climb Ben Nevis), kissed Frazzle goodbye and headed out, resisting the temptation to stick my head round the door of the pub kitchen and face Robbie’s excoriating criticism of my outfit.
Dani was waiting for me outside the station, as we’d agreed. Any smidgeon of doubt I might have had that she wouldn’t outshine me as comprehensively as Mars outshines Pluto vanished as soon as I saw her. She was wearing a nude lace bodysuit that looked almost like she was wearing nothing at all, high-waisted satin combat trousers that showed off her tiny waist and incredible bum, and black heeled gladiator sandals that made my shoes look like something your nana would slip on to take the dog out. Her hair was as smooth and glossy as dark chocolate, flowing down her back like it had melted there. Her make-up was flawless and, apart from her extravagant lash extensions and coral lipstick, almost invisible.
‘Wow,’ I said, hugging her. ‘Knock-out.’
‘You too,’ she said kindly. ‘Love the dress! So cool! Unlike me, I’m sweating like a horse I’m so nervous.’
‘Don’t be. You look amazing, and we’ll walk really slowly so we don’t get too hot.’
As if, in those shoes, I had a choice.
We got on the train and sat in silence next to each other. Dani kept checking her phone, tapping from WhatsApp to her map, anxiously making sure she knew the way and even more anxiously looking for a message from Fabian. But I could tell from the expression on her face that there was none.
At last, we emerged from the roasting heat of the Tube at Charing Cross in the heart of London. Outside, it wasn’t much cooler – on this midsummer day, the sun was beating down on us like a blowtorch caramelising crème brûlée, and I could feel the heat of the pavement coming up through the thin soles of my sandals. Dani flapped her hands frantically in front of her face, and I assured her that her foundation hadn’t melted, her mascara hadn’t smudged and she didn’t have lipstick on her teeth.
‘Okay then,’ she said, and in spite of it being so hot, I was convinced I could hear her teeth chattering, ‘let’s go. It’s just off Trafalgar Square – we don’t have too far to walk.’
And she strode off, confident and agile in her high heels, while I teetered behind her on mine.
‘It’s just here, isn’t it?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Round the corner, I think, and down a side street.’
But we couldn’t find the side street, so we walked around some more, Dani’s eyes fixed to her phone as she got more and more stressed. Finally she muttered, ‘Shit! It’s supposed to be right here!’ before stopping outside an anonymous black-painted door with ‘AR’ on it in tiny orange letters, which we’d walked past about four times.
‘Do you think this is it?’
‘Must be. There’s literally nowhere else it could be, unless we’ve entered some kind of wrinkle in the fabric of the Matrix.’
I pushed open the door. Beyond it, we could hear the buzz of conversation, the hum of some kind of trance music and the clink of glasses. The air smelled of paint, the way new buildings do. At a little mirrored table by the door was sitting a beautiful blonde woman in a black dress, who looked us up and down with something close to contempt.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her tone so dismissive she might as well have said, ‘Can I be arsed to help such sorry specimens as you?’
‘We’re on the guest list for the launch,’ Dani said. ‘Danielle Fletcher and Zoë Meredith.’