for the fabric. I look at it slowly. Even in my alcohol-induced haze I can see that something isn’t right.
Inside the box is not an artfully structured black and silver mini-dress with matching headpiece, not the dress that would hopefully flatter my newly enlarged figure, not the dress that would make me feel ready to paint the town red. I reach into the box and lift out the small folded garment. I pull off the tag with the price and size on and discard it on the floor by my feet, letting the material unravel to reveal the full, horrific extent of my current problem.
It’s a one piece, nude catsuit with yellow police tape placed strategically across the groin and breast area, as seen in the ‘Telephone’ video. Holy crap. How on earth have I ended up with this? I mean, yes, I was somewhat tipsy when I ordered it, but even so? I stop and try to focus my spinning mind on my current predicament. Ok Lauren, just try it on, I think. Perhaps it’ll be like a giant Spanx suit.
I place my left foot into the left leg and pull. Shit. Double shit. I guess that weeks of eating junk food has had the obvious effect on my figure. Instead of gliding easily up my body, the costume is stuck around my knee, refusing to budge. I scrabble around on the floor for the tag to see exactly what size I bought; perhaps they sent the wrong size too? The numbers printed in clear black and white immediately put pay to that theory.
I spend what seems like the next half an hour wrestling and wriggling into the thick lycra and eventually after much sweat, manage to get it up around my neck. I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that every lump and bump is on display, every flaw, every roll can be seen by all and sundry. If it wasn’t for the fact I have on more make up than a troupe of clowns, I would cry.
I survey my options. One, don’t go. I can’t do that to Serena, she’d never forgive me. Two, go but in normal clothes. Again, she’d kill me. Three, pour myself another drink and try to pretend I look good in this ridiculous get-up. We have a plan.
I add the wig to complete the ensemble and the requisite yellow tape and head back to the fridge. There’s only one bottle left and I open it. I attempt to do some maths, I’m sure there were four bottles in here this morning? That can’t be right.
As I work my way through the comforting liquid, my mobile rings and when I answer it, I’m connected to Serena.
“Hi biatch, we’ll pick you up in five,” she yells.
I can hear the sounds of merriment coming from the car she’s obviously in. Someone is whooping in the background and I can hear the strains of music with the bass turned up.
“Ok. You promise me everyone else is in fancy dress, right?” I ask, making sure I’m not about to be humiliated on a number of fronts.
“Yep, even my mum is participating. She looks a little strange as schoolgirl Britney, but at least she’s made the effort!”
I disconnect the call and drain my glass. I really, really hope that the focus tonight will be on Serena and not on me. I don’t know how I’ll cope if everyone is asking me about what happened.
I’m interrupted from my train of thought by the sound of a loud car horn from outside. I open the door and am confronted by a pink Hummer limo at the bottom of my drive. Dear God.
I wrap my long black coat around me and hurry to the vehicle, keeping my head down in the event that someone with a camera is nearby. As I enter the vehicle I’m aware of camera flashes and am about to have a nervous breakdown when I realise that it’s Dianne, Serena’s sister taking photo’s of the group. I must admit they have all gone to town with their costumes.
Diana is in a red PVC catsuit with a wig not dissimilar to mine, Cassie is in a Union Jack mini-dress with ginger wig and Serena has managed to find a copy of Kylie’s infamous white one-piece. We must look absolutely insane. I’m not ready to show them my particular choice of iconic outfit yet though.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask. I have to shout pretty loud