Page 82 of Last Christmas in London

‘I’m too old for this sort of dress,’ Pim said suddenly, batting at the stylist, so that I had to step in.

‘You look amazing,’ I said, standing in front of her so she had nowhere to go, and the stylist could finally zip her up and stand straight again. We all heard her back crack under the strain. ‘Just like a star.’

‘Not like a Met Gala freakazoid?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to look like I’m attending Heidi Klum’s Halloween party.’

‘You look like you’re going to Elton John’s Oscar after-party,’ I countered, gently pulling up the sleeveless gown at the sides so that it hugged in all the right places.

She looked amazing, and not just ‘for her age’, as the press would no doubt say, but just in general. Her reflection in the full-length mirror was a study in elegance: navy silk clung to her curves, silver embroidery along the seams catching the morning light, making her look almost ethereal. But Pim wasn’t seeing that.

‘I look like Delia Smith.’

‘More like Nigella, if we’re going down the chef comparisons.’

‘So long as it’s not Jamie Oliver, I suppose it will do,’ Pim said, somewhat dejected, as she slumped back into her make-up chair and allowed the make-up artist to finish off her contouring as the stylist quickly whipped over a cape to protect the dress.

Taking a rare moment to myself, I stepped back, leaning against the cool marble wall, listening to the room as it hummed on; steam rising from a curling iron, the quiet snip of scissors, as someone made final adjustments to a hem, the spray of perfume and calls to ‘blot’ as Pim’s lipstick was applied.

A manicurist, waiting for her turn with Pim, joined me.

‘What are we going to do without you?’ she said kindly. ‘We wouldn’t even get a quarter of the way through the prep work if not for you.’

I smiled. ‘Oh, Alison will do a great job.’

‘Maybe eventually, but I don’t envy her the first few weeks.’

I crossed my arms, getting comfortable. ‘It’s something you pick up quickly, when you’re thrown in at the deep end. You either sink or swim.’

The manicurist hummed knowingly. ‘I doubt Pim was throwing many lifelines your way?’

I released a quiet laugh. ‘She’s not too bad when it’s just day-to-day. It’s only at events like these when she’s a bit tougher to handle. The trick is to be prepared for anything.’

As if summoned by my words, Pim suddenly cried out, ‘Evie!’ She was lifting her arm to wave me over, even though I was barely a cushion’s throw away.

‘I’m here,’ I said, appearing automatically at her side.

‘Is my bag packed?’

‘For the show?’ I asked. She nodded, irritated that I had to ask. ‘Yes. I’ve got your clutch for the stage, so you’ll have everything you need with you.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘A tissue, a breath strip, a soluble paracetamol, a nail file, all your notecards.’

‘Right, right,’ she said, clearly straining through her memory in case I missed anything. ‘And for after the show?’

‘Your larger clutch with room for your lipstick, extra tissues, hand sanitiser, chewing gum, standard paracetamol, blister plasters, foldable flats, a jade roller, and a small can of espresso martini.’

‘Right, right,’ she repeated, this time shutting her eyes and rubbing the space between them. Her make-up artist barely suppressed a groan as she undid twenty minutes of work with that one thoughtless gesture.

Then, to my surprise, Pim reached for my hand.

The room, sensing the shift in mood, instinctively scattered. Assistants busied themselves elsewhere, the manicurist pretended to be absorbed in her polish selection, and the stylists found clothes bags that suddenly needed attention.

‘You’ll be backstage?’ Pim asked quietly.

Her grip on my hand was firmer than I had expected, but I noticed the slight tremor, and squeezed it gently.

‘Of course,’ I replied.