Chapter Twelve

      ‘Cheers, guys,’ Cleo thanked them sarcastically, as she waved them in.

      The balloons were oversized: huge and a glossy pink. The 3 twirled lazily in the air, refusing to stay straight, meaning the effect was rather more ‘SO’ than ‘30’.

      Cleo wasn’t thirty – not quite yet – her actual birthday was on Tuesday (4.21 pm on Tuesday, to be precise) so she was still a twenty-something for almost three full days yet. (She didn’t know why that felt so important, but it did.)

      It was still early, and only the usual nearest and dearest were in attendance, but already her average-sized Acton flat was feeling pretty cramped. Daisy and Cole jockeyed for space at the hall mirror; for reasons Cleo hoped would soon become clear Daisy was daubing her considerable cleavage with green face paint, whilst Cole was fixated with straightening his bow tie. Cleo grinned; she was probably a little old for fancy dress parties, but still, she felt a little frisson of excitement.

      Trailing the balloons, she followed a chatting Nora through to the kitchen where Nora immediately set about pulling glasses down from the cupboards and calling out for drinks orders. Sarah sidestepped the rogue floating 3 to give Cleo a hug.

      ‘Happy Birthday,’ she wished her, handing her a perfectly gift-wrapped box. ‘I know it’s boring, but you said you wanted smellies. And here’s the veil,’ she added as an afterthought, passing across another bag.

      ‘Thank you so much, Sar. You look great!’ And she did: foxy in a figure-hugging black evening dress split almost to the hip (although Bea would no doubt have something cutting to say about Sarah having no identity of her own by way of the fact her costume was merely in compliment to her husband’s…).

      ‘My knockout wife,’ Cole agreed, throwing an arm heavily over Sarah’s shoulders, making her turn almost as pink as the balloons with pleasure.

      ‘The name’s Bond, I presume?’ Cleo laughed, looking the be-tuxedoed Cole up and down.

      ‘James Bond,’ Cole agreed. ‘And this is my lovely date, Hootie McBoobs.’

      ‘Hootie,’ Cleo nodded at Sarah, ‘it’s a pleasure. What can I get you guys to drink?’ She carefully freed Sarah’s pretty birdcage-style wedding veil from its wrapping and clipped it on, thus completing her own outfit.

      ‘I can’t be bothered to make you martinis,’ Nora warned them as she continued clattering about over at the breakfast bar. ‘Mostly because I can’t be arsed. But also because your costumes are pretty theme-tenuous.’

      ‘Oh, come on!’ Cole protested. ‘Have you seen Baz’s piss-poor attempt?’

      The man in question, digging around at the back of the fridge for the coldest possible beer, gave them a grin; he was wearing an Arsenal football shirt and jeans. ‘So, who’s coming this evening?’ he asked as he opened his lager using the bottle opener magnet with practiced ease. (This was recognised Barlow-code for ‘will there be any talent’?)

      ‘Pretty much just the usual crowd,’ Cleo answered. ‘Although a couple of people from work are coming. Mostly guys,’ she clarified, before Barlow could get his hopes up. Poor Baz’s working hours were so antisocial he never got to meet anyone. (Cleo was pretty chuffed that her thirtieth birthday had been deemed important enough to generate one of his very rare Saturday nights off.) Cleo ducked as Nora passed a luridly coloured something-and-mixer over her head for Bea to take to Daisy, who was still glued to the mirror by the front door.

      Daisy was already almost totally be-greened, and was just smoothing the creases around her nose and eyes with her fingertips.

      ‘I know there’s a joke in here somewhere,’ Bea said wistfully, leaning back against the opposite wall and folding her arms across her chest. ‘Something about you being green with jealously that I look so hot, or something. But I feel like such a massive twat tonight, I just can’t bring myself to make it.’

      Daisy laughed, reaching to take her drink. ‘Hun, you look great. As you well know.’ With her other hand she swept up her pointy hat (with built in black, straggly wig, naturally) and popped it atop her head. ‘And don’t go moaning to the one with green tits that you feel like a twat.’