Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I stick to a strict schedule: daydream all the way to work, spend half my day googling How to Tell If He’s the One (because heaven knows, I don’t want to make the wrong choice) and the other half researching wigs and outfits for my mum’s fancy dress party. So, you know, productive.
Come the evening, I order a takeaway and binge-watch Netflix to the point that I become so merged with the lives of the people in the shows I now think that I live in a beach house in San Diego with a couple of eighty-somethings named Grace and Frankie.
Occasionally I check in with my real friends. Charlotte messages me from her safari tent to say she hasn’t had any joy from the wedding caterers due to annoying privacy issues, and it will be Monday next week before I can get my mitts on the professional photographer’s wedding pics. I’m hopeful they will offer some clue to the identity of Kiss Number Three.
In my impatience, I briefly consider visiting a hypnotherapist, wondering if they could extract the memories I can’t access due to booze-fogging, but ultimately feel too nervous about revealing my premonition quirk, so I give it a miss.
Come Thursday night, with no word from Gareth, I realise there’s really nothing I can do to challenge Julianne’s bid on the flat. I don’t call Mr Atkins because if he tells me the deal is done, I’ll have to stop mentally decorating the whole place. At least today I get to meet up with May and chew things over with her. I do worry that seeing Teagan is not going to be the cathartic experience she’s hoping for but I hope I’m wrong.
As the escalator wields me up to ground level at Highbury & Islington station I spy her by the ticket machine and wave wildly. She looks the very hottest version of cool – skin-tight waistcoat reminding me what a toned arm looks like, black leather trousers with strategic slashes and blue tips added to her hair.
‘Well, you don’t want to look the same as you always did when you run into an ex,’ she shrugs when I compliment her.
She does, however, look uncharacteristically nervous.
‘Are you absolutely sure you want to see Teagan?’ I check.
She nods. ‘I’m sick of living with this dread of bumping into her. I need to get it over with.’
‘Okay,’ I say, sidestepping a businessman who seems intent on walking directly through me. ‘Let’s see if karma has begun catching up with its enormous backlog.’
‘I think I have to stop caring either way,’ May decides as we wait at the crossing. ‘It really shouldn’t matter to me what is going on in her life.’
‘Well, it’s only human to be miffed when your ex seems to get rewarded for her bad behaviour, while you get punished for doing nothing wrong.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was all sweetness and light.’
‘No one would ever think that,’ I assure her.
She smiles. ‘Anyway. It feels like time. Things are changing for all of us. I want to be able to move forward, too.’
‘Atta girl!’ I say as we burrow down into the subterranean space. ‘We might even have fun!’
Ah. I spoke too soon.
The place is full of late teens in mom jeans and Billie Eilish wannabes. I’m not sure my attempt at beatnik is translating – black cropped trousers and a boat-neck top teamed with a cerise scarf showing assorted scenes of Capri. I’m tempted to ask to switch shoes with May so I’m not so matchy-matchy but I can’t see her wearing any form of pink outside of a breast cancer ribbon. Even my make-up feels dated.
‘Where do you want to start?’ I ask, trying to suss the layout of the room. It seems as if the exhibits are divided into booth-like sections, a few of which are interactive.
‘Let’s go clockwise,’ May says. ‘That raised platform will give me a chance to scout the room.’
I learn from the brochure that the theme for the night is ‘Disruptive Beauty’ but the series of botched facial surgery portraits are a step too far for my delicate constitution so we hurry on to the ‘Cry Your Heart Out’ collection, featuring a dozen tear-stained faces. It’s actually quite jarring to view, possibly because it’s such an unusual time to pose for a camera – liquid pain pouring from your eyes, face all blotchy and snotty.
The information panel (which itself is streaming behind a sheet of perspex) talks about how we are increasingly photographing little more than a mask while true beauty comes from being vulnerable and sharing our souls. They say that one of our most honest states is when we are crying. Some of the faces look angry, some broken, some exhausted, others haunted or lost.
‘Well, it’s a laugh a minute so far,’ I note, only to see that May has moved up onto the platform and is busily scanning the room for Teagan.
‘She’s not here,’ she asserts, as she steps back down.
‘Are you sure?’
‘You don’t think I’d recognise my own ex-wife?’
Ohh, she is tense.
‘Shall we move on?’
At the next booth guests are photographed on arrival then invited to answer a series of questions on a computer screen, calculating how many hours we spend feeling bad about how we look, or trying to alter and/or disguise our physical attributes. I’m almost scared to input my figures, though my one consolation is that I’ve never fallen foul to beauty’s biggest time-suck: contouring.
At the end, the computer calculates the number of far more constructive things we could have done with our time that would have resulted in us a) stepping out with more confidence, b) making a greater contribution to the world and c) putting a higher value on being a good person than being good-looking.
All the books we could have read, the languages we could speak, the hours we could have volunteered and lives we could have impacted in the collective time it took to align our false lashes, reapply lip gloss or whiten our teeth in an Instagram pic.
It’s quite the humbling mind-bender. Suddenly I feel as if I’ve been on a beauty treadmill and I’m now looking around at this incredible world I could be enjoying – if I could just accept my face for what it is.
‘Imagine if we could all be invisible for a year,’ I say to May. ‘So everyone reacted to each other in terms of what we said and did and looks simply weren’t part of the equation.’
‘We’d probably just get really fixated on a person’s voice,’ she decides.
My brow rucks. I’ve been trying to picture the face of Kiss Number Three but as she says this, I hear myself saying, ‘It was someone I knew.’
‘What was?’
‘The kiss with the third man, I knew him. I knew his voice.’ I feel as if I’m turning a dial in my head, trying to find a radio frequency and match it to one of the ‘suspects’ from the wedding. ‘I can hear him saying my name . . .’
May watches me for a second then loses interest and moves on.
Who is it? I tap my head impatiently. It’s like he’s calling to me, trying to get my attention.
‘Amy!’
I look up to see one of the girls from the exhibit reading my name from her tablet.
‘Thank you for participating in this experiment. Here is the portrait of you taken as you entered the exhibit.’ She turns the screen to face me. ‘And here is how you could look if you chose to shake your cosmetic shackles.’
She swipes to reveal a second image in which my face has been digitally altered to reveal a dewy, fresh-faced look.
‘I’m not sure I’d look quite so radiant in real life,’ I note.
‘You would if you hadn’t spent the past twenty years worrying about your looks.’
Wow. I blink back at her.
‘Liberation?’ A second girl offers me a facial wipe. Her T-shirt reads: ‘In a society that profits from your self-doubt, liking yourself is a rebellious act.’ I feel a stirring. I think of Alicia Keyes hosting the Grammys au naturel in front of doll-faces like Gwen Stefani and how radiantly beautiful she looked because she was happy with herself.
‘Okay! I’ll do it!’ I blurt.
I’m committed from the first swipe, rubbing the layers off my brows, cheeks and jawline, exchanging looks with other girls who are choosing to be equally bold. As we remove the last traces of lipstick and liner I feel a kinship with them, a fun warmth. I can imagine us eyeing each other on the tube feeling a daring sense of sisterhood. I go to pull May into the fold but find her locked in some kind of sultry gaze-a-thon with a Ruby Rose lookalike, complete with raven Elvis quiff, electric blue eyes and hummingbird tattoos.
Even as an onlooker it feels like one of those freeze-frame moments where the world blurs to soft focus around the lovestruck couple. Ruby makes her approach, stealthy as a panther, and I feel a flutter of nerves on May’s behalf. I can’t make out the details of their whispered exchange but I see Ruby passing a black and red matchbook around her fingers, then flipping it open to reveal what I assume is her phone number. It looks for a moment as if she is going to tuck it into May’s cleavage but she diverts to her waistcoat pocket, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
‘Well, that was intense.’ May whistles as she returns to my side. ‘Did you see?’
‘I did indeed,’ I coo admiringly. ‘You’ve still got it!’
‘Apparently so!’ she marvels, a-flush with attraction.
I couldn’t be more delighted – seeing Teagan will now be purely incidental.
I’m babbling away about how my life has been changed forever by a facial wipe when May grips my arm with a stunned look on her face.
‘Oh my god – I can’t believe it!’
Here we go.
‘Where is she?’ I ask.
May shakes her head. ‘Not her, him!’
‘Him?’
‘Your waiter guy from the wedding – he’s here, I just saw his shoes.’
‘What?’ I turn around, instantly clocking his lanky form offering pale pink ‘rose water’ cocktails to the guests. My heart gives a happy skip. ‘Oh, isn’t he lovely?’
‘Come on, let’s go over!’
I come to a sudden halt as realisation hits. ‘I’ve just taken off all my make-up!’
‘You look fine!’
‘Noooo!’ I protest.
May is indignant. ‘Two minutes ago you were all vive la révolution!’
‘I know, that’s before I wanted a boy to like me.’
May rolls her eyes. ‘You’re such a terrible feminist. Isn’t it possible he’ll like you au naturel?’
‘It seems unlikely.’
‘So you’d let him go, this genuine contender, for the sake of vanity?’
I pause. This definitely feels like a test from the universe.
‘Just cut to the chase and ask him for a date,’ May insists. ‘Somewhere cheap because he probably doesn’t have too much money.’
‘I doubt he’d even recognise me – my hair was up, I was in a glam dress and heels. Where’s he gone?’ My eyes dart every which way.
‘Amy?’
Oh. My. God. My body tenses. He’s standing behind me.
‘Hiiiiii!’ I say, turning around, amping up my smile. ‘I didn’t think you’d recognise me!’ I motion to my face.
‘Of course I do!’ He smiles, holding up his tray. ‘Cocktail?’
‘Oh no, no. I’m still in Never Again mode after the wedding. I’m sorry if I was obnoxious.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
Wait. Does that mean I was?
‘Actually, I’m glad I ran into you.’ I charge in headfirst, aware that he’s working a busy room. ‘I wanted to ask . . .’
‘Yes?’ He leans closer so he can hear over the hubbub.
I take a second to treasure the proximity of his dark hair and the faintly soapy scent from his neck. May nudges me, reminding me to speak. ‘I just wanted to know if you’d like to go for a walk sometime?’
‘A walk?’ He looks bemused.
‘Like a walk in the park or . . .’ I come to a rather premature halt. I haven’t really thought this through. ‘Somewhere outdoors.’
‘You know, I’m actually going somewhere outdoors on Saturday,’ he grins. ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea but you’re welcome to join me?’
‘I’d love to!’ I blurt, unconcerned with the details.
His hands being full with the drinks tray, he recites his number, I dial it and then realise just how close we’re standing when his thigh buzzes against mine.
‘Okay, we’re all set. I’ll text you the address later.’
Simple as that.
I stand in a daze as he moves on. All these years, I’ve never had the nerve to ask anyone out but that went so smoothly. And swiftly. Is that really all it takes? And then I frown – am I going to arrive and find out he’s part of some rambling group?
‘What are you looking so worried about?’ May asks. ‘He gave you his number!’
‘Yes, yes,’ I rally, focussing on the facts. ‘His name is Ben and we’re going for a walk on Saturday!’
‘So the same day you’re seeing Tristan,’ May observes.
‘What? Oh no!’ My face falls.
‘That’s okay – it’s a daytime thing with Ben, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll be working in the evening.’
‘Well then, there’s no problem.’
‘No,’ I say, biting my lip.
‘And if you find out the identity of the third one, just remember to schedule him for breakfast.’
I blanche. I’ve never been a proficient multitasker; suddenly I’m feeling quite stressed.
‘It’s all good,’ May soothes me. ‘A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And you pulled this one off with no make-up.’
My hand goes to my face. ‘I can’t believe it! So, what now?’
‘Well, considering we’ve both scored, there’s no sign of Teagan and it’s fondue night at The Cheese Bar . . .’
‘Let’s go!’ I cheer, linking arms with her as we barrel through the crowds towards the exit.
Which is where we find Teagan. Attempting to hit on the Ruby Rose lookalike.
‘Unbelievable!’ May curses, making a beeline for her.
‘May!’ Teagan seems a little taken aback by the intensity of her approach.
‘All right? You remember Amy?’
‘Of course.’ She nods to me.
‘This is Lexi.’ Teagan motions to the Ruby Rose lookalike.
‘I know,’ May says, reaching for the matchbook.
‘Oh, I wondered if you’d heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘About our engagement.’
Shut the front door! I know my mouth is gaping, so I don’t know how May is holding it together. I see her flip the matchbook around her fingers, wondering which way she’s going to go.
She could hold it up to Lexi and say, ‘I believe this is yours?’
She could laugh and say, ‘Good luck with that, twenty minutes ago she was hitting on me.’
But instead, she serves up an enigmatic smile. ‘Matches made in heaven.’
Teagan frowns. ‘You mean match?’
‘Do I?’ May gives a little smirk and moves on.
I scurry after her, waiting for her to start ranting and pacing, but instead she simply flips the matchbook in the first bin we come to.
‘I was sure you were going to say something!’ I gasp.
‘What, like, “Teagan babe, you’re about to marry a cheater!”?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I thought about it,’ May replies with a twinkle. ‘But why spoil the surprise!’
