Page 76 of Who’s That Girl?

I whirl round to see Lottie standing on the doorstep.

She shoots me a huge grin. ‘Hey, I didn’t think you were coming!’

‘I know, but … well, my evening got cut short,’ I finish in an explanation of sorts. ‘Anyway, happy birthday.’ I smile, thrusting the carrier bags at her. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance to wrap them,’ I add quickly, suddenly feeling embarrassed for handing her two plastic carrier bags instead of an expensively wrapped present.

But if she minds, she doesn’t show it. Instead her eyes go saucer-wide and a look of delight sweeps over her face. ‘Oh fab, is all this for me?’

‘Well, it’s not that much.’

‘All of it?’ she repeats, in astonishment.

I had no idea she would be so pleased. She looks over the moon, and just about some stuff from the pharmacy. God, I wasn’t this thrilled when I got my new car, I think, looking at her delighted expression and feeling a curious mix of pleasure and envy.

‘Uh-huh.’ I nod.

‘Wow! I can’t believe it. You must have spent a fortune,’ she gasps, tugging out an Estée Lauder foundation that’s the right skin tone, instead of that cheap stuff I know she wears that’s bright orange. ‘That’s so kind of you.’

‘Hey, don’t mention it.’ I smile modestly. I’d forgotten just what a treat getting new stuff used to be. I think about my own bathroom cabinet at home, stuffed full with unused products, and feel a bit guilty. Still, it looks like my list has been a raving success so far, I think, with a sense of satisfaction.

‘Anyway, I’d invite you in, but everyone’s getting ready to leave.’

‘Oh, really?’ I feel a beat of disappointment. Damn, after all that, I missed the party. ‘I suppose it is pretty late. I guess I should be getting to bed too.’

‘Bed?’ She stares at me, incredulous, then lets out a peal of laughter. ‘Ha-ha, very funny. That was a joke, right?’

‘Erm, yes, of course.’ I laugh uncertainly. ‘So … um … if you’re not going to bed, where are you going?’

‘Clubbing!’ she whoops.

‘Clubbing?’ My smile sort of freezes. Oh fuck. I’d totally forgotten how I used to love to go clubbing, but now it comes back to me with the blunt force of a sledgehammer. Dry ice. Swirly strobe lights. Deafening music. ‘But it’s a Sunday, isn’t it?’ I bleat hopefully, remembering Bea’s explanation from earlier.

‘Yeah, but it’s the August bank holiday tomorrow, so the club are having a special night.’ She beams excitedly. ‘You’re coming too, aren’t you?’

‘I am?’ I squeak in a strangled voice.

Me? Clubbing? I don’t do clubbing. Not any more. I do Pilates, and yoga, and acupuncture when my back hurts.

‘Of course, silly! You’re invited.’

I’m rummaging through my memory, as if it’s a sock drawer and I’m feverishly looking for a pair that match. Only this doesn’t match any recollection I have of this evening. Then again, it was ten years ago and I was very drunk. In fact, to be honest, every birthday till the age of about thirty is a bit of a blur.

For a brief moment I think about making up some excuse and going home, but before I have a chance she links arms and, with a battle cry, yells, ‘Come on, it’s time to paaaartay!’

And it’s too late.

Help.

The club is only a couple of streets away, so we walk there – well, I walk; Lottie’s wearing high heels for the first time since I’ve met her and sort of half totters along the pavement, giggling tipsily. She’s wearing a dress covered in tiny blue cornflowers that I bought from a flea market. I remember I had to haggle the stallholder down for ages before I could afford it, even though it was only a few pounds.

Nowadays I can afford to shop for designer clothes. What I can’t afford is the time to go shopping, so I tend to do a lot of it online, and usually only twice a year – summer and winter. Back then I was always so broke most of my wardrobe came from charity shops or markets and I’d spend weekends trawling through the racks at Camden or Portobello, looking for bargains. Like that dress, which I ended up getting for half-price because one of the straps was broken, I reflect. Though I never did get round to sewing it on, I realise, glancing at it now and seeing it’s still being held on by a safety pin. I feel a flash of embarrassment. Honestly, what was I like going out like that?

Absently I glance down at my jacket and pick off a couple of bits of fluff from the lapels. Didn’t I care? Obviously not, I decide, looking back at myself puffing away merrily on a cigarette without a trouble in the world. I feel a rankle of disapproval.

Ahead of us I see a long line of people snaking round the corner. My first thought is, Wow, look at all those people. I wonder what’s happening? My second is, Oh no, that’s the queue to get in.

Lottie doesn’t appear to notice the queue and instead waltzes gaily to the front and beams at the bouncer. A huge, six-foot-something character with biceps the size of watermelons and an impenetrable grimace. Horror trickles down my spine like icy-cold water. Oh my God, what am I doing? What am I doing? I cringe, hanging back in mortified anticipation of the public humiliation I’m going to suffer when I get sent to the back of the queue in front of all these people.

Correction, all these kids, I realise, my eyes sweeping over the parade of baseball caps, Celtic armband tattoos and pierced belly buttons and realising the average age is about twenty. Maybe even less, I decide, glancing at a group of rail-thin girls sporting micro-minis and what looks suspiciously like teenage acne. I glance back at the bouncer, who, at this very moment, is turning his hulking great frame towards Lottie, with the sort of slow-motion movement you get in those old dinosaur films, just before the helpless victim gets gobbled up by the big, scary brontosaurus.