A smile almost threatened to break over Lana’s face now.
Annie pinned the flower in place.
‘A little sparkly, wine-coloured shrug . . . would you let me treat you to something like that?’ Annie asked, although where she’d find wine in the Spring collections . . . she’d have to look secondhand.
‘Maybe.’ Lana didn’t sound convinced.
‘A little bag?’ Annie added.
‘Maybe.’
‘And just maybe, maybe, maybe . . .’ she wheedled, ‘we could just pop back to the shop’ – as if it would be the easiest thing in the world – ‘and try . . . just
try
. . . the navy blue?’
‘Maybe.’ But this came with the teensiest smile that gave Annie the hope that her foot was in the door.
She would broach the subject of stitching the split to a more modest knee-high another day.
That night, in front of her computer, watching the latest Trading Station deals close, figuring out with a red pen and calculator how much money she’d made this week and whether or not it was enough, Annie let her mind wander to her own outfit for the retirement party.
There were things in the wardrobe, obviously, but she
wasn’t sure if she wanted to wear them. She’d tried on a four-year-old party dress in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, but it had brought tears to her eyes.
The dress, sky blue slippy satin with vivid red poppies printed all over it, was a Roddy dress.
She’d bought it for a first proper celebby event. Red-carpet, cameras flashing . . . not at them, of course. Back then, Roddy had been a bit part. But what a fabulous night!
At the party after the première, Roddy’s eyes had popped from his head. During filming, he’d been paid £250 a week, as the production had staggered from one financial disaster to another: actors, cameramen, production staff all leaving because they couldn’t afford to work on it any more.
But come the première party, there was champagne on tap, lobsters piled in great lazy heaps, the star actress in a strapless cream knit dress made of pure cashmere.
‘The publicity budget is bigger than their entire production budget,’ Roddy had joked, holding both their glasses out to yet another passing waiter.
His reaction to her dress had been a frank, succinct Roddy special: ‘Fucking brilliant! Take it off, immediately!’
Alone, in front of the mirror, Annie unzipped it, let it fall to the floor, then she angrily stuffed it back into its cloth cover, wondering if she would ever be able to wear it again.
Never mind, she told herself, blowing her nose firmly when the tears were over. There was the rose pink velvet dress she’d seen on eBay, she knew the label, knew the style, knew the sizing. It would definitely fit. It
would be perfect, in fact: a fine, silk velvet, with a supple drape, a fitted bodice, covered buttons, bingo-wing disguising half-sleeves and a panel of lace at the front of the skirt for interest.
It was probably going to go for too much . . . but it wouldn’t hurt to look, would it? Just a teensy peek? She made the mouse clicks and found it, hovering thirty-five
minutes from the close of bidding at £50 below the absolute most she could afford to spend on it. If she just
held steady and waited thirty-three minutes before putting in a bid just £5 higher . . . then it would be hers. Although it was well past her bedtime, she went to make herself a cup of tea.
Chapter Eight
Dress-up Dinah:
Gold Grecian goddess dress (Miss Selfridge)
White fake fur coat (Cancer Research)
Gold tap shoes (Dancewear shop)
Gold and ruby earrings (Portobello market)
Liberal amount of Fake Bake
Est. cost: £95
‘I’ve overdone it! I’m the Fake Bake sheikh!’
‘He’s there! I’ve just spotted him, down at the front. Best seats!’ Annie couldn’t keep the glee from her voice as she told Dinah.
‘Thank God for that,’ was Dinah’s response. It was obvious from the outset that Annie’s outing to
After The Ball
was not purely in the interest of theatrical pleasure or even Connor support. She’d insisted Dinah dress up ‘you know, properly, let’s make an event of it’. Then she’d confided there was ‘someone’ she was hoping to ‘bump into’ in the audience.
‘Don’t you think that’s just a little bit desperate?’ Dinah had asked once Annie had explained the Spencer situation.
‘Desperate? No, of course not. Wait till you meet him. He’s really quite interesting.’
Annie had turned up at the theatre looking her very best. She’d come straight from work, but this hadn’t stopped her devoting twenty-five minutes to her outfit, hair and make-up in the changing room. She knew what
conservative Spencer-type men liked in women. Nothing complicated, for starters. They understood obvious colours: black, red, white, blue . . . anything tonal like taupe, terracotta or pistachio confused them. They liked shapely dresses with tasteful amounts of leg and cleavage on display. They liked small jewels, lipstick and shiny long hair, especially if it was tied up . . . enticingly ready to be undone.
‘Oooh, very . . . Mediterranean
,’ Annie had greeted her sister.
‘Shut up!’ an extremely
over-
tanned Dinah had told her through gritted teeth. ‘I know, I know, I’ve overdone it. I’m the Fake Bake sheikh.’
The first fake tan of the season (March had just arrived) was always an initiation. Dinah had forgotten how much bloody scrubbing had to be done beforehand and just how little of the stuff was needed.
‘Do I look different?’ Annie had asked her sister.
‘You look great,’ Dinah had assured her, ‘I always love you in that dress.’ She surveyed the black crêpe Diane von Furstenberg wrap approvingly.
‘Yeah but look closely, babes,’ Annie instructed.
Dinah peered into her face: ‘Hmmm . . . something’s a bit . . . Annie! You’ve not had an injection or something, have you?’
Annie fluttered her eyelashes: ‘Clue,’ she said.
When Dinah just stared back blankly, Annie explained: ‘I’ve had eyelash extensions. Aren’t they gorgeous?’ Flutter, flutter went the lashes.
‘Eyelash extensions!!’ Dinah had never even heard of such a thing. ‘You’re absolutely mad. What was wrong with your lashes before?’ she’d exclaimed, but the questions had quickly followed: ‘It cost how much!?’ ‘They use glue and sharpened tweezers?’ ‘How long does it last anyway?’ ‘You have to
trim
them when they get too long!’
‘I went with Connor,’ Annie had explained, scanning the foyer like a twitchy bird of prey, as they went in.
‘Connor?’
‘He needs them for his close-ups, apparently. It makes all the grannies swoon when McCabie bats his lovely long lashes in soft focus.’
‘Ha. Will you stop looking round like that?’ Dinah had hissed. ‘You look like you’re wanted by the Mafia or something.’
‘I can’t see him.’ Annie had begun to worry. Maybe Spencer wasn’t coming. Maybe she’d scared him off.
Although they were amongst the last to take their seats, she still hadn’t spotted him; no sign of him in the interval either. It was distracting her immensely from Connor’s clever, comic performance. But then she’d always thought acting was a bit of a scam: if you wanted to be a star, you just had to choose roles in which you
could be a totally over-the-top version of yourself. Here was Connor on stage, being just as devastatingly handsome and witty as he’d been in her front room a
few weeks ago and a rapt audience of thousands thought he was acting!
But just as the lights were starting to dim for the third act, Annie’s eyes alighted on a promising-looking head of gunmetal grey hair and she watched as Spencer – minus the glasses – glanced over his shoulder.
‘Bingo!’ she told Dinah and began to plan for the ‘accidental’ meeting at the end of the show.
‘Spencer, hi!’ she called, frantically treading on toes in her rush to get out of her row and greet him.
‘Oh, er . . . hello,’ he managed once he had got her into focus. Maybe he hadn’t sorted out the contacts yet.
‘Did you enjoy the show? Wasn’t Connor great?’
‘Oh, Connor McCabe, is he the actor you . . . ?’
‘Yes, yes . . .’
And who was this woman by his side, so obviously with him? Who was this attractive, raven-haired sophisticate in a sleeveless silk shell with an elegant grey pashmina draped over her arms?
The woman was waiting expectantly, possibly wondering something similar.
‘This is my sister Dinah,’ Annie offered as Dinah came up behind her. ‘She’s been on holiday.’ Well, it seemed necessary to offer some sort of explanation, although the urge to add
in her bathroom
was dangerously strong.
‘Oh really, where’ve you been?’ Spencer asked politely.
‘Dubai!’ Annie answered for her, inspired by the sheikh comment maybe, but also because it was the hottest and blandest destination Annie could think of that she was, fingers crossed, certain Spencer wouldn’t have been to. And really, what follow-up questions could ‘Dubai’ provoke? ‘Did you like the sand?’
‘Nice,’ Spencer said. And left it at that.
The elegant one cleared her throat slightly.
‘Oh, Louisa, this is Annie. I met her just the other day, we were . . . um . . . introduced by a friend.’
Ah! Outwardly trendy, inwardly square Spencer was obviously embarrassed he’d been personally shopped for. Ah! It wasn’t that Louisa was the object of his new affections, new love of his life or whatever . . . Annie felt a fresh burst of hope.
‘This is Louisa, my date.’ He turned and smiled shyly at grey pashmina girl. ‘You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?’
Louisa beamed.
Hopes dashed.
‘Why don’t you come backstage with us and meet Connor?’ was Annie’s fresh new idea. ‘He’d love it. He’s so vain, I have to keep him convinced he has an army of fans who are held back by security cordons every night.’
Spencer didn’t seem so sure, but fortunately Louisa looked at him and said, ‘I’d love that. It would be so glamorous. Go on, Spencer . . . I mean, if you’re sure it won’t be any trouble.’
Connor was slightly taken aback by the rapturous ‘Darling, you were wonderful’ and full-on mouth kiss that Annie treated him to when she arrived in his dressing room. ‘You were brilliant, honestly! Connor, this is Spencer, and his lovely date Louisa.’
At these words, Connor understood his role completely.
‘Pleased to meet you! Very nice of you to come backstage to say hello.’ He shook their hands and casually folded Annie in under his arm, hugging her tightly round the waist.
‘You really did enjoy it, did you?’
‘Oh yes,’ they both gushed.
‘I think Noël Coward has so much to say to twenty-first century audiences and he always says it so wittily . . .’ Connor began.
And so it went on for quite a time, getting luvvier and
luvvier by the minute, until Spencer took a glance at his watch and warned that they would have to make a
move or else they’d be too late for the table he’d reserved at the Ivy for dinner.
Ha! The Ivy for dinner, huh?
Annie couldn’t help feeling a stab of jealousy. ‘How lovely,’ she said. Declaring that she and Connor were snuggling up for a cosy evening at home – ‘Aren’t we, darling?’ – was probably taking things too far.