of all, my plaid, flannel pyjamas. There’s one semi-glitzy top with sequins from H&M, that I had thought I’d pair with my jeans if we went out to dinner, but I wasn’t expecting Michelin stars. I had figured we’d eat at small local places without a dress code.
‘I don’t know what to wear,’ I say to Kate, feeling frustrated and shoving my H&M top back in my bag. I wish she’d warned me she’d booked a posh restaurant.
‘Do you want to borrow something?’ she asks and before I can respond she’s out the door, shouting over her shoulder for me to follow her.
Her room is no longer an oasis of white but looks like it’s been ransacked by a particularly desperate thief. Clothes and shoes are strewn everywhere. It was the same when we lived together. It used to drive me crazy how she’d leave shoes, coats, bags, dirty plates and mugs lying about the place, as though she had grown up in a stately home and was used to servants clearing up after her, when in fact she had grown up on a North London housing estate.
When we clashed over it, Kate would explain that life was too short to spend time worrying about a bit of mess and would convince me it would be a better idea to go to the pub or out shopping. Eventually my own OCD would win out and I’d have to set about cleaning the place, and Kate, seeing me on my hands and knees scrubbing at the tiles in the bathroom, would grudgingly always join me, albeit grumbling. When she got a promotion and started to earn more, the first thing she did was pay for a cleaner once a week.
Now I watch Kate hastily shove a few things back in her suitcase and slam the lid down, before picking up a dress from the floor and offering it to me. It’s a jacquard blue silk mini-dress and though I love it, I have zero doubt if I tried to get it on over my hips it would get stuck and a comedy skit would unfold of me trying to wriggle out of it like a grub forcing its way out of a cocoon. Kate sees my expression and tosses the dress back on the ground before picking up a maxi-length embroidered dress with a low-cut neckline.
‘Here,’ she says, holding it against my body, ‘try this.’
I take it into the bathroom and shut the door, not wanting to strip in front of her. The dress, by a designer I actually recognise, slides on and much to my surprise looks quite good, though because of the spaghetti straps I have to take off my bra. I assume that will do me no favours, but luckily the empire line of the dress pushes my boobs upwards as effectively as an underwired bra. I have never worn a maxi dress but contemplating my reflection, I start to wonder if I need to rethink my style now I’ve hit forty.
The counter top is littered with serums, bottles, make-up and hair products, and I pick up a hair wand and think about the last time I bothered to do anything to my hair besides wash it and shove it in a ponytail or messy topknot.
Kate pokes her head around the door. ‘Ah!’ she exclaims, walking in. ‘That looks great on you! You have to keep it.’
I start to protest but she cuts me off. ‘No, I insist. It’s much better on you than me. Look at those boobs! They’re like watermelons! I’m so jealous. Maybe I should have a baby.’ She takes the wand from my hand. ‘Do you want me to do your hair?’
‘OK,’ I say. She moves my discarded things aside to plug the wand in. ‘Nice,’ she says, holding up my bra and tossing it to me.
‘Rob bought it for me for Valentine’s Day,’ I say, catching it. It’s a silk padded bra and though it’s a nude colour, which isn’t the sexiest, it is Agent Provocateur. Rob’s never been the best at buying gifts so I had to give him marks at least for that. Normally he gets me socks from M&S or an Amazon voucher or perfume that he’s obviously chosen because it comes in a fancy box, but which smells like something Joan Collins would wear.
As we wait for the wand to heat up, Kate grabs an eyeshadow palette and a brush and starts doing my make-up. This is how we