Chapter Twenty-One Lady in Red
The red dress takes itself back to Patty’s so we can dump the clothes she came out in this morning and I can change into something a little more glamorous. It then hops onto the tram and into the city centre. Neither Patty nor I sit down; instead we hold the overhead rails as if we’re riding the subway in downtown New York. My slate-blue dress is nowhere near as eye-catching as Patty’s, but I’ve borrowed some of her scarlet lipstick and I feel invincible. I guess that’s why they call it warpaint.
‘Where shall we take Poppy?’ asks Patty, and I instantly realise that she’s named her dress.
‘As she’s new in town, I think we need to do some culture first — perhaps the art gallery?’ I reply. ‘Then dance class and a cocktail — what does she think to that?’
‘Oh, she’s very keen on both those ideas,’ says Patty, ‘particularly the cocktail part.’
Bizarrely, taking ‘Poppy’ out for the day feels far more exciting than if Patty and I had just decided to head into town. It’s as if we have a new friend and we’re honour-bound to show her a good time. We disembark near the beautiful central library and walk the short distance to Manchester Art Gallery. An early afternoon chill is starting to embrace the city now that we’re in the shadow of its splendid Victorian buildings but there’s no way we’re putting our coats on. We simply turn the walk into a stride and are soon through the glass doors of the entrance and back into warmth.
‘So, what would Poppy like to see?’ I ask as we look at the list of collections and exhibitions.
‘I think she’d like to see the costumes,’ Patty says. ‘To see if anything is as fabulous as she is.’
We head to the lift and press the button for the first floor. After all, we can’t walk the stairs and risk ruining our current levels of gorgeousness with underarm sweat stains, can we?
The collection is organised in chronological order, running from the Victorian to the modern age. Despite thinking ourselves the bee’s knees, these dresses showcase the most incredible craftsmanship.
‘I think even Poppy would have to admit we’d look fairly plain by these standards.’ I nod to an elaborate velvet dress with a full skirt.
‘She’s just pleased we no longer have to wear those.’ Patty points at a torturous-looking corset with an impossibly small waistline.
‘How on earth did they ever fit into those? Did they make women smaller back then?’
‘Smaller and often invisible,’ Patty says.
Beside the dress is a walnut parlour table with a silver tray containing sherry glasses, alongside an explanation that the dress would have been worn at social gatherings.
‘Although, if that’s the size of glass they drank from during their girls’ nights out, then maybe that explains things,’ Patty adds. ‘Compare that to a gin balloon.’
‘You couldn’t even fit an ice cube in that,’ I say. ‘They must have had the gin neat.’
We move through the timeline, past the impossibly small hips of the 1920s and the tiny bra-less bosoms of the 1960s, relieved to find a dress that we believe we could actually fit into.
‘Finally,’ says Patty, admiring the long, sequinned gown. ‘It’s a bit bling but at least it’s normal woman sized.’
‘Glad you think so — it’s mine,’ says a voice behind us.
We turn and our eyes are chest height to a person with impeccable eyebrows and cheekbones to die for.
‘Poppy O’Cherry, at your service,’ they say, holding out their hand as if they expect us to kiss it. I take it and give it a weak shake. ‘I donated that after winning Drag Dance UK.’
‘Sorry for calling it bling,’ I say. ‘It’s spectacular.’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of bling,’ they reply before looking Patty up and down. ‘You’re the red dress lady, I’ve seen you on Insta.’
Patty curtsies. ‘And it’s also called Poppy, so this is quite the coincidence.’
‘Well, you are killing it,’ declares the human Poppy. ‘Get yourself in here — we need a selfie.’
They pull Patty into a cheek-to-cheek hug and, pouting, take a few photos. I check my watch and tell them that we have to head to the dance studio now.
They air-kiss and Poppy O’Cherry sashays away.
* * *
The studio is in a different part of the city away from the Victorian grandeur and surrounded by what would once have been squalor — the warehouses of yesteryear. Now they’re fashionable offices, shops and clubs, including Marianne’s dance school.
I’ve booked a waltz lesson for the Mercury Travel Club members and when we arrive, they’re all there waiting, including my mum and dad, who are done up to the nines.
‘You two look wonderful,’ I tell them, scanning them from head to toe.
‘I wouldn’t want to let the Strictly judges down by being shabby,’ says Mum. ‘I made your dad polish his shoes twice.’
He holds up a foot to show me and I congratulate him on a job well done.
‘You know the judges won’t be here,’ I say to Mum.
‘In spirit, they’re on every dance floor in the country.’
I can’t argue with that.
Marianne claps her hands to get our attention and shows us the steps to the waltz. I’m hoping that with my prior knowledge I’ll have a head start on this lot but as I look around the room, they seem rather more foot sure than I was. At least they’re all going in the same direction.
Felipe and Marianne are going from couple to couple, so my other hope — that I’d be paired with the dark, handsome instructor — is also dashed. I’m with Patty and she’s the lead. I scream as she throws me backwards into a tip and the whole room stops to look at us.
‘That step isn’t in it, is it?’ asks Mum.
‘Improvisation, Mrs S.’ Patty pulls me back into a tight hold.
The dance restarts and I ask Patty to stick to the rules as I’m the one who has to do this in Vienna. She does as she’s told, although she does count out loud the whole time.
‘Why don’t we all swap partners?’ suggests Marianne. ‘Patty, you dance with me.’
I’m delighted when Felipe approaches me and watch as Mum and Dad swap with another couple.
‘You’ve improved since last time,’ Felipe tells me.
‘Well, I haven’t stood on your foot yet.’ I laugh.
It seems like no time at all before we’re swapping again and I get Patty back. Dad is with Marianne and Mum with Felipe. I can see him having the same effect on her as she gazes up at him and a little blush rises to her cheeks when he takes her hand.
Patty adds a little swing to her moves but they’re generally the right steps and it’s fun. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirrored walls and tell her that we make quite a handsome couple.
‘Maybe we should just ditch the men,’ I say. ‘After all, we already live together.’
‘If this cruise doesn’t work out, you’ve got a deal,’ Patty says.
I watch my parents across the room and note that Mum is no longer gazing up at Felipe; she’s staring daggers at Marianne, who is positively gliding across the floor with my dad. When the music stops, Marianne applauds Dad, who takes a bow. He has a huge smile on his face and is about to take the instructor’s hand for the next piece of music when Mum barges over.
‘Ladies, excuse me,’ she says, elbowing Marianne and firmly grabbing Dad’s arm, taking him to the opposite side of the room in a way that is the complete opposite of ladylike.
‘How can she want an affair when she gets that jealous?’ I murmur to Patty.
‘Cake and eat it,’ replies Patty as we start moving again.
I certainly wouldn’t put that past Mum, but I’m quite encouraged by what’s just happened. She chose Dad over Felipe.
* * *
‘It must be time for cocktails now,’ says Patty after we’ve said goodbye to everyone.
We head to a bar that is supposed to have the best espresso martinis in town and on the way there, my phone rings. It’s Zoe.
‘Mum, where are you heading now?’ she asks. I tell her the name of the place and she replies that she’s not far off so she’ll meet us there.
The bar is relatively quiet so we have no trouble getting a good table. Patty orders their signature espresso but when she goes to order the same for me, I put a hand on her wrist to stop her. I’m suddenly exhausted and know that I don’t want to risk being awake all night because of a shot of caffeine. I ask for a Virgin Mary and even saying the words makes me salivate at the thought of all that tomatoey vitamin C nourishing my body. When it arrives I suck a huge mouthful through the straw, giving me comically hollow cheeks in the process.
‘Blimey,’ says Patty when I’ve come up for air.
I spot Zoe coming in and wave her over. She bounds towards us with a smile on her face, gives us both a little kiss then sits down and signals to the waiter. She orders a virgin mojito and explains that she’s just been at a conference in town and is driving home.
‘I saw from social media that you’ve just been at the dance school so hoped you might be in town,’ she says. ‘I wanted to let you know I’ve sorted out Gran’s makeover day and it’s going to be amazing.’
Her eyes are gleaming as she explains her idea and it’s fabulous — Mum will love it.
‘I was wondering if you could get Poppy involved?’ she asks.
‘Patty’s dress?’ I’m as puzzled as my friend looks.
Zoe stares at us as if we’re mad.
‘It’s lovely but I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she replies. ‘I mean Poppy O’Cherry — they seem to love you two.’
Zoe pulls out her phone and shows us the social media storm we’ve created today — or rather the #ladyinred has created, I’m just the sidekick. From the first picture in the boutique, through to our brunch date, the tram ride, the art gallery and the dance school, people have been ‘spotting’ us out and about and sharing it. On top of that, we discover that Poppy O’Cherry has hundreds of thousands of followers and has shared everything to their fanbase.
‘That’s brilliant publicity for all the places we visited today,’ I say, genuinely delighted that they seem to have benefited from our little day out.
‘I look pretty good, don’t I?’ says Patty, scrolling through the pictures with her usual modesty.
‘Getting back to Gran.’ Zoe takes her phone off us and regains our attention. ‘Could you ask Poppy if they’ll help?’
Patty promises to try but adds that as a performer, Poppy is probably already very busy.
‘We have audiences waiting for us and we can’t let them down,’ she adds with a diva-ish flick of the hair. ‘I should know.’
Zoe and I look at each other then, without a word, both of us dive in and tickle Patty relentlessly until she begs us to stop.
‘My ribs hurt,’ she yells through laughter. ‘My feet, my ribs — is there no part of this body that has not been ravaged today? There’s nothing left for Jack.’
At that moment, the bar owner comes over, tells us she’s been following our day online and asks for a selfie with the bar sign in it. Patty readily agrees and stands up to have the picture taken. The owner offers us a free drink but I thank him and say no — I’d much rather pay my way with small businesses and anyway we have to head home.
Zoe drops us off and once back I instantly head for the bedroom to change into pyjamas then into the kitchen to make some camomile tea. I’m surprised to see that Patty has changed too.
‘I thought you’d be keeping Poppy on for your call with Jack,’ I say.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ she says. ‘I can’t keep up with her. I’ve locked her in the back of the wardrobe so she can’t cast her silky spell on my man. He’s getting the jammies and cocoa version of me tonight.’
‘I like that version,’ I tell her, then wish her goodnight. It’s been a grand day out but even I’m glad to hear Poppy is back in captivity.