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Then as my eyes drift around the hot, heaving room, through a crowd of strangers, I see him. Jack.
Or should I say .?.?. Jack asTitanic’s Jack Dawson. Holding a small wooden door.
*
‘I ammortified.’ I have almost finished a glass of white wine and I’ve only been at the bar five minutes.
How has this happened? How is it that Jack and I are theonlyones in fancy dress? I’m dressed like someone who’s about to scurry onto the stage of a play and rearrange the props, and he is dressed like a poorTitanicpassenger, and all while everyone else is, at the very least, in smart dress and, at the most, in dresses that wouldn’t look out of place at the bloodyOscars .?.?.
‘I am so amused,’ says Jack, giving the lip of his flat cap a yank. The wooden door and my movie frame are leaned against the bar beside each other at our feet. You can actuallywearJack’s wooden door; slip your arms through the front, so it looks like your chin is resting on it.
‘Well, I’m gladyou’reamused,’ I say to him, as he leans against the polished bar with his elbows. ‘I feel a bit like a tosser.’ But also, amazingly, it isn’t getting to me as much as it normally would. A life, A.E, I expect. It has a way of desensitising you. Turning up in a silly outfit is nowhere near as agonising as getting emotionally naked in an email and sending it ‘to all’.
‘You’re a movie star,’ Jack replies and he leans forward, pressing an arm to mine. And of course, he smellsevenmore amazing than he normally does. ‘You’re not allowed to feel like a tosser.’
‘If you say so.’ I glance up at him, and notice there are what look like icicles hanging from his hair. I burst out laughing. ‘God, you look ridiculous,’ I say. ‘And also, you’ve totally nailed it. Like –perfected it.’
And he has. He looks truly brilliant. Genius. And I didn’t think I could find anyone in braces and a tatty shirt attractive (well, except nineties Leo himself of course), but I actually can’t stop looking at him. What feels like a flurry of baby butterflies are batting away, in my stomach and my chest. He has those Jack Dawson eyes too. The piercing, beholding-a-million-things-he’s-thinking-but-won’t-say eyes. (So hypnotising, they made Rose pose nude, lest we forget.)
‘Whereas, I,’ I say into my glass, ‘look like someone who might pick-pocket someone while hanging from the ceiling during a heist.’
Jack grins. ‘Well, for what it’s worth .?.?. I think you look hot.’
Oh my God.
Jack. Just called me hot. And .?.?. thisisbeyond chief of staff stuff, isn’t it? Heisflirting with me. This is not me reading into it incorrectly.
‘Well. Thank you,Mr Dawson.’ And nowI’mflirting with him and thank God for this make-up because I absolutely am, in this moment, full-blown red cabbage face. So red cabbage, I fear someone would stick a rosette to my face: 1stprize.
‘I’m serious,’ he carries on, as if it’s fact. ‘Plus, you’ve got the whole catsuit thing too .?.?.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, it isn’ttechnicallya catsuit—’
‘Well, whatever it is,’ he says, and he gives a slow smile, his mouth closing, as if he’s stopping what he really wants to say from coming out, and I laugh (and find myself wishing he’d elaborate).
The music gets louder, and more and more people arrive, and some in outfits so glam, it only makes our outfits look even more ridiculous. There’s even a woman with a furstoleover her arms.
‘So, what actually happened?’ I ask, over the music. ‘Yousaidit was a fancy dress party.’
‘Ah, see, I looked at theoldinvite. The pre-cancelled-and-rescheduled invite. And we weren’t the only ones. If you’d arrived just half an hour before you did, you’d have seen Paul Foot in fullBaywatch. Like .?.?. Pamela Anderson style. Swimming costume. Float under his arm. Blonde wig.’
‘No!’
‘Oh, yeah. He went home to change.Coward!’ Jack calls out across the dance floor, but Jolly Postman Paul, now in a very anodyne white shirt and trousers, doesn’t hear, and carries on dancing with Martha, his wife, although neither of them look like they’re having a very nice time.
‘And plus, look, we can be the stars of the show now,’ says Jack, pushing off from the bar. ‘It’s like – it’s like Disneyland. You know? When you go to Disneyland, nobody gives a shit about all the normal people walking about. Everyone wants to see Mickey. They want to see Buzz Lightyear. That’s us. Buzz Lightyear and Mickey Mouse.’
‘Yeah, well, you could’ve texted ahead,Buzz,’ I say.
‘Well, that’s no fun now is it, Mickey?’ He grins, and my cheeks are aching at how much I’m grinning back at him. I actually don’t think I’d care if I was dressed like Barney the Dinosaur in this moment. Cate was right. I’m really, surprisingly, enjoying myself.
I order another drink, and a woman appears with a huge platter of canapés. Tiny little brisket rolls, with the cutest, teeniest mini deep fried onion rings hanging on the buns, through a toothpick, like a ring toss. She heads straight for me, and I almost squeal at the sight of them.
‘Oh my God, I’m making mini onion rings thesecondI have an hour to myself in the kitchen. Jack,lookat these.’
‘Ah, see, we get canapés first. Admit it,’ says Jack to the server, taking one. ‘You served us first because we’re in costume.’
She laughs, and gives a tiny shrug, but doesn’t say anything.
