I’m wearing the flapper dress from the shop, which I only just managed to zip up. Clearly they didn’t go in for boobs in the twenties. My feet are squished into the dancing slippers. Six long bead necklaces are jangling around my neck. Circling my head is a black headband, beaded with jet, and sticking out of that is a feather.
A feather .
My hair has been tortured into a series of old-fashioned-looking waves and curls, which took about two hours to do with the marcel irons. When it was done, Sadie insisted I smother it in some weird pomade stuff that she also found in the vintage shop, and now it feels rock solid to the touch.
And as for my makeup: Did they honestly think this was a good look in the 1920s? My face is covered in pale powder, with a spot of rouge on each cheek. My eyes are heavily outlined in black kohl. My lids are smeared with a lurid green paste, which came out of the old Bakelite case. I still don’t know exactly what’s on my eyelashes: some weird lump of black goo which Sadie called “Cosmetique.” She made me boil it up in a frying pan and then smear it all over my lashes.
I mean, hello, I have a new Lancôme mascara. It’s waterproof, with flexible fibers and everything. But Sadie wasn’t interested. She was too overexcited by all this stupid ancient makeup and telling me how she and Bunty used to get ready for parties together and pluck each other’s eyebrows and take little swigs from their hip flasks.
“Let me see.” Sadie appears beside me on the pavement and scans me. She’s in a gold dress, with gloves up to her elbows. “You need to touch up your lipstick.”
There’s no point suggesting a nice subtle MAC lip gloss instead. With a sigh, I reach in my bag for the pot of red gunk and pat yet more color onto my exaggerated Cupid’s bow.
Two girls pass by, nudging each other and giving me curious smiles. They obviously think I’m off to a costume party and am going for Most Over the Top outfit.
“You look divine!” Sadie hugs herself with excitement. “You just need a gasper.” She starts looking up and down the street. “Where’s a tobacconist? Oh, we should have bought you a darling little cigarette holder-”
“I don’t smoke,” I cut her off. “And you can’t smoke in public places, anyway. It’s the law.”
“What a ridiculous law.” She looks aggrieved. “How does one hold a cigarette party?”
“We don’t hold cigarette parties! Smoking gives you cancer! It’s dangerous!”
Sadie makes an impatient tchuh noise. “Come on, then!”
I begin to follow her up the street toward the Crowe Bar sign, barely able to walk in my vintage shoes. As I reach the door, I realize she’s disappeared. Where’s she gone?
“Sadie?” I turn around and scan the street. If she’s left me in the lurch I will absolutely murder her-
“He’s in there already!” She suddenly appears, looking even more hyper than before. “He’s absolutely swoonsome.”
My heart sinks. I was hoping he might have stood me up.
“How do I look?” Sadie’s smoothing her hair down, and I feel a sudden pang of compassion for her. It can’t be much fun, going on a date and being invisible.
“You look great,” I say reassuringly. “If he could see you, he’d think you were really hot.”
“Hot?” She looks confused.
“Sexy. Pretty. You’re a hottie. It’s what we say.”
“Oh, good!” Her eyes travel nervously to the door and back. “Now, before we go in, remember this is my date.”
“I know it’s your date,” I say patiently. “You’ve drummed it into me enough times-”
“What I mean is-be me.” She fixes me with an urgent look. “Say whatever I tell you to say. Do whatever I tell you to do. Then I’ll feel as though it’s really me talking to him. Do you understand?”
“Don’t worry! I get it. You feed me the lines and I’ll say them. I promise.”
“Go on, then!” She gestures at the entrance.
I push through the heavy frosted glass doors and find myself in a chic lobby with suede-paneled walls and low-level lighting. There’s another set of double doors ahead, beyond which I can see the bar. As I pass through, I catch a glimpse of myself in a tinted mirror and feel a clench of dismay.
Somehow I feel a million times more ludicrous here than I did in my flat. My necklaces are jangling with every step. My feather is bobbing around in my headdress. I look like a twenties-o-gram. And I’m standing in a minimalist bar full of cool people in understated Helmut Lang.
As I’m edging forward, all prickly with self-consciousness, I suddenly spot Ed. He’s sitting about ten yards away, in a conventional trousers-and-jacket combo, drinking what looks like a conventional gin and tonic. He looks up, glances my way, then does a double take.
“You see?” says Sadie triumphantly. “He’s transfixed by the sight of you!”
He’s transfixed, all right. His jaw has fallen and his face has turned a pale green color.
Very slowly, as though forcing himself through noxious mud, he gets to his feet and approaches me. I can see the bar staff nudging one another as I walk through the bar, and from a nearby table comes a sudden gasp of hilarity.
“Smile at him!” Sadie is insisting loudly in my ear. “Walk toward him with a shimmy and say, ‘Hello, Daddy-O!’”
Daddy-O?
It’s not my date, I remind myself feverishly. It’s Sadie’s. I’m only acting a part.
“Hello, Daddy-O!” I say brightly as he draws near.