But … you never know what might happen next.
We'll take it from there.
Oh God. Oh God.
On Saturday morning I get up extra early, exfoliate all over, Immac under my arms, rub in my most expensive body cream and paint my toenails.
Just because it's always a good thing to be well groomed. No other reason.
I choose my Gossard lacy bra and matching knickers, and my most flattering bias cut summer dress.
Then, with a slight blush, I pop some condoms into my bag. Simply because it's always good to be prepared. This is a lesson I learned when I was eleven years old at Brownies, and it's always stayed with me. OK, maybe Brown Owl was talking about spare hankies and sewing kits rather than condoms, but the principle is the same, surely?
I look in the mirror, give my lips a final coat of gloss and spray Allure all over me. OK. Ready for sex.
I mean, for Jack.
I mean … Oh God. Whatever.
The family day is happening at Panther House, which is the Panther Corporation's country house in Hertfordshire. They use it for training and conferences and creative brainstorming days, none of which I ever get invited to. So I've never been here before, and as I get out of the taxi, I have to admit I'm pretty impressed. It's a really nice big old mansion, with lots of windows and pillars at the front. Probably dating from the … older period.
'Fabulous Georgian architecture,' says someone as they crunch past on the gravel drive.
Georgian. That's what I meant.
I follow the sounds of music and walk round the house to find the event in full swing on the vast lawn. Brightly coloured bunting is festooning the back of the house, tents are dotting the grass, a band is playing on a little bandstand and children are shrieking on a bouncy castle.
'Emma!' I look up to see Cyril advancing towards me, dressed as a joker with a red and yellow pointy hat. 'Where's your costume?'
'Costume!' I try to look surprised. 'Gosh! Um … I didn't realize we had to have one.'
This is not entirely true. Yesterday evening at about five o'clock, Cyril sent round an urgent email to everyone in the company, reading: A REMINDER: AT THE CFD, COSTUMES ARE COMPULSORY FOR ALL PANTHER EMPLOYEES.
But honestly. How are you supposed to produce a costume with five minutes' warning? And no way was I going to come here today in some hideous nylon outfit from the party shop.
Plus let's face it, what can they do about it now?
'Sorry,' I say vaguely, looking around for Jack. 'Still, never mind …'
'You people! It was on the memo, it was in the newsletter …' He takes hold of my shoulder as I try to walk away. 'Well, you'll have to take one of the spare ones.'
'What?' I look at him blankly. 'What spare ones?'
'I had a feeling this might happen,' says Cyril with a slight note of triumph, 'so I made advance provisions.'
A cold feeling starts to creep over me. He can't mean—
He can't possibly mean—
'We've got plenty to choose from,' he's saying.
No. No way. I have to escape. Now.
I give a desperate wriggle, but his hand is like a clamp on my shoulder. He chivvies me into a tent, where two middle-aged ladies are standing beside a rack of … oh my God. The most revolting, lurid man-made-fibre costumes I've ever seen. Worse than the party shop. Where did he get these from?
'No,' I say in panic. 'Really. I'd rather stay as I am.'
'Everybody has to wear a costume,' says Cyril firmly. 'It was in the memo!'
'But … but this is a costume!' I quickly gesture to my dress. 'I forgot to say. It's um … a twenties summer garden-party costume, very authentic …'
'Emma, this is a fun day,' snaps Cyril. 'And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?'
'Oh.' I pull the regretful face I've been practising all week. 'They … actually, they couldn't make it.'
Which could be because I didn't tell them anything about it.
'You did tell them about it?' He eyes me suspiciously. 'You sent them the leaflet?'
'Yes!' I cross my fingers behind my back. 'Of course I told them. They would have loved to be here!'
'Well. You'll have to mingle with other families and colleagues. Here we are. Snow White.' He shoves a horrendous nylon dress with puffy sleeves towards me.
'I don't want to be Snow White—' I begin, then break off as I see Moira from Accounts miserably being pushed into a big shaggy gorilla costume. 'OK.' I grab the dress. 'I'll be Snow White.'
I almost want to cry. My beautiful flattering dress is lying in a calico bag, ready for collection at the end of the day. And I am wearing an outfit which makes me look like a six-year-old. A six-year-old with zero taste and colour-blindness.
As I emerge disconsolately from the tent, the band is briskly playing the 'Oom-pa-pa' song from Oliver, and someone is making an incomprehensible, crackly announcement over the loudspeaker. I look around, squinting against the sun, trying to work out who everyone is behind their disguises. I spot Paul walking along on the grass, dressed as a pirate, with three small children hanging off his legs.