Chapter Seven

When the alarm kicks in the next day, I take an executive decision to ignore it. It’s an uncomplicated shooting day and for all the team know I’m up to my ears in organza at the costumiers. There’s got to be some advantage to being the boss. I fall into a deep coma, only waking up when Alice bounces on the end of my bed at eight a.m.

‘Lulu, wake up. You’ve got a card!’

I force my eyes open to find her thrusting it in my face. My heart’s in my mouth, wondering if Charles is going for broke, but then I see how girly the handwriting is.

‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘Do what?’ says Alice innocently.

‘I know perfectly well it’s from you. Getting Jenna to write the envelope doesn’t make it any less obvious.’

‘OK, OK…’ she concedes. ‘I just didn’t want you to be feeling all bogus about Steve. You’ve been on another planet these last few days and I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but…’

Steve has been so far from my mind this last week, apart from in the few moments where I’ve wondered if I ever loved him at all: maybe that whole relationship was just me trying to tick a box. This infatuation with Charles feels infinitely more visceral and intense. I keep going over the moment when he stroked my face, replaying it again and again in my head. It was so tiny, and yet my whole body remembers every sensation.

‘You really didn’t have to do that…’ I’m trying to admonish Alice, but I’m as grateful as ever to be reminded that she’s my staunchest supporter. That’s why I know that if I were to tell her about Charles she wouldn’t rest till it was done. Not that it’s started, of course.

She plucks the tasteful Monet water lilies from my hand and thrusts another card at me.

‘You’re not the only one with a card,’ she says, grinning her head off. ‘Look, I’m sure it’s from Richard. You’ve got to let me invite him now. It’s really sweet!’

It’s a picture of a wizened old woman riding a penny farthing bicycle. Great start. Inside it says, ‘I’m speeding towards you. Fancy a drink some time?’

‘See: a drink. The clue’s in the question. I’m going to drop an invitation through the letter box on the way to work.’

‘What if it isn’t him?’ I ask hopefully, remembering his tirade. ‘It’s quite normal to ask someone out for a drink in a Valentine’s card. It could be anyone.’

‘It’s definitely him. Oh, don’t start up again, just be pleased for me!’

With that, she jumps off my bed and races to the shower. I know better than to argue with her. When Alice is channelling her inner Tigger, there’s no room for reason. She’s too self-assured and bouncy. She bounds back into the room ten minutes later, dripping water all over my carpet.

‘Are you not going to work today?’

‘No, I am, I’m just –’

‘Because I think we should get those plastic champagne flutes, even though obviously it’s Cava. Although maybe Richard’ll give us an upgrade. And we need snackage. How do you feel about sausage rolls? Maybe we could do pigs in blankets…’

On and on she goes, instructions pouring forth. I stop listening somewhere around the sausage rolls, rolling my own sausagey form out of bed and into the shower. Alice carries on regardless through the door, not even stopping when my hairdryer blatantly drowns her out.

‘Oh my God, look at the time!’ she finally shrieks. ‘Are you OK with all of that? I’ll get home as early as I can, I promise.’ She gives me a tight squeeze. ‘I wish there was someone coming for you,’ she adds, with the manic glint of a woman sensing the end of a sex drought. ‘Steve’s so old news! Maybe someone will bring a mystery guest. Should I tell Richard he can bring a mate, as long as he’s male?’

I dread to think what depths of awfulness his friends might plumb. Who knows – maybe General Pinochet will make an appearance or that nice Robert Mugabe. I grunt non-committally and let her whirl out of the door, revelling in the sudden peace. The tranquillity lasts for all of ten minutes before I start getting twitchy. That’s the problem with being a twin: you’re not built to fly solo. I’ve been one half of a whole ever since the moment of conception, which renders the supposed delights of solitude a total mystery. Besides, there’s no time to waste: I’ve got a maximum of two hours’ grace and a list of instructions as long as my arm.

Venturing out, I’m immediately bombarded by smug girls brandishing bouquets and endless romantic window displays. Lucky old Alice, getting a card – even if it is from a psychopath. I can’t help speculating about how romantic Charles’s morning might have been. He’s not due in today, so he’ll have had all the time in the world to make Mrs Charles feel adored.

I stamp down on the rolling tide of melancholia, determined not to wallow in self-pity. I should treat Valentine’s Day as a useful reminder that he’s not available, case closed. I push him from my mind, concentrating fiercely on the reams of tasks that Lance Corporal Alice Godwin has set me. I buy a case of pink Cava to offer people on arrival, even though the price suggests it’s most likely revolting (hopefully it’ll offend Richard’s refined palate so much he’ll retreat to the off-licence to shower himself in Dom Pérignon). I find twinkly red fairy lights to string around the door, and even risk snapping some twigs off a neighbour’s box hedge to stand in for mistletoe. I’m officially the patron saint of love, even though two months without sex has left me suspecting a blow job requires the cunning use of a pair of bellows.

The heavens open as I climb into the car, the driving rain making light work of my feeble windscreen wipers. The journey takes way longer as a result, and I arrive on-set damp and flustered.

‘Thank God you’re here!’ hisses Gareth. ‘They’ve had to junk the courtyard exteriors because of the rain so we’re back in the library.’

‘Are we?’ I squeak. ‘So, what, they’ve called Charles in?’

‘Obviously,’ says Gareth, clocking my horrified expression. This will be the first time I’ve seen him since the face-stroking incident and I look like shit. I’ve tied my unwashed hair into an unflattering ponytail so I can go full-steam ahead with the straighteners later, and my combat trousers make me look like I’m touring with an All Saints tribute band. ‘Is that a problemo?’

‘Of course not.’

‘OK, sorry I spoke. It just seems like you’ve got some bizarre issue with the poor man.’

‘Well, I haven’t. In fact, I’ll go and talk him through his wardrobe right now.’

Big mistake. Now I’ve made such a big deal of it I’ll have to go straight there, with no chance of a covert rummage in the wardrobe bus for a less hideous outfit (although getting wedged in the door of his caravan in a crinoline might prove to be the most embarrassing faux pas so far). Walking towards his caravan, I decide I’ve got to shoot for an air of cool indifference. The face stroking may have been nothing more than thespy chumminess and, even if it wasn’t, he’s got nothing to offer me but a world of pain.

I rap sharply on the door, give him a crisp hello, and hide my lower half behind the door as I rattle out the various elements of today’s wardrobe like a round of machine-gun fire. Charles stares at me, expression unreadable, unable to get a word in edgeways. As soon as I see him I can feel myself melting inside. I’m desperate to tell him my officiousness is no more than a strategy, but I know I’ve got to try and resist the poisoned apple.

‘So that just about covers it,’ I tell him, sixty-second monologue complete. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Are you horribly busy today?’ he says, cocking his head endearingly. He’s looking a bit scruffy in his washed-out jeans and crumpled shirt, but it only adds to his appeal. His clothes look so thrown on that it seems as though he could throw them straight back off again without a second’s thought.

‘Yes, very,’ I tell him emphatically, determined to make a run for it before he sees my bizarre garb. Even if he were consumed by lust, I can’t imagine any man wanting to peel off these combat trousers. ‘Let’s catch up later,’ I add, determined to ensure that we don’t.

‘Lulu!’ he calls after me. ‘Can I grab you for a sec?’

There’s no escape. I slink round the door sheepishly. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he says, taking in my peculiar look. If I hadn’t made so much effort up till now, it wouldn’t matter. I must seem like such a loser: no one with a sniff of love in their life would be dressed like this on Valentine’s Day.

‘Have you got something that needs sewing?’

‘I haven’t been storing up mending for you!’ he says, laughing. ‘I wanted to give you this for your house-warming.’ He pulls out a bottle of champagne with a flourish. ‘To say thank you for being the one person who makes this job bearable.’

‘Oh!’ I say, blushing stupidly. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

‘I know, but I wanted to.’

‘Thank you, Charles,’ I say, a little too heartfelt. ‘Of course, if you want to come…’ Why did I say that?

‘I wish I could,’ he says ruefully, ‘but there’s bugger all chance of me slipping the domestic leash. You’ll just have to think of me when you drink it.’ He’s giving me the bottle, keeping hold of it a little too long so that our fingers wrap around it, dangerously close.

‘OK, it’s a deal,’ I tell him then mentally lash myself for overstepping the mark.

I force myself to leave before the heat’s turned up any higher, and spend the rest of the day hiding out in the wardrobe caravan working on the look of later episodes. I feel like I’ve drunk a vat of coffee, all jittery and distracted, a state which makes me miss Zelda all the more. She’d know there was something wrong and a dose of her tough love would instantly shake me back to normality. Instead I’m lost in a mental maze, one minute excited, the next desolate.

At six I decide it’s time to quit, internally awarding myself the prize for slacker of the year. The shoot won’t wrap till at least eight, but if I carried on working in my keyed-up state the parlourmaids would end up in latex bondage gear by episode nine. A judiciously proffered Cadbury’s Creme Egg means that Gareth’s forgiven me and promises to bring his unbeatable Gaydar to bear on Rufus later. I come through the door to find Alice relegating the fairy lights to the fireplace.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask her. ‘I turned over most of North London to find them.’

‘Yeah, they’re great,’ she says. ‘I just wonder if it’ll all look a bit more sophisticated if they’re snaked round the grate.’

‘Since when did we start throwing sophisticated parties?’ I ask, exasperated. ‘Themes are just an excuse to camp it up.’ She looks sheepish. ‘Oh, so he’s coming, is he?’ I continue.

‘Be pleased for me!’ she implores. ‘I dropped a note through and he texted to say he’d love to.’

‘OK, OK, I’m pleased. But you’re not turning our pink extravaganza into some kind of dreary, minimalist wake. And you’re not leaving me with Jenna –’

‘Did someone mention my name?’ trills Jenna, barrelling down the stairs.

‘Oh, hi…’ I say guiltily, but she hasn’t heard a thing.

‘I thought you might need some help,’ she says, all fake altruistic. ‘So I came back after school with Alice.’ Yeah, right. I know her game. Jenna will do almost anything to ensure she gets Alice’s undivided attention. I’m surprised she didn’t just have done with it and turn up for breakfast. That said, she’s brandishing stickers for what is quite an inspired party game.

‘I do it with the kids at school,’ she says. ‘They all charge around the hall with names on their chests looking for their other half. Perfect training for life!’

How can she possibly think that brainwashing 6-year-old girls that they’ll only be complete when they find their mate is an admirable exercise? I skip the argument and pore over the stickers.

I pick up the sheet. ‘So who’s Henry the Eighth’s opposite number?’

‘Well, there’s the fun!’ she says excitedly. ‘There’s Catherine Parr and Anne Boleyn: it could go either way.’

‘Well, we need some promiscuous women,’ I say, brandishing a pen. ‘It’s not fair if only the men get a lucky dip. There, Elizabeth Taylor. We can have Mike Todd and Richard Burton.’

‘Who the hell’s going to want to be Mike Todd?’ says Alice reasonably. ‘Even if Mike looks like George Clooney and Richard looks like Christopher Biggins, there’s a sense of destiny about who she’ll go for.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I tell her. ‘What we need to do is make sure we’ve got the best stickers. This might be the party where I finally get to be Roland.’

‘Of course you can be Roland!’ says Alice. ‘I’m sorted now Richard’s coming, so I can just focus on finding you a really hot Janet. Who do you wanna be, Jenna?’

‘So here’s the thing,’ she says melodramatically. ‘I’ve actually invited someone. You won’t believe how I met him.’ I bet I will. Jenna leaves no stone unturned, however fetid. ‘I was sitting in that coffee shop in Highbury after school, doing my marking, right opposite William Hill.’

‘Who’s William Hill?’ asks Alice.

‘William Hill the bookies?’ I ask, incredulous.

‘Exactly!’ says Jenna. ‘I told you you wouldn’t believe it. Anyway, this gorgeous guy parks his car on a single yellow and goes dashing in, but as soon as he’s through the door this traffic warden comes out of nowhere.’ Let’s see, who’d make the worst party guest: traffic warden or gambling addict? ‘So I go dashing out and tell him that Colin’s only just parked –’

‘Colin?’ says Alice. Jenna’s tone of loving familiarity suggests that she and Colin are at least three years into a happy marriage.

‘Yes, that’s his name. Still, you can’t have everything! Anyway, the traffic warden’s absolutely merciless, won’t back off, so I have to go into the bookies and try to find him.’

‘Why did you have to go and find him?’ I ask her.

‘It was my civic duty, Lulu,’ she says sternly. ‘Those traffic wardens are money-grabbing parasites. So, anyway, I can’t see him at first, but then I find him right in the middle of a crowd of men cheering on this horse. You can imagine how out of place I looked. He really loves racing, so he was a bit annoyed with me interrupting, but when I explained he was ever so grateful. We dash back out there, just as Mr Meter Maid’s starting to write out the ticket, and stop him in the nick of time.’

‘Then what?’ asks Alice nervously. ‘Have you actually been on a date?’

‘We parked up round the corner and then he wanted to go back to find out how Bruno’s Mate had done.’

‘What, the horse?’ I ask, fervently hoping the story doesn’t conclude with a threesome.

‘Yes, but he’d lost so we had to put a couple of other bets on. It turns out to be great, great fun – we should all go some time.’ Luckily she’s too involved in her narrative to notice the lack of enthusiasm. ‘Eventually this handsome great stallion won, so then Colin asked if he could spend his winnings on buying me a thank-you drink. Actually they were our winnings, because when he explained how it worked I put quite a bit of money up. Anyway, because of the biggish stake there was enough for a bottle of champagne, although come to think of it we’d lost a fair amount before that.’ Jenna pauses, visibly perplexed by the maths: clearly no one’s explained to her that bookies are running a business. ‘So we got really quite tipsy, outside that pub round the corner.’

‘The Warnock’s Head?’ I ask. Spit and sawdust doesn’t begin to convey its putridness. ‘Were some of your new friends from William Hill there too?’

‘Don’t tease me, Lulu! Besides, I was too busy snogging Colin to notice. He wanted me to come home with him, but I told him I wasn’t that kind of girl.’

‘So have you seen him since?’ asks Alice, open-mouthed with horror.

‘No, that was Wednesday, so I thought why not just wait till Valentine’s Day and have a date right here. I’m not sure if he knows it’s Valentine’s though: I didn’t want to mention it in case I seemed needy.’

‘No, quite right,’ says Alice.

‘I’ve got him a card though,’ she adds brightly. She pulls out a child’s birthday card, with a horse on it. ‘I’ve converted it. It looks so like our stallion,’ she says, gazing at it with a beatific smile.

‘Great!’ says Alice, lost for words for what might be the first time in human history. Unable to summon up a response, I decide it’s time to devise an outfit.

The ‘what to wear’ conundrum hits home particularly hard now there’s a new love interest to consider. Truth be told, it’s an eternal dilemma. When we were little we’d revel in wearing exactly the same outfits, feeling smugly insulated by our novelty status. As teenagers we’d fight over who’d get to buy the choicest items, hidebound by our similar taste. I decide that dressing down is simply not an option for my own party, and that the total lack of chemistry/mutual dislike between me and Richard means that Alice is already on safe ground. Feeling a bit rebellious, aware no one’s coming for me, I go for a silky black jumpsuit that I ran up for Zelda a couple of productions ago. We never got the actress it was intended for to go for it, so eventually I took it home. I top it off with a shower of costume jewellery and glittery eye shadow, hoping the ultimate effect is more Bond villainess than podgy cat.

As I’m piling on the slap, I struggle to comprehend the horror of Jenna’s latest pull. Is this what it comes to if you’ve failed to close the deal prior to thirty-five? I can’t waste any more time pointlessly fixating on someone else’s husband: I need to find one of my own. Love Alice as I do, I don’t want us to grow into some kind of aging end-of-the-pier freak show, finishing each other’s sentences and reminiscing about the days when we had actual menfolk. I change my cutesy pumps for a pair of scarily high heels and rack my brains for any guests who might be Janet-worthy, but no one springs to mind. Just then the doorbell goes and I find myself harbouring an insane delusion that the perfect man has been magnetized to the threshold by the force of my desire. But it’s only Rufus.

‘Hi, sis,’ he says, giving me an awkward peck on the cheek. ‘I just brought beer: does that make me persona non grata?’ He delivers this with the kind of ironic eyebrow wiggle that makes me both melt with sibling affection and despair of him ever getting his end away. Not to mention the beer, which is some kind of Lithuanian lager that even Oliver Reed might’ve baulked at drinking thirty-six hours into a merciless bender. Rufus rejects it himself, plumping instead for a glass of the pink Cava.

‘Is it getting you in the romantic mood?’ asks Alice, all excited about her matchmaking. ‘I really think you and Katy might go for each other, particularly now we’ve got the stickers. Do you want to be Rasputin?’

‘But don’t you always say she’s a social outcast?’ pipes up Jenna, just as I’m trying to find out who the hell Rasputin’s perfect partner is. Luckily Rufus isn’t listening to either of us.

‘The thing is, I’ve actually invited someone of my own.’

My pleasure at hearing that Rufus might be about to pop his cherry is immediately marred by selfish paranoia about being the only person in the entire world, or at least in this kitchen, without a sniff of sex on this most galling of days.

‘That’s fantastic!’ shrieks Alice. Who is… who are they?’

We’re both frozen with anticipation, poised to be as positive as possible if his date’s called Kevin.

‘Dinah. Her name’s Dinah.’

‘Dinah!’ says Alice. ‘Where did you meet her?’

Dinah turns out to be a trainee press officer at Rufus’s company. Six months out of a girl-heavy English degree, she’s been plunged into the male maelstrom of Panic Gaming, and of all the men she could’ve picked she’s plumped for our brother.

‘So have you actually kissed her?’ I ask bluntly, worried that he might be living in some kind of courtly love fantasy world, straight from the plot of one of his own games.

‘Yeah,’ he says, blushing so violently that the smattering of pimples on his chin illuminate like the Northern Lights. ‘It was amazing! We went on this away day in Milton Keynes and when we were on the train home she just grabbed me.’ Looking at his glowing expression you’d think that Milton Keynes had just unseated Paris as the city of love.

‘I’m so, so pleased for you!’ says Jenna, who’s always thrilled to have her faith in romance restored. She leans in with an encouraging smile. ‘So what’s her secret?’

‘Oh, you’ll understand when you meet her. She’s just got this – this incredible warmth.’

Alice and I are drawn away by a knock at the door, leaving Jenna to carry on the interrogation. It’s a gaggle of our school friends, who immediately demand to know which one of us is which. I love the fact that we’re still in London, still in touch with some of the gang we grew up with. A lot of our past has gone, with Mum no longer here and Dad on the other side of the world, so keeping hold of fragments of our formative years helps me to feel we’ve got roots. Even my first ever snog, Chris Tucker, has made an appearance, spooking me with his newly balding pate. It’s a crushing reminder we’re none of us Dorian Gray; how long have I got before my first grey pubic hair makes an appearance?

There’s also Amanda and Naomi, who were our permanent partners in crime. As I get them a drink and a sticker, Naomi asks sotto voce what the available man count is like.

‘We just need some guests, full stop,’ I tell her anxiously, attaching Prince William to her chest (not literally). It’s nearly nine and the head count is still in single figures. But as soon as I say it, I lift the curse. The doorbell starts pealing out relentlessly, with guest after guest tumbling through the door. I’m touched by how many people who I’ve worked with in the past pitch up. Sometimes it’s nice to feel appreciated by people who appreciate me for me, not just as one half of a double act. There are also hordes of teachers, lots of our university friends and a good cross-section of people I don’t even recognize who’ve come along for the ride. A case in point is Docker, a druggy-seeming friend of my university pal Jezza. Known as ‘Jezza Plus Six’ for his compulsion to travel everywhere with an entourage, he’s brought a whole gang of mates who look like the bastard offspring of the Stone Roses. They all have one-word names and dirty fingernails and waste no time setting up the huge record decks they’ve brought with them.

‘Jezza, I told you not to do this,’ I hiss, spotting Alice looking distinctly unimpressed.

‘Sorry, Lulu,’ he says, about to intervene, but is stopped in his tracks by Alice launching into Docker.

‘I think everyone’s quite happy with Frank Sinatra,’ she tells him. ‘We’ve got a Valentine’s theme going on…’

‘Yeah, no, I get that,’ he says, barely looking up from his scarily huge box of records. ‘It’s just that it’s nearly ten o’clock and it’s about time we gave your do a bit of a shot in the arm.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, motioning me over. ‘But you’ve got no right to set the agenda in my house. Unplug those decks right now.’

I don’t mess with Alice when she’s angry, but Docker’s more fearless than me and simply drowns her out with the opening bars of ‘Step On’ by the Happy Mondays. An unexpected cheer goes up from the assembled masses and there’s a sudden flurry of dodgy dancing that was entirely absent during ‘Come Fly With Me’. I smile at Alice and give her a ‘who knew?’ shrug, but she ignores me, stomping off to the kitchen in a strop. I understand why she’s pissed off, but the party’s suddenly feeling way more fun, and I’m not sure I can deal with her righteous indignation. Instead I have a try at a dodgy shuffle with Jezza and even agree to a tequila shot proffered by Naomi.

The party soon becomes so packed that the entire house feels like a mass game of Sardines. Worried about Alice’s mood, I steel myself to seek her out, finding her wedged in the corner of the kitchen talking to a petite blonde in an expensive-looking wrap dress.

‘Lulu, meet Dinah,’ she says distractedly.

‘Oh, hi!’ I say, desperate to find out more about the woman who’s lured Rufus out of lifelong romantic hibernation. Dinah extends a perfect little paw towards me.

‘Lulu, what a treat to meet you!’ Her glossy locks are swept up in a swishy ponytail, exposing high, elegant cheekbones as white and unblemished as a virgin ski slope. She’s so pristine that she feels new, and yet there’s something about her that’s the opposite of young.

‘That guy has got such a nerve!’ spits Alice, before I have a chance to undertake a full-scale interrogation of our potential sister-in-law.

‘I don’t know, it’s kind of perking things up.’ Her neurosis is irritating me: I know she’s probably right, but I wish she could just let go for once in her life.

‘Perking things up?’ says an outraged Alice, as the opening bars of ‘Fool’s Gold’ shake the house to its very foundations. ‘We live in a conservation area! Most of our neighbours fought in the Boer War. Those handwritten notes we put through their doors aren’t going to cut it if we’re blaring out music all night.’

‘God, Alice, take a chill pill!’ I say, tequila making me reckless. I look embarrassedly at Dinah, who’s following our whole exchange with keen interest.

‘Could I offer you a soupçon of Laurent-Perrier Rosé?’ she asks Alice. ‘Just to calm your nerves?’

‘Oh, Dinah, you shouldn’t have brought something that posh!’ I tell her. ‘It’s incredibly generous.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ she says with a little smile. ‘No harm in pushing the boat out. Anyway, Cava tends to give me a bit of a headache.’

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘well, I for one would love a glass.’

Rufus appears at her elbow, lank hair sweaty and tousled. Dinah gives him a little peck and casts him a questioning glance.

‘Sorry, I was just wigging out to the Stone Roses. Man, your mate’s got some amazing tunes.’ I give Alice an ‘I told you so’ look and she gives a shrug of concession.

‘OK,’ she says, like I’m Docker’s keeper. ‘But please get him to turn it down a bit. I can’t relax while it’s that loud.’

I suppose the Jezza connection does technically make him my responsibility. I fight my way through the teeming hordes who’ve squashed themselves around his decks and beg him to play ‘She’s Like the Wind’, Alice’s favourite song from her favourite film, but he makes it quite clear his decks don’t do Dirty Dancing.

A few glasses of Cava down the road, I’m letting it all wash over me. I’m catching up with people I haven’t seen in an age, not even worrying about the fact that my life’s a love desert. Alice has cheered up no end since closing time delivered Richard fresh from the off-licence. She’s been glued to his side ever since, ignoring pretty much everyone in favour of hanging out in the corner of the garden. It’s not just lust: if Alice doesn’t feel in control, she likes to get as far away from the situation as possible. Which I guess leaves me in charge, but all I seem capable of doing is making pink drinks. As Amanda and I mulch strawberries in the blender for yet another round of margaritas, I’m assailed by a short, freckly redhead.

‘Batman!’ he says triumphantly, reaching his stunted arm up to clink glasses with me.

‘Good for you,’ I say. ‘Who are you here with?’

‘No, Batman!’ he says.

‘I’ve seen your label, me and Alice made them.’

‘You’re Robin.’

‘No, I’m Roland. It’s a long story, and it’s kind of stupid…’

‘No, you’re Robin. We’re Batman and Robin.’

And the horror is that it’s true. Drunk and love-struck, Jenna’s managed to write ‘Robin’ not ‘Roland’ on my label.

‘So you’re the mistress of labels, are you?’ asks the lascivious midget. ‘I’m privileged.’

‘No, the pleasure’s all mine,’ I say, desperately over-compensating for the fact that not even a million-pound cheque and a yacht would persuade me to so much as hold hands with him. I try to draw Amanda into the conversation, but he’s having none of it. Smirking away to herself, she goes in search of Humphrey Bogart. The midget refuses to tell me his name, insisting I call him Batman and rendering it impossible to make the kind of bland small talk that prefigures a hasty retreat.

‘So, Robin,’ he sleazes, ‘what would your superpower be?’

‘Um, invisibility?’

‘Oh, so you like to watch?’ he grins, wilfully misunderstanding me. All manners desert me when I spot Gareth stalking around the party, inspecting people’s outfits. I mutter something unintelligible and beat a hasty retreat.

‘I would’ve told you he wasn’t a fag, even without him having acquired a pop-up heterosexual to carry around,’ says Gareth, scrutinizing Rufus.

‘She could be a beard,’ I counter.

‘Don’t be absurd: he’s smitten!’ says Gareth and, looking over, I can see he’s right. Rufus is staring down at Dinah as she talks, not even attempting to join the conversation, happy to simply bask in her proximity. When she glances back at him, he instantly tries to adjust his expression, but can’t quite wipe the lovesick puppy look from his face. She reaches up and strokes his cheek and I think how maybe she just gets him. She understands how entirely without guile he is, how loyal, and isn’t put off by his gauche clumsiness.

I stare a little too long, feeling wistful.

‘You’re well and truly overdue, my girl,’ says Gareth. ‘It’s a shame the only remotely desirable candidate on “Last Carriage” is married with two point four children.’

‘Do you think he’s desirable?’ I ask in the kind of high, quavery voice that makes it quite obvious I’m being disingenuous (particularly as I haven’t even stopped to ask who he means).

‘Christ, yes,’ says Gareth. ‘Distinctly fantasy worthy. Talking of which, I’m promised to a threesome with a couple of Brazilians in Swiss Cottage. If it turns out to be a crasher, I’ll come back.’

‘Oh, OK,’ I say, wondering what would qualify it as a ‘crasher’. If it turned out they just wanted a third alto for a three-part harmony perhaps?

I walk Gareth to the door, only to find a furious-looking Mr Simkins standing at the threshold.

‘Mr Simkins, how lovely to see you. Would you like to join us for a drink?’ He stares at me with an expression of impotent fury. ‘Um, probably not. I’m very sorry if we’re making too much noise. I’ll go and turn it down right now.’

‘Sorry simply isn’t good enough!’ he says, leaning heavily on his stick and pushing himself up to his full height. As he’s drawing breath, I spot an insanely handsome man putting on his jacket in preparation to leave. A jacket with a neon label on it saying ‘Cock’. What a nightmare double bind. I want to shout from the rooftops that I’m his Robin and simultaneously ensure that Mr Simkins doesn’t get us ejected from the street for having a swingers’ party. As my head swivels back and forth, Cock mercifully decides to push his way back into the kitchen. By now our esteemed neighbour is in full flow.

‘I have lived in this street since 1960, which is, may I say, one of the most desirable addresses in North London. In all those years, we have never experienced this level of noise and disruption. I must ask you to instruct your young friends to don their coats and make their way to the Underground. It’s entirely unacceptable!’

As I grope for a reply, Gareth jumps in. ‘Louise certainly didn’t intend to inconvenience you, I’m sure. I give you my word that she and I will ensure that the party winds up immediately.’ Vaguely mollified, Mr Simkins gives a guttural harrumph and hobbles back to his house.

‘Oh Christ,’ I say. ‘How are we going to get everyone out? It’s not even midnight.’

Smooth and capable, Gareth manages to force Docker to turn the music down to a dull roar, and starts telling people we’re wrapping up. But no one seems interested in leaving and I can’t find Alice to help.

‘Damn it,’ says Gareth, peeling off his coat. ‘I can see there’s no chance of Gareth getting his rocks off tonight. This is exactly why my Christmas drinks are six till eight.’

‘Oh no, you don’t have to stay…’

But his mind’s made up. Steadfast to the last, he’s determined not to abandon me with the rabble. God knows it’s getting pretty Bacchanalian around here. The fake mistletoe’s going down a storm: right now Jenna’s playing tonsil tennis with… hang on, with Chris. When she comes up for air, I drag her aside.

‘What happened to Colin?’

‘Oh, Colin. It’s a long story.’ Oh no, not one of Jenna’s long stories. ‘He’s kind of been arrested. But me and Noddy have really hit it off!’

‘Kind of’ arrested? You have to hand it to Jenna; she’s grabbed a ‘Big Ears’ label and moved straight on. Still, if you can’t beat them, join them.

‘Come on, Gareth,’ I implore. ‘Let’s give it another twenty minutes. I’ve got to find Cock.’

I scour the kitchen, but there’s no sign of him. There are some scary-looking shapes in our bedrooms, all of which I decline to investigate. I’ve got no idea who he is, and asking random guests if they’ve seen Cock is just asking for trouble. I try to describe him to Gareth, but ‘tall, dark and incredibly buff with a label saying Cock’ fails to convince.

‘He’s clearly a mirage,’ says Gareth. ‘We need to concentrate on our ejection strategy, not our erection strategy.’

‘Blah, blah,’ I say, dragging him back upstairs to try the bathroom. I know he’s right; the music’s creeping up again and I need to do my duty, but I just can’t face being the big bad wolf. Right on cue, the doorbell gives a determined peal: could Simkins have returned with an octogenarian army?

‘Lulu!’ shouts Amanda.

‘I’m here,’ I whisper through the banisters. ‘Tell him we’re kicking everyone out.’

‘It’s a policeman!’ she says. ‘He’s asking for Alice by name.’

‘She’s got to be somewhere. I can’t face it and, anyway, she’s way less drunk than me.’

‘I know where she is,’ says Amanda, ‘she’s in the bathroom, but she’s in no fit state. Jenna’s projectile vomited over herself and about three other people. Alice is cleaning her up. It won’t look good – you’ll have to go.’

Typical. Jenna is such a bloody liability. Gareth straightens my hair and rips off my label.

‘You can do this, Lulu. Imagine you’re on-set, doing your thing.’

Despite his encouragement, I’m shaking like a leaf. I don’t want us to end up evicted with an ASBO. I descend the stairs slowly, counting them to try and encourage sobriety.

‘Hello, I’m Alice Godwin,’ I say, sticking my hand out with faux confidence, only to discover it’s not the first time I’ve deluded this particular policeman. Oh my God, is he going to throw my drunken arse into the cells on a charge of identity fraud? How can this be happening?

‘Don’t even bother to speak if you don’t want to,’ he says, much to my relief. At least I’ve got time to work on my defence. ‘There’s no excuse for me pitching up, but for some reason I can’t get you out of my head. Did I just say that out loud?’ He grins sheepishly.

‘Can’t you?’ I say warily, wondering where this is going. Gareth’s eyes are out on stalks, which reminds me just how buff PC Alistair Doo-Da actually is. I shoo Gareth away and try to focus.

‘No, I can’t. You were dead cheeky when I pulled you over, but you were also dead sexy. Did you get my card?’

‘Your card?’ I pause, catching up. ‘Oh, your card! Yes, thank you so much. I think, though, that picture wasn’t quite the look I was aiming for.’

‘It’s the kind of speed you should be aiming for.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah. Highway Code, chevrons, pelican crossings. Got it.’ I wish I could be this natural when I actually feel it for a man. With Charles I’m a gibbering idiot at least ninety per cent of the time.

‘Point taken. I’ll shut up,’ he laughs. ‘And you’re well within your rights to report me, but why don’t you come out for dinner instead?’

‘Do you wanna come in?’ I ask, playing for time. He is intensely, freshly handsome and his persistence is flattering. Although will having a policeman on site help or hinder our chances of an ASBO?

‘Can’t be done, I’m on duty. If you want to see me again you’ll have to come on a date. What do you reckon?’

I must want it. I need to want it. It’s no good chasing imaginary Cock and pining for another woman’s property. He looks at me with such warm directness that I hand over my number and tell him to call me. Just then Gareth reappears at my elbow, oozing aristocratic charm. Ali and I give him a rough appraisal of the situation, overlapping all over the place.

‘God, how devilishly romantic!’ says Gareth. ‘And how opportune. We so need your help.’

Gareth insists he comes in and helps us to persuade the army of guests that the party is well and truly over. Luckily no one name checks me and Alice stays hidden away on vomit detail, so my lie remains intact. He takes a single gulp of the wine I proffer and hands me back the glass, heading for the door.

‘I told you, I’m driving.’

‘But you could breathalyse yourself!’ I say.

‘I think I’ve broken enough rules for one day. Wednesday?’

‘I think so.’

‘No need to sound so enthusiastic.’

‘I’m just a bit rusty, that’s all.’

‘Find that hard to believe,’ he replies, giving me a subtly appraising look. He’s cute, no question. But he’s not Charles.

He kisses me on the cheek and zooms off into the night, leaving me tipsy and befuddled on the doorstep. Was that the most or least romantic Valentine’s Day ever? I guess I’ll know soon enough.