Page 65 of Commitment Issues
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Freddie
“I look bloody ridiculous.”
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, at the short skirt from the charity shop Cosmo insisted we raid a couple of days ago, and at the furry pink body warmer he’s dragged up from somewhere. But most of all I stare in disgust at the horned helmet. Because Norsemen didn’t have bloody horns on their helmets. I blame Hollywood.
“You look like a hot and very gay Viking ready to pillage and ravish. But you need a bit more…” Cosmo’s on me, brandishing something that looks like a small, stubby pencil.
“Get off me, you wanker.” I do my best to shove him away but he’s like a dog going for a very juicy bone. “I told you I don’t want any make-up.”
“I’m trying to butch you up a bit. You’re looking too clean and pretty to be a marauding Viking.”
I try to shake him off, but he’s on a mission, and before I can get rid of him, he’s smeared my face with something that looks like soot.
He stands back, triumphant, as he plants his hands on his hips. “There. Sexy as fuck. If I didn’t know you for the dickhead you are, I wouldn’t think twice about trying to get my hands on your helmet.”
He sniggers and I lob him what I hope is a steely eyed glare, but… I have to admit it’s made all the difference. The dark streaks he’s smudged under my eyes make me look sultry and moody, rather than just the moody I am.
“Why couldn’t we have had a normal party?”
“Because I wanted a fancy dress. And it’s my birthday, so I call the shots. God, twenty-five. I’m turning the corner into old age.” He gives an exaggerated, theatrical shiver. “And anyway, it’s the perfect excuse to wear this.” He pirouettes, light on his feet for somebody so compact. The pleated skirt fans out, along with the pigtail wig he’s wearing. I really don’t like to ask where he’s picked up the schoolgirl uniform from.
“I found it in an old box in the attic, at home,” he says, reading my mind. “Mum never throws anything out. I think this was Allegra’s. One of the few times a big sister comes in handy.”
“Let’s hope it looked better on her.”
“Oh, no, it wouldn’t have. She’s not got the legs for a short skirt. Unlike me.”
He flicks the skirt upwards, revealing a bright red pair of pants.
“Now get out of my way.” He shoves me aside. “I’ve got to do my make-up.”
Tutting, I leave him to it.
* * *
The large kitchen-diner’s been transformed, and I’m pleased with our efforts and all the hard work we’ve put in to get it ready for the party.
Food’s laid out over the counter, easy to eat nibbly stuff, covered with foil and cling film. The fridge is stacked with beer and wine, and bottles of sprits crowd one end of the worktop. We raided Waitrose and I’d almost passed out when the cashier rang up the final amount. It was more than the GDP of a medium-sized country, but Cosmo hadn’t batted an eyelid.
In each corner of the room there are massive pink helium balloons. 25 Today! Birthday Boy! Pink Princess! I snort… Yeah, Cosmo has Princess tendencies, all right.
I worm a finger under one of the foil wrappings and pull out a honey-glazed cocktail sausage, and pour myself a glass of wine before I wander into the living room.
All the furniture’s either pushed to the sides or removed. It’s a large room but now it looks enormous.
Swathes of pink silky material festoon the ceiling, from the edges to the centre, where we’ve hung a large mirror ball. I smile when I look up at all the little glass tiles, remembering all the parties we had at our ratty student house when we’d been at university together.
Cosmo had been a worldly wise nineteen-year-old to my gawky and timid eighteen. Only a year between us, but it made all the difference. I thought he was so cool, as he’d spent a year travelling after school. Or, I thought he was cool until I got to know him, and once I had, I’d liked him a whole lot more.
Like in the kitchen-diner, helium balloons bob and sway. Maybe a party’s what I need, something to stop me being the moody, miserable git not only Cosmo but my other friends have accused me of being for the past month. Drink too much, dance, find a willing guy to snog, all the better if he’s tall, and his hair’s streaked with steely grey…
No.
I swig back the wine, and cough and splutter, then knock back the rest. It’s already hitting my empty stomach.
“How do I look?”
