'You people! It was on the memo, it was in the newsletter …' He takes hold of my shoulder as I try to walk away. 'Well, you'll have to take one of the spare ones.'
'What?' I look at him blankly. 'What spare ones?'
'I had a feeling this might happen,' says Cyril with a slight note of triumph, 'so I made advance provisions.'
A cold feeling starts to creep over me. He can't mean—
He can't possibly mean—
'We've got plenty to choose from,' he's saying.
No. No way. I have to escape. Now.
I give a desperate wriggle, but his hand is like a clamp on my shoulder. He chivvies me into a tent, where two middle-aged ladies are standing beside a rack of … oh my God. The most revolting, lurid man-made-fibre costumes I've ever seen. Worse than the party shop. Where did he get these from?
'No,' I say in panic. 'Really. I'd rather stay as I am.'
'Everybody has to wear a costume,' says Cyril firmly. 'It was in the memo!'
'But … but this is a costume!' I quickly gesture to my dress. 'I forgot to say. It's um … a twenties summer garden-party costume, very authentic …'
'Emma, this is a fun day,' snaps Cyril. 'And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?'
'Oh.' I pull the regretful face I've been practising all week. 'They … actually, they couldn't make it.'
Which could be because I didn't tell them anything about it.
'You did tell them about it?' He eyes me suspiciously. 'You sent them the leaflet?'
'Yes!' I cross my fingers behind my back. 'Of course I told them. They would have loved to be here!'
'Well. You'll have to mingle with other families and colleagues. Here we are. Snow White.' He shoves a horrendous nylon dress with puffy sleeves towards me.
'I don't want to be Snow White—' I begin, then break off as I see Moira from Accounts miserably being pushed into a big shaggy gorilla costume. 'OK.' I grab the dress. 'I'll be Snow White.'
I almost want to cry. My beautiful flattering dress is lying in a calico bag, ready for collection at the end of the day. And I am wearing an outfit which makes me look like a six-year-old. A six-year-old with zero taste and colour-blindness.
As I emerge disconsolately from the tent, the band is briskly playing the 'Oom-pa-pa' song from Oliver, and someone is making an incomprehensible, crackly announcement over the loudspeaker. I look around, squinting against the sun, trying to work out who everyone is behind their disguises. I spot Paul walking along on the grass, dressed as a pirate, with three small children hanging off his legs.
'Uncle Paul! Uncle Paul!' one is shrieking. 'Do your scary face again!'
'I want a lolly!' yells another. 'Uncle Paul, I want a lolleeee!'
'Hi, Paul,' I say miserably. 'Are you having a good time?'
'Whoever invented Corporate Family Days should be shot,' he says without a flicker of humour. 'Get the hell off my foot!' he snaps at one of the children, and they all shriek with delighted laughter.
'Mummy, I don't need to spend a penny,' mutters Artemis, as she walks by dressed as a mermaid, in the company of a commanding woman in a huge hat.
'Artemis, there's no need to be so touchy!' booms the woman.
This is so weird. People with their families are completely different. Thank God mine aren't here.
I wonder where Jack is. Maybe he's in the house. Maybe I should—
'Emma!' I look up, and see Katie heading towards me. She's dressed in a totally bizarre carrot costume, holding the arm of an elderly man with grey hair. Who must be her father, I suppose.
Which is a bit weird, because I thought she said she was coming with—
'Emma, this is Phillip!' she says radiantly. 'Phillip, meet my friend Emma. She's the one who brought us together!'
Wh-what?
No. I don't believe it.
This is her new man? This is Phillip? But he has to be at least seventy!
In a total blur, I shake his hand, which is dry and papery, just like Grandpa's, and manage to make a bit of small talk about the weather. But all the time, I'm in total shock.
Don't get me wrong. I am not ageist. I am not anything-ist. I think people are all the same, whether they're black or white, male or female, young or—
But he's an old man! He's old!
'Isn't he lovely?' says Katie fondly, as he goes off to get some drinks. 'He's so thoughtful. Nothing's too much trouble. I've never been out with a man like him before!'
'I can believe that,' I say, my voice a little strangled. 'What exactly is the age gap between you two?'
'I'm not sure,' says Katie in surprise. 'I've never asked. Why?'
Her face is shiny and happy and totally oblivious. Has she not noticed how old he is?
'No reason!' I clear my throat. 'So … er … remind me. Where exactly did you meet Phillip again?'
'You know, silly!' says Katie, mock-chidingly. 'You suggested I should try somewhere different for lunch, remember? Well, I found this really unusual place, tucked away in a little street. In fact, I really recommend it.'
'Is it … a restaurant? A café?'
'Not exactly,' she says thoughtfully. 'I've never been anywhere like it before. You go in and someone gives you a tray, and you collect your lunch and then eat it, sitting at all these tables. And it only costs two pounds! And afterwards they have free entertainment! Like sometimes it's bingo or whist … sometimes it's a singsong round the piano. One time they had this brilliant tea dance! I've made loads of new friends.'
I stare at her for a few silent seconds.
'Katie,' I say at last. 'This place. It couldn't possibly be — a day care centre for the elderly?'
'Oh!' she says, looking taken aback. 'Erm …'
'Try and think. Is everyone who goes there on the … old side?'