you’ve been treated very badly.’ Audrey Hepburn sounds quite cross. ‘And frankly, this Dillon fellow is going to have to wake his ideas up a bit if he’s lucky enough to be in with a chance of dating you.’
Now, this, right here, is why I always wanted Audrey Hepburn to be my best friend.
I know she’s a figment of my imagination; I know, therefore, that what she’s just ‘said’ is actually the equivalent of a positively affirming Post-it Note stuck on a bathroom mirror (‘You Look Thin And Beautiful Today!’). But still, the warm glow that’s spreading through me is no figment of my imagination. And it’s good, even if only for a moment, to believe that what she’s just said is true.
‘Now,’ she goes on, ‘you’d better be taking a nice long bubble bath, then when you get out I can help you with your make-up.’
‘Actually, there’s only a shower. But some help with my make-up afterwards would be lovely.’
Because make-up isn’t like a haircut, is it? Getting my hallucinated Audrey to help me put on some nice smoky eye make-up isn’t going to involve any setting about my head with a dangerous implement. The very worst that will happen is that, in (what I assume to be) my current dream-state, I jab myself in the eye with the mascara wand or something.
‘Then help I shall!’ She’s already setting off for the coffee machine. ‘Off you go and perform your ablutions, and I’ll make you a nice fortifying espresso to drink while we make you up. Some fluttery eyelashes, elegant red lips … we’ll pull out all the stops, darling! This Dillon fellow isn’t going to recognize you!’
*
OK, I’m not sure Dillon is going to recognize me.
The trouble is that there’s a very good chance he’s going to mistake me for a drag queen.
‘Are you quite sure,’ I ask Audrey Hepburn, as I look at myself in my little round mirror, ‘that this looks all right?’
‘You think one more layer of mascara? Another strip of eyelashes?’
‘No, no, Christ, no!’
‘More eyebrow pencil?’
‘Definitely no more eyebrow pencil.’
I’m regretting, in fact, that I ever dug around in the far reaches of my make-up bag to find an eyebrow pencil, an item I’ve never once used since it came Free With Purchase from No. 7 a few years ago. I was hoping I might be able to emulate Audrey’s trademark strong eyebrow, but I’m a little bit concerned that it actually looks like I’ve superglued two sunburned caterpillars over my eyes instead.
‘Well, I’ve already set your lipstick with powder, darling, so I don’t think I can go back and put more of that on …’
‘No, look, I’m not saying I want more of anything. In fact, I think maybe I ought to go with a bit less.’
‘But you look so glamorous! So ladylike! And really, Libby, that dress is so simple, it won’t look finished without proper make-up. This tinted moisturizer nonsense,’ she adds, regarding my tube of the stuff with almost as much horror as she looked at my shoes. ‘And whatever that fruity gloop is that you wanted to put on instead of a nice elegant lipstick …’
‘Juicy Tube.’
She shudders at the mere memory. ‘Darling, I’m telling you. You look like a proper grown-up woman. Doesn’t that give you the most wonderful feeling of confidence?’
Given that I’m fairly convinced that what I look like is a proper grown-up man, it doesn’t give me all that much confidence. But she’s so glowy with pride that I don’t feel I can just scrub it all off with a flannel and bung on the tinted moisturizer and lip-gloss I’d normally use. Anyway, let’s face it, on some level, I must want to look like I’ve run amok at the Estée Lauder counter, because it’s obviously really been me who’s trowelled it all on. Perhaps because the only way I feel brave enough to mingle with the Beautiful People at this showbizzy party is under the protection of a full layer (or four) of war paint.
‘All right, I’ll keep it on.’ I get to my feet – tricky, because I’m sitting on the cavernous Chesterfield and wearing these absurdly high heels that (whisper it) I’m already starting to regret – and grab the little Accessorize clutch bag that Audrey located in the bottom of my clothes box. Which is the first time I realize that my hands are shaking. And realize, ridiculous though it sounds, that I’d actually really like it if I could take my imaginary Audrey to the party with me this evening.
‘Now, you must have a wonderful time! And don’t worry in the slightest about me,’ she adds. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right here on my own.’
‘You’re … er … staying here for the evening?’
‘Just for a little longer. If it’s all right with you?’
‘But don’t I actually need to be here in order for you to … You want to stay and play around with the Nespresso machine,’ I add, with a sigh, as I see her feline eyes wandering in the direction of the kitchen worktop, ‘don’t you?’
Audrey turns a delicate shade of pink. ‘Well, I did rather fancy trying the cappuccino frother.’
‘Fine. Whatever.’ My brain isn’t capable of stretching to the limits of understanding this, so if my imaginary Audrey claims she’s going to spend a happy evening here with a jet of air and a pint of milk, that’s just something I’m going to have to accept. ‘Froth away all you like.’
Looking delighted, she leans forward in a L’Interdit cloud and gives me the lightest, gentlest peck: first on one cheek, and then the other. Then she picks up my trench-coat from where I’ve slung it on the arm of the sofa and drapes it, stylishly, over my shoulders.
‘I know you’ll have the most wonderful evening,’ she says.
And then somehow she’s managed to manhandle me to the door, opened it, given me a little shove out onto the landing, and then closed the door behind me.
I can hear a shriek of frothing-related delight as I tread my way carefully down the four flights of stairs to the bottom.
When I open the door to the street, there’s someone standing right outside it, their hand on the buzzer.
It’s Olly.
‘Sorry,’ he begins when I jump, ‘I was just about to ring up to my friend’s fl …’ He stops, and looks at me again. ‘Libby?’
‘Hi, Olly, I …’
‘But I thought … you look … aren’t you ill?’
Shit – I never should have put on all that face powder, should I?
And then I realize. He’s not telling me I look ill because my make-up is so unflattering. He’s telling me I’m meant to be ill, because that’s why I told him I couldn’t do dinner.
‘Yes. I am ill. Well, I was …’
‘And now you’re … off out?’
