be quite a luxury to never get caught short. Anyway, I was thinking more about you.’
‘Why?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘I hope you’re not weakening.’
‘Oh, Lulu, he’s been so apologetic. He says he sent flowers, but they got returned because I’m up here.’
‘Give the man a round of applause, he sent some hypothetical carnations. He also dumped you repeatedly, using colons.’
‘I know, I know,’ she says, making an expedient bathroom exit.
She promises me her resolve is still firm and I have little choice but to believe her. Besides, I’m too tired for a full-scale counter-brainwashing operation. Night shoots provide a peculiar kind of jet lag, and I fall into a welcome coma as soon as my head hits the pillow. I return to set at six, only to find the schedule’s been shuffled to accommodate Charles’s unexpected illness.
‘Pansy flu,’ mutters Tarquin as he rehearses Emily for a scene in which she sobs pensively and prettily on a moonlit bench. Her face lights up when I bustle over to rearrange her ridiculously low-cut serving wench outfit. I swear she’s turned it down over her bountiful breasts in order to give the nation’s red-blooded men more of an eyeful. Little does she know that period drama is almost exclusively watched by sixty-plus women in pince-nez, none of whom will be in the least impressed by a pair of knockers that look like warring puppies in a playpen.
‘Hope Charlie’s going to be well enough for his own party!’ she says.
‘Oh,’ I say flatly. ‘The party.’
‘You have been invited, yeah?’ asks Emily keenly, displaying that sly perceptiveness that always catches me out.
‘Yes, I know about it,’ I tell her, which isn’t quite the same thing. How come he’s texted her and not texted me? And is he really ill, or simply lying low?
‘I thought you must’ve been, what with you being such good friends and everything. We could do with a bit of a piss-up, all in all.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be a riot!’ I tell her brightly, trying to yank some extra fabric over the mammary mountain.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we get ready together?’ she suggests. ‘I could get some fizz in and you can help me pick my best outfit, and –’
I cut short this vision of Friday-night perfection.
‘That sounds brilliant, Emily, but my twin sister’s staying…’
‘Double bubble – I’ll come to you. I love it when you get twins, it’s so mad and weird.’
Great, I can provide a freak show for my most treasured friend in all the world. I try to slip away prior to the eight takes of weeping, but Tarquin’s having a needy moment. ‘Want my dress lady,’ he says in a baby voice, grabbing my hand. I don’t know who he’s channelling today, but it’s strangely chilling. When they’re setting up the next shot he invites me back to his caravan, lighting up a tiny, pretentious cigar en route. Soon we’re ensconced, with me subtly trying to diffuse the noxious smoke that’s filling the tiny metal box.
‘What’s up, Lulu?’ he says, gyrating his shoulders in a curious fashion. ‘What gives?’
‘Um, what gives? Well, I don’t know, Tarquin, I’m just throwing all my firepower at the ball, and hoping that I’m going to deliver you the kind of spectacle you’re craving.’
Why am I talking like it’s the 1940s and English is my second language? I find him so utterly unpredictable that it’s impossible to relax.
‘Now that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘The ball?’
‘The ball indeed. I’ve had a bit of a change of heart, slight handbrake turn in my directorial vision.’ I look at him, stony-faced, and he gives a fake laugh. ‘We’re all allowed to take the road less travelled once in a while. Having Damien’s input has made me take stock.’
‘And what’s occurred to you, Tarquin?’
‘The ball’s small, let’s kick ass with the wedding!’ He’s drumming on the Formica table with a pencil, speaking in a strange rap. ‘It’s gotta be the climax, Percy’s got his dame, he’s standing up for what he believes in. Love’s all that matters, Lulu, whatever the cost. That’s the point!’
I stare at him, emotional and practical reactions fighting for supremacy. Is he right, for once in his pointless little life? Is love all that matters? And even if it is, how am I going to claw back all the money I’ve spent on ball gowns and redirect it into the kind of elegant and restrained ensembles that a lavish wedding demands? Tarquin’s dismissive of the latter, and I choose