Chapter Fourteen

I’m hoping that the fact that Alice and I are operating on different time zones will protect me from too much domestic detail, but alas it’s not to be. And it’s not entirely Alice’s fault: while I know that the information will be like a knife to the heart, I simultaneously crave it. We cross over in the kitchen at around 11.00 the next morning and Alice immediately gives forth. Why is she quite so obsessed with the Adamson family values? Perhaps her friendship with Bea is based on more than temporary rural isolation.

‘Max is such a little charmer,’ says Alice. ‘He was doing all these impressions of his classmates and dancing like the Fimbles. You can totally tell he’s the offspring of an actor.’

‘I haven’t noticed Charles doing any Fimbles dancing,’ I say, ‘though we haven’t shot the ball scene yet.’ I’m immediately catapulted into a sense of our intimacy, our closeness. How can a relationship this tangible and important be so destructive? ‘So what’s Bea like with the children?’ I ask, wondering if she’s got that same chilly remoteness with them that Charles’s description of their marriage conjured up. ‘It must be pretty hard for her being at home all the time.’

‘If it is, you wouldn’t know it,’ replies Alice. ‘She seems like a real natural. She’s very focused on them: you don’t get the sense they bore her, like you do with some parents.’

Where’s the frustrated, angry woman that Charles describes? Hell, I guess she started out as an acting tutor. Why would she reveal her inner demons to a friend she’s had for all of twenty-four hours?

‘Anyway, you’ll see for yourself on Friday. I told her to count us in for supper, though I think she might make it more of a party.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask nervously.

‘Oh, she said Charles has been finding this job a bit of a struggle and she was wondering if she should ask all these tricky customers over and charm them into submission. And she’s determined to shake some hot men out of the tree for us too.’

Can’t she just shake her husband out of the marital bed instead? God strike me down – why do I keep having such evil thoughts? The last thing I want is to turn into some kind of husband-rustling harlot.

‘She’s wasting her time, unless three days away from Richard has left you craving the fat sixty-year-old who’s in charge of the honey wagon.’

‘Honey wagon?’

‘It’s a portable toilet.’

‘Mmm,’ laughs Alice. ‘Still, it’d be quite a luxury to never get caught short. Anyway, I was thinking more about you.’

‘Why?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘I hope you’re not weakening.’

‘Oh, Lulu, he’s been so apologetic. He says he sent flowers, but they got returned because I’m up here.’

‘Give the man a round of applause, he sent some hypothetical carnations. He also dumped you repeatedly, using colons.’

‘I know, I know,’ she says, making an expedient bathroom exit.

She promises me her resolve is still firm and I have little choice but to believe her. Besides, I’m too tired for a full-scale counter-brainwashing operation. Night shoots provide a peculiar kind of jet lag, and I fall into a welcome coma as soon as my head hits the pillow. I return to set at six, only to find the schedule’s been shuffled to accommodate Charles’s unexpected illness.

‘Pansy flu,’ mutters Tarquin as he rehearses Emily for a scene in which she sobs pensively and prettily on a moonlit bench. Her face lights up when I bustle over to rearrange her ridiculously low-cut serving wench outfit. I swear she’s turned it down over her bountiful breasts in order to give the nation’s red-blooded men more of an eyeful. Little does she know that period drama is almost exclusively watched by sixty-plus women in pince-nez, none of whom will be in the least impressed by a pair of knockers that look like warring puppies in a playpen.

‘Hope Charlie’s going to be well enough for his own party!’ she says.

‘Oh,’ I say flatly. ‘The party.’

‘You have been invited, yeah?’ asks Emily keenly, displaying that sly perceptiveness that always catches me out.

‘Yes, I know about it,’ I tell her, which isn’t quite the same thing. How come he’s texted her and not texted me? And is he really ill, or simply lying low?

‘I thought you must’ve been, what with you being such good friends and everything. We could do with a bit of a piss-up, all in all.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be a riot!’ I tell her brightly, trying to yank some extra fabric over the mammary mountain.

‘Tell you what, why don’t we get ready together?’ she suggests. ‘I could get some fizz in and you can help me pick my best outfit, and –’

I cut short this vision of Friday-night perfection.

‘That sounds brilliant, Emily, but my twin sister’s staying…’

‘Double bubble – I’ll come to you. I love it when you get twins, it’s so mad and weird.’

Great, I can provide a freak show for my most treasured friend in all the world. I try to slip away prior to the eight takes of weeping, but Tarquin’s having a needy moment. ‘Want my dress lady,’ he says in a baby voice, grabbing my hand. I don’t know who he’s channelling today, but it’s strangely chilling. When they’re setting up the next shot he invites me back to his caravan, lighting up a tiny, pretentious cigar en route. Soon we’re ensconced, with me subtly trying to diffuse the noxious smoke that’s filling the tiny metal box.

‘What’s up, Lulu?’ he says, gyrating his shoulders in a curious fashion. ‘What gives?’

‘Um, what gives? Well, I don’t know, Tarquin, I’m just throwing all my firepower at the ball, and hoping that I’m going to deliver you the kind of spectacle you’re craving.’

Why am I talking like it’s the 1940s and English is my second language? I find him so utterly unpredictable that it’s impossible to relax.

‘Now that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘The ball?’

‘The ball indeed. I’ve had a bit of a change of heart, slight handbrake turn in my directorial vision.’ I look at him, stony-faced, and he gives a fake laugh. ‘We’re all allowed to take the road less travelled once in a while. Having Damien’s input has made me take stock.’

‘And what’s occurred to you, Tarquin?’

‘The ball’s small, let’s kick ass with the wedding!’ He’s drumming on the Formica table with a pencil, speaking in a strange rap. ‘It’s gotta be the climax, Percy’s got his dame, he’s standing up for what he believes in. Love’s all that matters, Lulu, whatever the cost. That’s the point!’

I stare at him, emotional and practical reactions fighting for supremacy. Is he right, for once in his pointless little life? Is love all that matters? And even if it is, how am I going to claw back all the money I’ve spent on ball gowns and redirect it into the kind of elegant and restrained ensembles that a lavish wedding demands? Tarquin’s dismissive of the latter, and I choose not to share the former.

‘Dye them, Lulu, or cut into them with your magic scissors.’ He maniacally mimes cutting, just in case English really is my second language.

‘Have you talked to Suzanne about your change of heart?’

He waves away my concern. ‘She’s fine with it.’

‘So Damien’s obviously quite an inspiration right now.’

‘He’s my sparring partner, mate.’ He bounces around, shadow boxing. ‘He’s razed the citadel and blown me away.’

‘God, Tarquin, I’m so intrigued. Can’t you show it to me?’ I gesture towards the DVD player that’s set up in the corner.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he says teasingly. ‘You need to view it properly, when we can give it the focused attention it deserves. When we’re back on home turf: you and me, head to head with episode one.’

I sincerely hope he means in the edit suite, not in his hideous lair. The last thing I want to do is to start getting social with Tarquin, although the sociability’s set to commence this very Friday, at the party I’d most like to body-swerve in the whole wide world. I’d prefer to partake in Secret Santa with Charles Manson. Two days to go and counting.

Perhaps Tarquin’s ridiculous handbrake turn is a blessing in disguise, as I’m forced to wholly absorb myself in constructing a wedding far more opulent than I’d ever imagined. Suzanne’s as furious as I expected, but Tarquin’s got the executive producer eating out of his hand, so there’s little she can do. Gareth and I kiss and make up remotely, and he promises to go to the costumiers and charm them into coughing up a job lot of suitably spiffing garb, while I try to squeeze more cash out of Suzanne. So far she’s having none of it, invoking Zelda’s superior skills and implying that my only hope of winning her round is if I get a look at the cut.

Zelda, Zelda, Zelda. Gareth hasn’t managed to rouse her, and she hasn’t called me for a good fortnight. She often complains that the phone’s like a croaking frog demanding attention, so I decide to email her instead.

Just writing to Zelda allows me to somehow access what she’d pronounce. I know she’d say it’s not a time for flamboyant artistry; instead I need to go back to basics, study the books and work out exactly what would’ve been worn at the time. Luckily I’ve brought a pile of weighty costume tomes with me, so I set off home, trying to keep focused on the job in hand. If I can distract myself enough, perhaps the dull ache inside will subside quicker than I think.

Alice has got music blaring out and a pot of water bubbling up for pasta. I give her a hug, perhaps too emphatic for a six-hour separation, and gratefully accept a glass of wine.

‘God, Barry’s a genius,’ she says, toasting me. She’s playing ‘Copacabana’ and jiving round the kitchen with the spaghetti.

‘I know. I think he might be playing the O2 in the summer.’

‘That’s it, we’re going!’

‘Consider it booked,’ I say, chinking again.

I’m mightily relieved that I haven’t got some weird cool sibling who listens to underground dark music and thinks Magic FM is for retards. Soon we’re wailing along to ‘Mandy’ as we smother our pasta in Parmesan.

‘Good day, fat face?’ she says, as it subsides.

‘You know, kinda mixed. I’m speaking to Gareth, which is good, but I’m going to need to cut up all your favourite clothes and dye them, which is bad.’

‘Very funny.’

‘How about you?’ I ask, then dread the answer. What if she went round to hang out with her new BF and came across Charles in his pyjamas? Now they’re in each other’s airspace, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to sustain the deception. Luckily, Bea, the world’s most devoted wife, discouraged her coming over because of Charles’s man flu. (Is he really ill? Is he a good enough actor to feign a temperature and streaming nose?) Instead she stayed at home, working on her lesson plans and constructing supper.

‘And not talking to Richard?’

‘And not talking to Richard,’ she confirms, sustaining eye contact for a convincing length of time. ‘Instead I made a cake! I am literally your wife.’

Maybe this sounds as weird and creepy as Emily says twins are, but sometimes I almost wish she were. Not in a gruesome, incestuous way, but I do find it hard to imagine anyone making me happier than she does. There is no one I feel more sure of, no one with whom I’m more certain that I’m loved. When one of us does meet the man of our dreams (sans wedding ring), it’ll be a bittersweet triumph. Of course, it will be wonderful, but it’ll also sound the death knell for the relationship that’s defined us since we were nothing more than a rogue maternal egg. Is it any wonder we need to make sure any potential candidate is more than worthy of the sacrifice?

Alice is bustling around in the larder (yes, there’s a larder!), finally emerging with a huge biscuit, much like a chocolatey paving slab. She’s spelled out ‘Sorry’ in Minstrels across the middle of it.

‘I didn’t have a recipe, so I tried to make an enormous brownie, but then I kind of burnt it and it didn’t have much interest in rising.’

‘You didn’t have to apologize for that! Though I never say no to a Minstrel.’

‘No, it’s sorry for being so moody about what you said about Dad. I want you to be able to say whatever you want to say.’

‘I know you do,’ I say, even though I’m not entirely convinced. I know she thinks she does: it’s not quite the same thing. ‘But Dad really doesn’t. He just shuts the conversation down if I try to talk to him.’

But Alice is off, racing across the course with solutions.

‘We should go to Boston and force him to hang out with us. We could take the train down to New York and –’

‘Yeah, maybe we should. But do you think he’d talk about things any more there than here?’

Alice looks at me a bit blank-faced and I blunder on. ‘About Mum, you know, what she was really like.’

A cloud crosses Alice’s face.

‘We know what she was like. She was… she was Mum.’

‘Exactly! What she was like beyond being our mum? What she was like to be married to, what she was like before we were born? What he fell in love with, I don’t know – what he didn’t love about her…’ I can feel myself choking up as I think of all the gaps in my knowledge. How much I wish I could ask her the questions, rather than trying to piece her together from wisps and fragments. ‘Why doesn’t he tell us?’

‘I’m sure he would,’ says Alice airily. ‘But, Lulu, don’t you think you might be making it all more of a drama than it needs to be? You can be such a worrywart sometimes. Now, do you want coffee or more wine?’

Alice busies herself clearing up while I go and retrieve my stack of books, trying not to feel like one of her five-year-old pupils who’s cried a bit too much when they’ve grazed their knee. I attempt to focus on the fact that she’s at least acknowledged our row and her kindly brewing of the much-needed coffee which gets me through my midnight work marathon – basically, what’s good, rather than what’s really annoying. Even so, I’m still left feeling grumpy enough to go and poo in a sandpit unbidden. I venture outside to see if Zelda’s mailed me back, fervently hoping she has. I go to the bottom of the freezing cold garden, the one place where there’s a scrap of signal, and hold my BlackBerry up to the moon. Success!

I almost cry with relief. Zelda will make everything all right, I know she will. She’ll crush Suzanne into submission or persuade Peter O’Toole to donate his costume back catalogue in exchange for her silence. I kiss Alice goodnight, thanking her for the cake, and sink into bed, determined to sleep the sleep of the just. As I’m so not entitled, I lie there thinking of Charles, wondering if he’s thinking of me too or if I’ve melted from his consciousness now real life’s arrived wholesale. Maybe he’s tossing and turning in some kind of Victorian fever, calling out my name involuntarily from deep within his nightshirt.

Judging by his streaming nose, bronchial cough and sheepish smile the next morning, he might well’ve been. He’s queuing for a bacon sandwich when I spot him, hacking into a hankie. Oh God, why do we have to get reacquainted in front of an entire line of hungry cast and crew?

‘Hi, hon!’ tinkles Emily, piling greasy sausages on to a paper plate. How does she stay so thin? ‘Looking forward to the party?’ I try my very best not to swivel towards Charles, but even from the corner of my eye I can see how stricken he looks.

‘Yeah, should be great,’ I stutter.

‘Good on you, Charlie!’ says Emily, earning herself a pinched smile. ‘Thought you might have to cancel, but you’re way too much of a party animal.’

‘Believe me, I tried,’ says Charles, casting me a plaintive look. ‘But my wife’s very persuasive.’

My wife: it hurts so much when he says those words, even though I’ve got no right to my anguish when I’m nothing but a pariah.

‘Come on, Emily,’ I say with forced jollity. ‘Let’s go and get you dressed.’

She and Charles are first up, in a scene rescheduled from yesterday. Charles has done his duty and married Lady Victoria, but he can’t flush out his feelings for Emily. Little wonder when she keeps handing him port in ludicrously low-cut serving garb, nipples eagerly standing to attention. I start my daily battle to create more coverage, feeling like a stern Italian nonna.

‘Stop it!’ she giggles, yanking the bib front of her dress down. Is she flirting with me? I honestly think she believes there’s no one impervious to her charms: men, women, iguanas. We compromise somewhere between our differing ideas of propriety and I lace her up at the back.

‘Can you do me a favour, sweetheart?’ she asks, head fetchingly cocked. Oh my God: what if she’s actually a lesbian? Maybe her grey-haired PR guru’s suggested that a burst of bisexuality will give her profile a pneumatic boost.

‘What do you need?’ I ask her uncertainly.

‘Can you run through my lines with me? Be Charlie boy? I’m sure you can do him to a tee. I got a bit tipsy with the camera boys last night and I didn’t do my homework. Naughty Emily!’ she adds, playfully slapping her own hand.

‘Um, OK. I’m the world’s worst actress though.’

‘I’m sure you’re not,’ she says, digging out the script from her handbag. I can see her point once we get started, as when you take the nipples out of the equation it’s clear the world’s worst actress has to be her. I try my hardest to distract myself with this fact, rather than allowing the schlocky but horribly pertinent dialogue to undo me. We try it once, before she disastrously asks me to switch round and play Bertha so she can get a perspective on the whole scene. There’s some awkward preamble before we get to the meat of the conversation.

‘Bertha, the pain of losing you is a wound so deep that it threatens my very existence,’ honks Emily.

‘Sir, the strictures of society would never allow us to find the happiness we craved. We must not talk of what we felt. It must be banished, extinguished.’

‘You are wise beyond your years, and I am all too conscious that I am married to another, yet still my unruly heart will not listen to reason.’ Emily pronounces unruly ‘unrowly’ which does rather ruin the line, but still I feel myself tearing up like the cretin I am.

‘We must control ourselves, sir, we must be stronger than the fire that burns so brightly inside each of our breasts.’

Emily snorts. ‘No one’s gonna be setting fire to these babies, not on my watch.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘Are you all right, darling? Dunno why you said you couldn’t act – if I could cry on demand like that, Tarquin would wet himself.’

‘Yeah, no, I’m fine. Just tired.’

‘Well, don’t go welching on the party tonight – you’re my wingman!’

Just then the third assistant director bursts in to say Emily’s needed on-set, saving me any more awkward interrogation. I walk down with her, trying my best to compose myself. I think Tarquin might’ve sprinkled an E on his cornflakes, as he envelops me in an enthusiastic bear hug before marching Emily off to discuss the scene.

‘Lulu, could you do me a favour?’ shouts over Kris, the handsome, bearded director of photography. What is it with me and favours this morning? ‘Emily’s stand-in’s got this bloody flu bug. Can you step into the shot so we can line it up?’

Forcing myself to swallow down the lump in my throat, I sit on the chaise longue they’re using, then get up as Charles’s stand-in grabs my wrist for the scene’s denouement.

‘That’s right,’ shouts Kris. ‘Now turn her towards us.’

We wheel round, straight into the eye line of the approaching Charles.

‘There he is!’ says Kris. ‘Step out of the shot, Mike, and we’ll try it with Charles.’

Oh no. Charles reluctantly steps in, his soulful eyes telling me how much pain he’s in. I try to silently communicate how much it’s hurting me too, then wonder if steely imperviousness would help us both more.

‘Take her wrist, step a bit closer towards her. That’s it, lovely!’

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he mutters, breaking the tension. I laugh, trying hard not to enjoy the feeling of his hand encircling my wrist.

‘Hold it while I check the shot with Tark the Nark,’ shouts Kris cheerily, leaving us in our strange tableau for a good two minutes.

‘Are you OK?’ whispers Charles.

‘What do you think?’ I ask.

‘If you feel anything like as glum as me, I’m desperately sorry.’

I’m horribly aware of how many people are lurking around, bored and hungry for scandal. Still, no one can hear us, and we’ve got a damn good excuse for our close proximity. Maybe I need to borrow a bit of Bertha’s will-power, even if I know the happy ending that rewards her won’t be on the cards.

‘We’ll be back in London tomorrow, with this gruesome party behind us, and off the job in a month,’ I hiss. ‘We know that we’ve got to extinguish it, it’s all we can do.’

‘Extinguish it?’

‘Yes, you know, the fire.’ Oh God, I’m so flustered that I’m taking it all too literally. If I’m not careful, my breasts are going to spontaneously combust. Fortunately Tarquin’s OK’d the shot, so we’re released. I jerk backward awkwardly on to Charles’s toes, mutter an apology and then rush off to the wardrobe caravan. I’m halfway back before I realize that I’m involuntarily gripping my wrist where his hand’s been.

Gareth’s left me four messages, demanding I call him immediately. He snatches the phone up on the first ring.

‘At last! What wickedness have you been up to that’s kept you from your phone all morning?’

‘Oh, you know, arsing around on-set. The usual.’

‘Bor-ing. You are long overdue for some scandal.’ Scandal is literally the last thing I need. ‘Perhaps now you’ve got that minx of a sister on site, you’ll get led astray. She should’ve packed that outrageously handsome rozzer in her hand luggage.’

Ali, I wonder how he is? Part of me would love to see him again, but asking him if he wants to be friends seems beyond patronizing considering my appalling behaviour. Gareth’s right, he is gorgeous. I should at least requisition him for someone else: maybe he’s the long-term solution to the Richard virus.

‘Anyway,’ continues Gareth, ‘that wasn’t the purpose of my call. There’s a serious costume drought.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Americans have stormed into town and staged a smash and grab. They’re shooting some ghastly Hollywood version of a Mrs Gaskell novel and they’ve decimated Angels. Even if we had enough money to hire anything, there’s nothing to be had.’

‘Couldn’t we take it for a couple of weeks and then send it back? Besides, they can’t possibly have taken everything.’

‘I know I’m something of an exaggerator, but this is the God’s honest truth. They’re positively swimming in green-backs so they’re keeping their options open by snaffling it all. Every last frock is being packed into crates and shipped out to LA when the production moves back next month.’

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God. I wonder if we could speak to them? Or get Zelda to? Meanwhile, we’ll just have to work on the basis that we’re making it all from scratch.’

Gareth and I chew it over a while longer then I literally go back to the drawing board, trying to work out if there’s something parsimonious to be done with flimsy muslin and floppy hats. I also research who the rival costume designer is, discovering to my horror that it’s Oscar-winning legend Timothy Le Grande. Le Grande is all too appropriate a name: whippet thin and silvery, he’s so aloof and self-important that even Zelda is cowed by him. I think she trained under him in the distant past, but their one-time association makes him no less condescending. Fat chance of sweet-talking him into sharing his precious crinoline stash.

I suppress the serpents of stress crawling round my stomach, forcing myself to stay focused. As a result, it’s 8 o’clock before I know it: I speed home, tumbling through the door to share the horror of Emily’s master plan with Alice. She’s more thrilled than horrified – there aren’t many stars of ‘EastEnders’ hanging around the corridors of Sandringham primary school, and she’s unaccountably keen to ask her what Ian Beale’s really like (despite me pleading with her not to). It’s kind of sweet in a way, though I reckon the novelty will wear off after two hours of Emily’s inevitable monologue about her hair extensions/nipple piercings/pubic topiary.

She’s banging on the door long before I’ve extinguished Alice’s star-struck madness, bearing the very same bottle of Co-op bubbly that Charles and I shared that fateful night.

‘Viva la party!’ she shrieks, presumptuously rifling through the cupboards for glasses. She fills three to the brim before proposing an unexpected toast to me. ‘Your sister’s a little bit of wardrobe magic,’ she tells Alice. ‘She’s the only person I trust.’ Is it me or is she about the third person on this job to make that statement?

‘That’s not true,’ I say, embarrassed. ‘You trust Charles.’ Oh God, why do I keep doing that ridiculous giveaway of bringing any conversation back to him?

‘I s’pose so,’ she concedes, ‘but he’s not a mate.’

And suddenly I feel a wave of compassion for her. Yes, she’s a spoiled brat, but celebrity is most definitely a curse as well as a blessing. However hard she tries to conceal it, I can see Alice is still impressed, unable to relate to Emily as a random work colleague that’s pitched up. No wonder she thinks my lack of dazzlement signifies something special. If you’re famous, you can either choose to believe the hype, that you’re somehow worthy of open-mouthed awe, or not believe the hype and permanently feel like a fraud. Either way you’re buggered and that’s before you factor in your near-inevitable fall from grace. Rest assured that in a few years’ time Emily will be praying to get a call from ‘I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here’, even if right now she thinks she’s too good to chow down on marsupial testicles for sport.

I simply smile in reply. ‘So what did you bring?’ I ask her, gesturing to the bulging holdall she’s dragged in.

‘I pretty much emptied my closet,’ she says. ‘No offence, but you don’t always work your own look all that hard.’ Bloody cheek. She can swan in at whatever random call time she’s decreed: I’m freezing my arse off in that caravan by 6.30 most mornings. It’s hard to see beyond a warm pair of jeans when you’re dressing in the dark (unless Charles is in, of course).

‘Thanks,’ I say through gritted teeth before recoiling in horror at the selection of Lycra handkerchiefs she’s showcasing.

‘And you, Alice,’ she says encouragingly, before casting a critical eye over our roundy bodies. She shrugs. ‘No matter, most of these are stretchy.’ Alice shoots me a frightened look as Emily waves a hot-pink monstrosity in her face.

‘Um, I’m not sure if that’s quite me,’ she tells her tentatively.

‘If there’s one thing your sister’s taught me, it’s that you’ve gotta be braver about colour,’ she insists. I did indeed tell her that, but only because a particularly lurid swirly purple silk was heavily discounted in Berwick Street market – this must be a special wardrobe version of karma. A little too intimidated to say no, Alice goes upstairs to squeeze herself into it. When she comes down I realize that I hadn’t seen the front, which is emblazoned with a lightning flash with SEX written in capitals through it. I try to wipe the abject horror off my face.

‘You look wicked!’ says Emily, clapping with delight. ‘Once we’ve got Lulu fixed up, you two are gonna look so crazy together.’ She looks back and forth between us like we’re in a particularly slutty circus and sets to work finding me something equally monstrous to wear. I jump in.

‘It’s a really eye-catching dress, but are you sure –’

Emily cuts across me. ‘Yeah, she looks really cool.’

‘I wasn’t sure at first, but now I like it,’ says Alice, preening in the mirror. Is she mad? She’s behaving like it’s Kate Moss who’s thrown open the doors of her wardrobe. I cast her a questioning look, but she just pulls the dress down a fraction and smiles back. Emily’s on a roll now, and I sense I’m vulnerable. She holds up scrap after scrap of rainbow-hued fabric.

‘No… It’s brave, but no… Thanks, Emily, but I think I’ll pass.’

After I’ve rejected about four million of her suggestions, she starts to scowl. ‘I wanted to dress you for once, Lulu. I do know quite a bit about fashion as it happens. Evans asked me to design a range, but I said I didn’t really get fat girls.’

‘It’s a lovely thought, but I think I’ll just wear my boring old black dress. It never lets me down.’ I give a self-deprecating shrug and try to escape upstairs to retrieve it, only to find my own twin has turned against me.

‘Come on, Lulu, how about this one?’ she says, pulling a yellow frilly number out from the middle of the pile that I would only countenance if I were going to a party as Big Bird. Not that Emily would have any truck with a Big Bird, of course.

‘Yeah, it’s lovely, but…’ Emily’s got a slightly evil look in her eye now and I’m reminded how much she hates to be contradicted. Before I know it, I’ve been forced to try it on and parade around the living room.

‘Wear it, wear it, wear it!’ chant Emily and Alice boisterously. What the hell’s happened to my sane sister? Casting a look at the near-empty bottle, all becomes clear: knowing how miserable she is about Richard, it’s no surprise she’s drowning her sorrows. Our cab arrives right in the middle of their strange tribal dance and before I know it I’ve been manhandled inside. How could I let this happen?

Emily and Alice shriek and giggle all the way there, while I take deep calming breaths. When we pull up, I let them tear up the path, slowly bringing up the rear. It’s Charles who opens the door.

‘Hi!’ he says, before doing a horrified double take at Alice’s ‘Sex’ dress. ‘Wow, Lulu, that’s quite a dress you’re sporting.’

I step out of the shadows, mortified by my only minimally less terrible outfit.

‘Charles, meet my twin sister, Alice. Alice, Charles.’

‘Enchanted,’ says a drunken Alice, extending a hand.

‘The famous twin, do come in. And Emily, you’re looking lovely as ever.’

He steps aside to let us in, eyes communicating to me what an ordeal it is, then does another double take as the full horror of the yellow peril is revealed. I so wish I could tell him I’m wearing it under duress.

Fuck it, that’s the least of my problems. Bea’s the first person we encounter once we’re through the door, hugging Alice enthusiastically in a way that makes it obvious it’s her. Charles hovers, then slips away, jaw set, as I stare at the patch of carpet which once housed my knickers. Bea both confounds and confirms what I’d imagined. There’s a poise that I knew she’d have; she commands the space in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on. She’s more handsome than pretty, tall and muscular, with strong, well-turned features. Her long, dark hair hangs down her back like a glossy curtain, while her fitted black dress is plain but expensive-looking. She knows what works for her age and she’s dressing into it, rather than fighting it. The overall effect is a woman who knows who she is, who’s in control. But there’s also a warmth and inclusiveness that I hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps it just suited me too well to paint her as Cruella De Vil. A wave of guilt hits me as she moves her attention to me: please let this destructive mess have been about more than a passing desire to shag a younger model.

‘Well, it’s patently obvious who you are!’ she says, laughing. ‘I’m Bea, Charles’s wife.’ I try my best to smile as she loops an arm in mine, drawing me into the living room. ‘Let me find you a drink,’ she says, voice dropping as she continues, ‘and let me also tell you how bloody grateful I am to you for keeping my husband on the straight and narrow.’

Can this really be happening to me?

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, high-pitched.

‘Oh, he really didn’t want to do it. All ruffs and muffs he said, but it’s a slow time of year and I begged him to just take the pay cheque.’ She’s set up a drinks table in the corner of the room. ‘Vodka Martini OK by you?’

Martinis contain way too much alcohol for my liking, but I’m in no mood to argue. She drops her voice again.

‘Anyway, he says you’re the sanest person on the whole bloody job, a real mate. And judging by what a hoot your sister is, I’m sure it’s no exaggeration.’ Would he really have said that? I guess he might be clumsily covering his tracks by declaring half his hand up front – I am SO out of my depth with all of this. Bea hands me a huge Martini glass and chinks her own against it. ‘So thank you, Lulu – you’re helping to keep our children from the poorhouse. Or at least in socks.’

Socks, sex: who’s counting? Is this some elaborate double bluff to flush out if there’s anything going on? Bea’s clearly no fool and I can’t help wondering if it’s a trap. That said, there’s a sincerity about her that makes me think she’s straight up.

Nearly as straight up as the Martini, which I seem to have inhaled in a single gulp. I spy Tarquin bowling through the door in a ridiculous pinstripe suit and trilby combo, and experience the entirely unfamiliar sensation of being thrilled to see him.

‘Bea, you must meet Tarquin!’ I shriek with ludicrous enthusiasm.

‘Tark the Nark,’ she replies conspiratorially. ‘You’re right, I must.’

She leads the charge, effortlessly enveloping him in a cloud of warmth and charm. All his spiky conversational power play melts away as he sucks contentedly on the Martini she proffers like a baby on a nipple.

‘Charles has been so impressed by your approach to it all,’ she tells him gaily. ‘You’re a real breath of fresh air.’

Hot air, more like. I peel off, desperate to find Alice, only to find her deep in conversation with Charles.

‘Aah, Lulu,’ he croaks awkwardly, rocking back and forth. ‘We were just talking about you.’

‘All good, I hope,’ I replay, faux jolly, feeling like I’m at a Conservative Party fundraiser in Weybridge.

‘More than good!’ says Alice. ‘Charles is your second biggest fan after Emily. Who knew how clever my little sister was?’ she continues, giving me a hug.

‘Little?’ asks Charles.

‘Eight minutes,’ we chorus.

Charles gives a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes and lights up his face, the sort you produce when someone you love does something heartbreakingly endearing. You know, the kind of thing that shouldn’t even register it’s so insignificant to the average person, but that love goggles magnify to the power of ten. I’ve always thought that love is not something you can judge via what a person says – it’s more in the eyes, the way in which their pupils dilate when they gaze at you. Charles must detect he’s overstepped the mark, as he swiftly wipes the gorgeously sappy expression from his lovely face. Oh God. Falling in love is one thing; wading back out of the emotional quicksand is quite another. I will never take love lightly again: it’s a substance as hazardous and dangerous as kryptonite.

I’m so lost in reflection that I miss Bea’s approach. Suddenly she’s at Charles’s elbow, cocking her head towards his chest.

‘What have I missed?’

There are a million different ways to answer that question. Luckily Charles chooses an innocuous one.

‘We’re just discovering how much more mature and sophisticated Alice is than her errant twin.’

‘Ooh, Lulu seems pretty sophisticated to me,’ says Bea, looking at me keenly. She and Charles are close, but they’re not quite touching. Is she leaning in to him, or is their close proximity a natural fusion? I try to stop my eyes flickering between them for clues.

‘Excuse me, have you seen my outfit?’ I ask her.

Bea laughs. ‘It’s fun. God, I wish I was still the right side of forty and could throw on whatever I liked.’

Alice jumps in and says all the right things about how great she looks, while I work on my exit strategy. Luckily Bea beats me to it.

‘Darling, you really must talk to Tarquin,’ she tells Charles. ‘Go and make him feel loved. And will you just pop to the kitchen and get some ice out of the deep freeze?’

‘Think I’ll duck out for a fag first,’ he says.

She looks at him admonishingly. He stares back, silent, while Alice and I try not to make it obvious how awkward we feel.

‘It’s a party!’ he says, defensive, but trying to keep it light. She shrugs, gives him a pinched smile. I hate that I’m feeling a tiny bit pleased, a tiny bit reassured that there’s evidence to support his claims about the marriage. ‘See you in a wee while, ladies,’ he says, disappearing off. I’m sensing Bea’s still irritated as she scans the room for her next target. The beam of her attention fixes on Emily.

‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she says, striding over purposefully.

‘Do you know where the loo is?’ asks Alice.

‘There’s one at the top of the stairs on the right and one behind the kitchen,’ I tell her, before unwisely volunteering to get us another Martini. Perhaps if I’m seeing double I won’t know which Bea to be terrified of. I hang around the drinks table, trying to control my anxiety.

‘Penny for them,’ says Tarquin, dragging on another one of his choking cigars.

‘Oh, you know. Frocks, jerkins, tabards… I’m pretty shallow.’

‘Are you?’ he asks beadily.

‘Um, I hope not. No, no, I’m not.’

‘Didn’t think so.’

What’s that supposed to mean? Is it a compliment or something altogether more sinister? I feel like I’m swimming with a particularly pointless shoal of sharks. Case in point: here comes Emily, Martini glass aloft, with my bizarrely outfitted sister in tow. Emily paws my arm drunkenly.

‘Charlie’s wife is the best! She teaches acting, right, but she said she couldn’t fault me in “Enders”. Shannon was her favourite character for years. She said I was – I was… nuanced.’

‘Well, cheers to that,’ says Tarquin with uncharacteristic generosity.

‘Yes, cheers,’ says Alice, focused on me.

I decide the only way to get through the night is to be something of a social butterfly, flitting between people too quickly to have time to reflect. I avoid Charles at all costs, which conversely requires tracking his movements like a human GPS. Despite all the complications, I’m so glad to have Alice by my side, a welcome oasis in the midst of rocky terrain. And what a double act we make, a magnificent novelty that people long to fathom out. The questions we’re asked are always variations on a theme, but tonight they’re reassuringly familiar rather than head-thumpingly obvious. Maybe I should just accept that I’m better as a half than a whole. ‘Do you have weird, spooky, psychic twin moments?’ asks Kris, and we tell him about all the times we’ve come back with exactly the same outfit when we’ve gone out shopping separately (I swear Alice gave me a Chinese burn for this particular crime when we were thirteen, but she flatly denies it). Then there are the multiple occasions we’ve given each other the same birthday present, rather ruining the surprise. And the two or three times a day I might call Alice and get an engaged tone, only to find it’s because she’s picked that exact same moment to call me.

‘Though she’s called me less on this job,’ confides Alice to Tarquin. ‘You’re obviously keeping her too busy.’ I smile at her when she says this, trying to drain the sadness from my eyes. This relationship’s come at quite a price.

‘See, freaky deaky!’ says Emily, who’s trailed around after us, fascinated by every detail. ‘I wish I had a twin.’ Two Emilys, that’s quite a thought. Although Emily wouldn’t be Emily if she were a twin; she’d have had someone reminding her that she wasn’t altogether unique and extraordinary right from the off. I excuse myself to go for a pee – who knew my bladder could hold four vodka Martinis – but find there’s a queue. I head for the other bathroom, only to find a sign at the bottom of the stairs: Children sleeping, please do not ascend! I turn back, right into the path of Charles, who’s peering outside for a cab.

‘Lulu. There you are!’ He drops his voice. ‘How ghastly is this?’ He’s conspiratorial, but also slightly wry. Surely he can’t be finding this funny? That said, I think he’s even drunker than me, and if I didn’t know better I’d suspect there’s a whiff of spliff coming off him.

‘Really ghastly,’ I mutter.

There’s so much I want to ask, so much I want to say, but there’s too much danger of someone else appearing. I give him a brief smile then try to walk past, only to find he’s reaching out to stop me.

‘Charles,’ I hiss, ‘please don’t make it obvious.’ He pulls a puppy dog face which I ignore, pulling away and going in search of Alice.

‘I really think we should go,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to get the house straight before we leave and I’m starting to wilt.’

‘It’s just getting good,’ implores Emily. She grabs Alice’s hand. ‘I’ll tell you everything you want to know about Nigel Harman, and I mean everything.’

Oh no, surely my drunken sister won’t be able to resist an offer that good. But Alice looks back and forth between us before saying an apologetic no. ‘I think Lulu really does need to get back. I’ll ask Bea to ring us a cab.’

‘Off already?’ says Bea. ‘Let me get Charles on the case.’

‘Oh no,’ I say, ‘I can ring one.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ she says, calling out of the French doors at the back, ‘Darling, you’re needed. Can you come back inside and call the girls a cab?’

‘Hang on a tick,’ he shouts back. Charles is amongst a throng of smokers hanging out under the apple tree outside. Bea rolls her eyes at us, smiling apologetically.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, but she persists.

‘Darling, they really do want to get going.’

‘Consider it done,’ says Charles tersely, re-entering the room and weaving his way towards the phone. The call is brief and to the point, after which he retreats back to the garden. When the cab hoots outside, Bea hugs us both in turn, pausing to look me full in the face.

‘Such a treat to finally meet you, Lulu – you must come and visit us in London. Besides, the children will never forgive me if Alice doesn’t come and read them their bedtime story at least once a week!’

‘Lovely to meet you too,’ I say, ‘and thank you.’ The thank you is a little too emphatic. I’m hoping it means I’m desperately sorry in some obscure language I’m yet to learn.

‘Shall I go and retrieve Charles? I know he’ll want to say goodbye.’

‘Oh, not to worry,’ I say quickly, throwing open the door and letting in a gust of Arctic wind. ‘I see him all the time at – at work.’

I link arms with Alice, pulling her slippily towards the cab. Once we’re bundled in I breathe an audible sigh of relief, exhaling a great cloud of cold air. Alice turns to me abruptly.

‘So when exactly were you planning to share?’

‘Share what?’

‘The truth about you and Charles.’