The One with the Wedding Dress. Erin Lawless

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      ‘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.’

      ‘I assumed this was yours,’ Eli interrupted, holding out a gently fizzing gin and tonic to Bea who accepted it eagerly.

      ‘Now this, I don’t get,’ Daisy complained, gesturing at Eli. ‘Am I being the dumb American again?’

      ‘Yes,’ Eli told her, with affection, before turning to Bea expectantly.

      ‘Don’t look at me!’ she said after a minute. ‘I haven’t the foggiest what you’re meant to be.’

      ‘Seriously?’ Eli waved the hand he had a packet of Sainsbury’s wafer thin ham liberally sellotaped to. ‘Come on!’

      ‘Nope.’

      He slapped his hands together like he was making a sandwich. ‘You see?’

      ‘I so don’t see,’ Bea assured him archly. Eli futilely clapped his hands together again. ‘You know, that really isn’t helping any,’ she snapped.

      ‘Let me put you out of your misery,’ Harry interjected, crowding the small entrance hall even further. He rolled his eyes. ‘He’s Clapham.’

      Eli cheerfully clapped his ham again. ‘Geddit?’

      ‘Yes, but I wish I didn’t,’ was Bea’s blunt feedback.

      ‘What’s with the hat then?’ Daisy asked, confused; Eli was mystifyingly wearing a Burberry baseball cap.

      He grinned. ‘I’m Clapham Common.’

      Groaning, Daisy side-stepped past and followed Harry back through to the kitchen to see to the music situation.

      ‘You are so lame,’ Bea informed Eli, shaking her head fondly.

      ‘Come on, deep down you think I’m really funny and you know it.’

      ‘Really deep down.’

      Eli stretched a tentative hand out and stroked Bea’s feathers. ‘I like these,’ he told her quietly.

      ‘Yeah, well, they’re going to be a right pain in the arse once this tiny place starts filling up,’ Bea moaned.

      ‘They suit you.’

      Bea arched an eyebrow. ‘Angel wings suit me?’ Eli nodded, smiling widely. ‘They were meant to be ironic,’ she laughed. Eli opened his mouth to respond, then clamped it shut as the flat buzzer shredded the silence.

      ‘DOOR, PLEASE,’ Cleo bellowed from the depths of the kitchen and Bea, by merit of being closest, turned to welcome the next party guest. It was Claire, fittingly with what appeared to be half of Claire’s Accessories clipped to her long mane of fair hair (‘I’m Bow Road!’ she informed everyone with delight). Dumping a token bottle of room temperature, corner-shop wine on the breakfast bar, Claire helped herself to a gin and tonic and disappeared off to gossip with Bea and Nora.

      ‘So, when you say people from work are coming,’ Eli asked Cleo, leaning against the breakfast bar next to her and Daisy. ‘Are you including Mr Fifty Shades?’

      Cleo groaned. ‘Seriously, Eli, do not get drunk tonight and call him that. I’m not kidding. I’m embarrassed enough around him as it is at the moment.’

      ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tap that,’ Daisy shook her head (this had been her and Nora’s favourite theme for the past several weeks).

      ‘I don’t even know if I fancy him,’ Cleo lied.

      Daisy made a pffft noise. ‘Girl, please. I haven’t even actually met him and I fancy him.’

      ‘It might just be, you know, that he’s really good-looking. And I like spending time with him.’

      ‘At the risk of getting bogged down into this swamp of oestrogen, I think you’ve basically just summed up what fancying someone is there, Cleo,’ Eli ventured with a grin.

      ‘Elliott, darling, I love you, I do – but you should really get your own house in order before you try and give out love advice,’ Cleo scolded, only half-joking, with a pointed look across at Bea. Eli took the hint and he and his beer made a swift exit.

      ‘Speaking of men who are being tapped, Darren is going to make an appearance later. When he’s done festering in that pub,’ Daisy rolled her eyes, her fingers restless on her phone’s touchscreen. Tonight’s playlist-of-choice was a magnum opus in 90s R&B, although Cleo did feel faintly ridiculous to be standing in her kitchen dressed in a French Maid’s outfit from Ann Summers complete with friend’s wedding accessory (she was ‘Maida Vale’, of course) while Ginuwine’s Pony blasted from the Bluetooth speakers.

      ‘Why are you so down on this poor guy? You’re either going to have to dump him or start being nice to him, Daise, seriously.’

      ‘I know, I know. I’m getting round to it, honest. I’ll dump him soon.’

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