Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Your attire should always suit the event for which it’s worn. Plan as far in advance as possible!

Matilda Beam’sGuide to Love and Romance, 1955

Summer’s been dead weird ever since we got out of the meeting with Valentina. I asked her why she didn’t let me say my bit of the pitch, and she told me it was down to an attack of the nerves, although she didn’t look nervous at all to me. Then she was quiet and evasive for the entire Tube journey to Carnaby Street. I don’t know. Maybe she’s processing everything. The whole meeting was pretty intense, to be fair.

She doesn’t even balk when I pull her into Primark, a place she usually swears brings her out in a polyester rash.

I pick a nice bright pair of pink feather earrings off a stand.

‘What do you think?’ I ask Summer.

‘I can’t even begin to explain how much they offend me.’

I inspect them. What’s wrong with them? How can a pair of pink feathery earrings offend a person? Fashion is even more confusing to me than trying to eat spaghetti bolognese without getting sauce on my chest. Bugger it. I like the earrings. I plonk them in my basket and carry on through the store, Summer trailing behind sullenly.

‘Ooh, look!’ I say. ‘Onesies are three for two!’

I love onesies so much. What could be more comfortable than an adult Babygro! When I’m properly hung-over, the only thing that will cure me is sprawling across the sofa with an 80s film and two cans of icy-cold Fanta, all bundled up in a onesie.

I pick up a hooded cow-print one, a leopard-print one with a neon-pink zip, and a plain yellow one, excitedly adding them to the basket.

We pay for my stuff in Primark and continue walking towards Carnaby Street and a fancy boutique Summer wants to go to. I glance over at her.

‘Are you OK, Sum?’

She shrugs prettily.

I put my arm round her. ‘You did a really fucking excellent job in there, you know. I was really proud of you.’

She pauses mid-walk and gives me her look.

‘Yeah, I’m not sure Valentina got me. Then again … I didn’t exactly have a chance to impress her, with you prattling on about all that digital technological stuff the whole time. What was that? We didn’t agree to talk about that. It wasn’t in the notes you wrote.’

‘Oh, Sum, what else was I supposed to do? She asked me a blummin’ question. I totally had to wing it.’

‘Right. Well, thank God for clever old Jess!’ she says with an odd smile before walking ahead of me into the fancy shop.

* * *

It’s after six and we’re back at the hotel getting ready for the Davis Arthur Montblanc party. Summer has perked up a bit: the shop assistant at the boutique – a huge Anderson Warner fan – recognized her, something that hasn’t happened for a while, and gave her a discount on the long black velvet dress she bought.

‘How does it look?’ she says now, posing by the hotel bed, hand on hip, one foot crossed over the other red-carpet style.

‘Beautiful. You look really beautiful,’ I say. She does. She’s a five eight-size eight with legs like a baby giraffe and Jennifer Aniston-level toned arms. Her brunette to caramel dip-dyed hair is thick and wavy over her angular shoulders, her big brown eyes are enhanced by perfectly applied bronze shadow and she’s painted her lips a very dark, very chic blood red. The necklace she’s wearing does have a dismembered Barbie’s head on it, though. But it’s from a really exclusive shop, so even though I’m not keen, it’s almost certainly a very cool fashiony choice which everyone will be impressed with.

‘What about my arse?’ She turns around to show me her bum.

‘It looks wonderful.’

‘Better than Carol Vorderman’s?’ She frowns, twisting her head round so she can see her bum in the full-length mirror. Carol Vorderman is Summer’s arch nemesis: the woman who stole 2011’s Rear of the Year award from under her nose and didn’t even have the grace to respond when Summer sent her a tweet that said: ‘Congrats hun, the best woman won :D <3 #rearoftheyear #noregrets.’

‘Way better than Carol Vorderman,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Vorderman’s arse is a … a sack of porridge compared to yours.’

‘OK, good,’ she mumbles, grabbing her iPhone and taking a series of selfies in the mirror, which she proceeds to post immediately to Twitter and Instagram and Facebook.

I ended up finding something in the posh boutique too. It’s a pale grey silk jumpsuit with tiny little metal studs dotted round the halter-neck. It’s a bit smarter than I’d usually wear, but the store assistant insisted that I couldn’t go to a fancy book launch in H&M, and the jumpsuit was on sale so it didn’t completely ransack my overdraft. Well, maybe a tiny bit, but a book deal means money, therefore the jumpsuit is really just an investment in my career. As are the metallic purple high heels I bought to go with it.

I plug my iPhone into the hotel-room speakers, crank up a bit of Britpop and throw some shapes. Summer pours two glasses of Merlot from the minibar and we sit side by side, companionably finishing off our make-up. As Summer rustles around in her tote in search of her favourite mascara, an envelope falls out of the bag and onto the carpet. It’s thick and seashell-coloured, with Summer’s name written on it in gold-embossed script. A wedding invitation.

‘Ooh, who’s getting mawwied?’ I lean over to get a better look. Summer snatches the envelope up and holds it to her chest.

‘Oh, no one you know,’ she says nonchalantly.

‘Sum, we know all the same people.’

‘Um …’ She starts to shove the envelope back into her bag.

A secret wedding!

‘Oi! What the bloody hell are you hiding?’ I rugby-tackle her and grab the envelope from her manicured hands. ‘Let me see it!’

‘Jess, you freak! You’ll mess up my hair. Give me that back.’

I chuckle and open the envelope. ‘Now, now, let me see, who is Summer’s new friend? Summer’s special secret wedding friend!’

I pull out the creamy invitation and unfold the stiff paper. It’s an invite for Amy Keyplass’s wedding to Mark Chunder. Old friends of ours from uni.

‘Oh, it’s just Amy and Mark. Should be a good knees-up. Why wouldn’t you show me this? Is there an RSVP date?’ I scan the text. ‘Remind me to find my invite when we get back − must be somewhere in the post pile. Actually, have you got a pen? I’ll write it on my hand. RSVP Amy and Mark.’

‘You haven’t got one.’ Summer coughs.

‘Huh?’

‘An invitation. You haven’t got an invitation. You’re kind of not invited to the wedding.’

‘Oh … just the reception bit then?’

‘Yeeeaaah … no. You’re not invited to any of it.’

‘Just like Amy, forgetting. She’d forget her own head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ I roll my eyes. ‘They must be dead busy with all the planning. I’ll give her a ring over the weekend!’

Summer puts down her mascara and sighs. ‘You’re not getting it, petal. Amy hasn’t forgotten. They … just don’t want you there.’

I frown, confused. ‘Whaaat? Why on earth wouldn’t they want me there? I’m the life of the party. A wedding isn’t a proper wedding until I’ve cha-cha slid solo on the dance floor. Everyone knows that. Amy and me are top mates! I introduced her to Mark!’

‘You got her arrested, Jess.’

‘Er, that was a year ago. And it’s not like I lifted her top up and flashed her boobs at the cast of Corrie on their Christmas meal out. She did that all by herself. Tyrone loved it, but Rita had to go and call the police, didn’t she? Typical fucking Rita.’

‘You provided the tequila and double-dared Amy to do it. Mark thinks you’re a bad influence.’

‘Mark Chunder’s a ginormous dork. Just because I haven’t got a stick lodged up my bum like he has. Jeez. Amy was such a good giggle at uni.’ I sigh nostalgically at the lovely fun times Amy and I once had.

Summer shakes her head delicately. ‘We’re not at university any more, though, Jess. They’re, like, getting married. They’re renovating a town house in Surrey. You know − growing up, committing, being responsible. You might want to try it sometime.’

I feel the familiar uncomfortable itch spread across my body. Renovating a town house in Surrey?Gross.

I think of Amy and what fun she was back in the day. Totally mental and giggly and up for anything. And now she’s just like the rest of them. It’s like The Walking Dead, but instead of a zombie apocalypse, it’s a boring person apocalypse. Everybody’s changing.

‘Yeah, well,’ I say breezily, feeling an odd lurch in my stomach, ‘weddings suck anyway. I’m glad I’m not invited. It’ll probably be full of shithead couply couples talking about babies and stamp duty and the garden centre. Chuh. Pledging to spend your entire life with one boring person for ever and ever? It’s so daft, when you think about it. You never know what’s going to happen. How do you know that you won’t get fed up of them? That they won’t leave you? That you won’t get shafted? It’s absurd.’

Summer rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. ‘It’s not absurd, Jess. Most people don’t get “shafted” by falling in love. Most people don’t … well, they don’t end up like your mum.’

I tut. Summer reckons that every bloody thing I think or do has some woo-woo subconscious connection to my mum. Which is blatantly daft and annoying, not to mention downright untrue. I wouldn’t mind, but the extent of Summer’s psychological knowledge is that she once saw Dr Linda Papadopoulos off This Morning in M&S Food.

I swallow, and it feels like there’s an annoying little splinter stuck in my throat. ‘Pass us my wine, will you, Sum. What time is it? We should probably get a move on. We can’t be late for Davis Arthur Montblanc! Ooh, wonder if they’ll have a posh buffet on … ’

* * *

I spend ages restraightening my hair extensions before backcombing extensively at the top and pulling it all into a tight, high ponytail. Then I attach two pairs of fake eyelashes and do some glittery gold eyeliner so that my eyes stand out behind my specs.

In the bathroom, I change into my new silky jumpsuit, feeling a little flutter of pleasure as the cold, smooth material skims its way across my body. I’m quite short at five foot three, but it makes me look at least an inch taller. I spin round in the mirror. All the running and partying I’ve been doing recently has eradicated the little beer belly I’ve been carrying around for the past few years. I look pretty good, actually − I think the word is lithe. And I reckon jumpsuits suit me! Maybe when I move to some exotic country I’ll buy more silk jumpsuits in all different colours. Summer is always going on about ‘signature looks’. Could jumpsuits be my signature look? Jumpsuit Jess? ‘Here comes Jumpsuit Jess,’ people would say. ‘Now the party can really start.’

‘Ta-da!’ I sing as I leave the bathroom. ‘I’m blummin’ uncomfortable because my thong keeps riding up my arse, but … ’ I twirl round and do jazz hands in the mirror.

‘Oh! You look different. Yay!’ Summer scoops the wine glasses up from the bedside table. ‘Super awesome. Let’s finish this wine − we need to get going.’ She strides forward on her high heels and holds one glass-carrying hand out to me. I reach to take it from her when somehow, suddenly, the wine glass is out of her hands −

‘Fuuuuck!’

And its contents are on my brand-new jumpsuit.

Shit! Did Summer trip up? No. She’s perfectly upright. How did … ?

‘Oh dear!’ Summer says, carefully putting down the other wine glass on the coffee table and grabbing a facial wipe from her make-up bag. ‘I’m such a klutz!’

‘What are you talking about? You’re the least klutzy person on earth. What the heck?’

‘I think there was something on the carpet. I totally stumbled over something. Sorreeeee!’

Summer dabs frantically at the wine now dripping off my arm and spreading into a violent-looking stain across my silk-covered abdomen. I look like an extra in a prom-based horror movie.

‘Oh dear.’ Summer repeats. ‘It’s not coming out. Red wine just does not come out. Soooo annoying.’

Shit!

I jog to the bathroom, strip off the jumpsuit and run it under the tap, rubbing furiously at the fabric with a towel. Nothing happens. The stain sits there stubbornly.

‘I need to call the taxi now!’ Summer informs me worriedly. ‘You’re going to have to put something else on quickly or we’ll be late. I’m really sorry, sweetpea.’

I feel a lurch in my stomach. I don’t know why I’m even bothered about it. It’s just clothes, after all.

I pick up today’s floral 90s dress from the corner of the bedroom where I flung it earlier. This will have to do.

‘You can’t wear that again!’ Summer barks, tapping the cab number into her mobile. ‘Valentina already saw it!’

‘She seemed to like it before.’ I yank it over my head. ‘It’ll be all right.’

Summer stalks over and tugs on it with a grimace. ‘It smells a bit, J.’

I give it a sniff. She’s right. The Febreze has worn off and the original damp mothbally smell is now evident. It stinks.

‘But I have nothing else!’

Summer frowns and squints her eyes like she’s thinking really hard. I don’t know what genius plan she thinks she’s going to come up with. The only other choice of outfit I have is—

‘Onesie!’ Summer breathes as if it’s the most obvious idea ever to generate in a brain. ‘You could wear one of your new onesies.’

‘A onesie?’ I screw my face up. I know bugger all about clothes, and I do love onesies, obviously, but I’m pretty sure that they’re not suitable garb for posh literary bashes. ‘Nah. I don’t think so, Summer … ’

‘Just hear me out!’ she urges. ‘It’ll be so cool. A onesie is kind of like a jumpsuit when you really think about it. You can roll up the legs and still wear your new high heels. With all your hair and make-up, so … glam, it’ll look super fresh. Totally.’

Hmmm. I suppose they are really nice onesies … and really very comfortable …

‘Ooh, ooh,’ Summer continues, opening the Primark bag by my bed. ‘You could wear those new spangly pink feather earrings too!’

‘You didn’t like those when we were in the shop.’

‘I do like them! I was just pissed off that you saw them first. Trust me – you’ll look amazing.’

The front desk calls to let us know that our cab is here. Crap.

‘Erm … ’

I guess I did see someone from Geordie Shore wearing a onesie at a product launch in Manchester, and I do love that show. But that was a lad. Would it work on a woman?

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Summer says, hurt pooling in her large brown eyes. ‘After everything we’ve been through? Look, maybe you should just stay here while I go … I don’t mind.’

Hmm. Summer does know everything about fashion. And she is my best friend. She wouldn’t make me look stupid.

‘Course I trust you, you big geek,’ I say, pulling the furry leopard-skin onesie with the neon-pink zip out of the carrier bag. ‘Summer and Jess take on the world, right?’

Summer grins in recognition of our university motto. ‘Oh, totes.’