It's Got To Be Perfect. Haley Hill

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      ‘Mrs Rigby,’ the estate agent called. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’

      I walked down the passage, towards the back of the house and into the open-plan kitchen. It was flooded with light and exactly as I remembered: a white gloss handleless heaven. I stared at the granite surfaces, where I’d imagined being creative with the contents of an organic produce box, then at the walls, where I’d envisaged hanging thoughtfully collected paintings from upcoming artists, then finally at the breakfast table where I’d foreseen bustling family mealtimes with cheeky yet cherubic children.

      The bi-folding doors were open onto the garden, where mature trees erupted from a lush green lawn. A rope swing was swaying in the breeze, as though the spirits of my imagined offspring had refused to leave. No one could blame them.

      ‘You won’t get a better family home in London,’ he said, opening the kitchen drawers so he could then demonstrate the self-closing mechanism. ‘Do you and your partner have children, Mrs Rigby?’

      Suddenly, I felt flushed, my heart rate quickened. ‘Er, not yet,’ I stammered, waving the question away.

      The agent winked as though somehow he’d mistakenly gleaned that I were about to bear a litter of ankle-biters.

      ‘Wait until you see the nursery,’ he said, beaming.

      I looked around the room. The sunlight bounced off the white gloss units and into my eyes. Bounce. I rubbed my temples. Bounce. My skin felt hot. Bounce. The light seemed to grow brighter and whiter. Bounce. Bounce. My vision blurred and suddenly sharp pain shot through my head.

      ‘Mrs Rigby? Mrs Rigby? Are you okay?’

      I regained consciousness to find the estate agent fanning me with the property pamphlet.

      ‘Mrs Rigby?’

      The image on the front moved closer then further away, then closer. I could feel the dizziness returning. Closer, then further away, then closer.

      ‘Can I get you a glass of water, Mrs Rigby?’

      I snatched the pamphlet from him and threw it to the ground.

      He looked startled. Then he smoothed down his tie and pretended to check his watch. ‘Perhaps we should resume the viewing when you’re feeling better, Mrs Rigby?’

      I glared at him. ‘It’s Miss,’ I said, clambering to my feet. ‘Not Mrs.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s chat next week, Miss Rigby.’

      I had one last look around, kissing the cold corpse on the head, then the agent closed the door behind us. He was right. It would make someone else the perfect family home.

      ‘What do you mean there aren’t enough champagne glasses?’ raged Cordelia, throwing up her arms, as though she were initiating an angry version of the Mexican wave. ‘This is outrageous!’

      Steve took a step back and blinked. ‘I was told that one hundred and fifty people were coming,’ he answered in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘So there are one hundred and fifty glasses.’

      He pointed to the table where they stood, looking all polished and proud.

      I raised my hand tentatively. ‘There are more people coming than I—’

      Cordelia interrupted, still glaring at Steve. ‘We have three hundred guests arriving in—’ she checked her watch ‘—oh, fifteen minutes. They’re each expecting champagne on arrival so you’d better have this resolved.’

      With a hair flick that signalled the conversation was over, she flounced off, the length of her stride impaired by the tightness of her pencil skirt. In repose, she looked like a forties screen siren in her skin-tight black-and-white monochrome outfit, but when she walked, particularly at any speed, she assumed the gait of an elongated penguin.

      Kat jumped up and down on the spot, her dark bob lifting and falling like a jellyfish on a mission.

      ‘Champagne cocktails,’ she declared on the final bounce, but our vacant expressions clearly signalled a need for further explanation. ‘In cocktail glasses?’ She peered over the bar. ‘Looks like you’ve got enough of those. We’ll need to name it something in theme, like …’ She paused and put her finger on her chin ‘Cupid’s Crush or Sexy Slush.’

      Steve smirked. ‘Sexy Slush?’

      ‘I don’t think Cupid has a crush,’ I added, immediately aware that it was in no way constructive.

      ‘Have you got any rose petals?’ Kat suggested ‘Or lychees? I’ll call Mario at Zuma. He knows exactly what to do with a lychee.’

      Steve scrunched up his face. ‘One hundred and fifty cocktails in fifty minutes—they’ll get what they get.’

      ‘Let me help.’ Kat jumped up onto the bar, flipped her legs over and landed, quite acrobatically, on the other side. Brigitte popped up as though she had been hiding there all along.

      ‘I weel ‘elp Steve,’ Brigitte said, lunging towards him, boobs bursting out of a flimsy halter-necked top.

      When I suggested to Brigitte that, given she was the receptionist, she might be best placed greeting the guests at reception, she spun around, rising on her heels. Her green eyes narrowed to slits and she hissed something in French that Cordelia later translated to ‘stupid pouting horse’.

      By eight p.m., aside from three hundred luminous pink cocktails lined up like a Texan beauty pageant, the bar was a vision of understated elegance. Cushions lay strewn across the sofas, while freshly plucked flowers leant against crystal vases like models draped over yachts. To the haunting sounds of Bar Grooves as it echoed through the vaults, shadows moved across the walls like the ghosts of parties past.

      In the bronze gilt mirror suspended on the wall, a girl looked back at me, the optimism of her orange dress almost enough to distract from the apprehension in her eyes.

      ‘You look gorgeous,’ Steve said after I’d caught him watching me.

      My shoes pinched, my bra was too tight and it was an effort to hold in my tummy. Funny how looking good means feeling bad, I thought as I picked up one of the overdressed cocktails. Only after I’d fought my way through the tacky paraphernalia, and mastered the curly straw, did I feel the warmth of the alcohol burn in my stomach and spread through my veins.

      By the time my muscles had started to relax and my breathing had slowed, excited voices began to trickle down the staircase and groups of girls flooded into the bar like migrating salmon. Modelling this season’s Gucci and Dior, they strode into the room with the veneer of a Miss World procession. Pilates-sculpted muscles were vacuum-packed in spa-fresh skin, and finished with St Tropez tans. Hair shone the L’Oreal spectrum of shades from deep chestnut to champagne blonde. Nature’s flaws were concealed by MAC, nature’s blessings were enhanced by shimmer.

      A girl with a Heidi Klum body walked down the staircase and straight towards me. ‘Where are the men?’ she asked, scanning the room like an assassin.

      I checked my watch. It was eight-ten p.m. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ I said.

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