Chapter Twenty-Four Young at Heart
I spend a lot of time getting ready the following morning. Although I hate to admit that I am this shallow, I tossed and turned all night with terrified imaginings about today.
The audience were sitting at those little round tables they always have at award ceremonies. Everyone looked glamorous as they ate tiny portions of food and took tiny sips of wine from impossibly fine china and crystal. I’ve obviously been watching too much Bridgerton because they were all in Regency era dress with huge powdered wigs too. There’s a catwalk running down the centre of the tables and suddenly the emcee from Cabaret appears and calls out, ‘Mesdames and Messieurs, I give you la plus belle dame du monde.’
The curtains part and my mother glides out looking like a supermodel as the audience gasps then erupts into cheers and applause. She reaches the end and holds out her hand for me to join her; the Regency ladies turn to look as I stand. Their faces become masks of horror as I walk to my mother. I’m like Fantine after she has to sell all her hair. And yes, I know I’m mixing up my musicals here but what can I say? I watch a lot of them. Inspector Javert intervenes and decides it’s off to the gallows with me. His officers grab each arm and drag me along the catwalk as the audience yells, ‘Off with that hideous head!’
And worst of all, my mother joins in — so all in all, one might conclude that I’m fairly nervous about today.
* * *
‘You need to reframe this,’ Patty shouts through the bathroom door after I’ve told her for the fifteenth time that I’m nearly ready. She’ll know I’m lying as she’ll still be able to hear the bath water splashing around.
‘You need to be proud that you and your daughter have worked together to help your mother fulfil one of her biggest wishes.’
I hadn’t thought of it like that, and when I do, suddenly my dream changes and there’s no emcee leading my mother down the catwalk; instead it’s me and I’m getting a round of applause for the makeover as people ask me to organise the same for them. I really am shallow.
I take the facecloth off my face (one of the new cupcake ones that Patty bought me) and pull the plug out of the bath. I must look as steamed and plumped up as I’m going to and indeed, when I look at myself in the mirror, I’m nowhere near as bad as the Fantine of my nightmares. I open the door and Patty is standing there, arms folded.
‘I thought you might actually dissolve if you didn’t come out soon,’ she says. ‘Now, what are you wearing? We don’t have time for an existential wardrobe crisis too.’
‘Did you take lessons in tough love or did it just come naturally?’ I ask with a friendly jab.
I inform my friend that I have decided to act on her wise words and dress to ensure that my mother shines out. I call Zoe and ask if she knows what colour Mum will be wearing for the grand reveal and tell her that I’ll choose something that doesn’t clash or match. Zoe won’t give me any clues, so I run through the colours I have in the wardrobe and she eventually says I can wear the midnight-blue dress she chose with me on a shopping trip last year. I put it on and accessorise minimally then look at myself in the mirror. It’s smart but blends into the background, like something one of those hostesses at haute couture stores might wear, showcasing the new season to their high-end customers. And yes, I’ve only ever seen this in movies, so once again my references have no real-life substantiation.
I drive us to the event, which is luncheon rather than dinner. I get a little shiver of déjà vu walking into the events suite, which is set up with large round tables either side of a red-carpet catwalk. It’s almost identical to my dream. I sigh with relief as the first group of ladies walk in and they’re wearing jumpsuits and shift dresses with no sign of a powdered wig in sight.
‘We’re here, Mum,’ says Zoe as she hurries towards me. She shows us our spaces then rushes off to greet some guests and shake some hands.
The room is bedecked in the charity’s trademark pink colour, but rather than looking like a Barbie set, it manages to be tasteful yet fun. There are balloons rather than flower displays at the centre of each table and the pale-pink napkins are shaped in the breast cancer ribbon shape. Seeing them brings a shock of realisation and a little shame that I’ve been worrying about how I compare to my mother when so many people have lost theirs to this awful disease. I pull myself together and walk over to Zoe, asking her if she’ll introduce me to the regional fundraiser who has put this event together. My daughter points the lady out and I head over to find out if there are any future efforts that I can help out with.
The room fills up and with the women comes chatter and laughter. By the time lunch is served, the atmosphere is joyful. On our table are Charlie, Peter, Patty, Josie, Matt, James and Zoe; looking round, we have the highest proportion of men in the room. The table next to ours jokes that they’ll need to borrow one to carry the case of wine back to their car if they win it and James immediately stands and takes a bow, saying he’ll be delighted to help. There’s no space on our table for Mum and Dad so I ask Zoe where they’ll be sitting.
‘At the top table,’ she replies, and I shrug an of course in reply.
The lights go down and there are a few whoops from the audience. A spotlight beams down onto the catwalk and to rapturous applause, out walks Poppy O’Cherry resplendent in a pink satin bodice, thigh-length boots with feather trim and a gigantic candy floss–coloured beehive on their head. They put their hands on their hips and sashay down the catwalk, pausing at the end and asking the audience, ‘Too much?’
They all shout back ‘Never!’ To which Poppy replies, ‘I didn’t think so.’
The fashion show begins and a gorgeous range of outfits is paraded in front of us. We all have a mini catalogue, and as the models strut their stuff, we follow along, looking up the details of each piece of clothing, checking out the prices. We’re told that we can, of course, order it in our own size and have it delivered to us within forty-eight hours, and that ten per cent of any sales made today will be donated to the charity.
‘Which means they’ve jacked the price up by ten per cent,’ whispers Patty, saying what others are probably thinking, but it still seems a bit unnecessary when we’re at a charity event. She gets an elbow for that one. It strikes me that I must spend a good proportion of each day jabbing Patty for saying or doing something inappropriate. It’s almost like having a husband again.
A model appears wearing a stunning black formal jumpsuit. The model herself has legs up to her ears, so that helps, but I’m a respectable height and I love this.
‘Ooh, now this is a bit special, isn’t it?’ says Poppy O’Cherry as the model approaches.
Poppy reads from the card, ‘A flattering wide leg, with a neat belt around the waist — well, where else would you have a belt? This has a round neck and mesh sleeves — that’s so we can hide our bingo wings, girls. All in all, bloody gorgeous,’ they conclude. ‘Keira here has accessorised the jumpsuit with a clutch bag and gold jewellery, which are also available to buy today.’
I’m sold. I’m picturing myself at a beautiful restaurant on the banks of the Danube one evening in Vienna. I look as tasteful as the city itself as I glide between my Mercury Travel Club members, who are beaming from having fulfilled their waltzing dreams.
‘Are you buying that?’ Patty drags me back to reality, nodding at the pen I have poised over the order form.
‘I was thinking about it. Why, did you want it?’
‘Bit too understated for me,’ she says, shaking her head.
That’s a good sign for any outfit, so I immediately write down my order. The model wearing the jumpsuit has done her circuit of the stage and is now making her way back when Poppy says, ‘Gorgeous, but a bit plain for me.’ They wave their arms down their pink ensemble to make the point.
Patty gives me an I told you so look.
‘It’s not a compliment that you have the same taste in clothes as a drag artist,’ I tell her.
‘In your opinion. We both need to stand out.’
When the fashion show has finished and the orders collected, it’s time for the event I’ve been waiting for. Zoe gets up and stands next to Poppy.
‘So, we have something a bit special now, don’t we?’ says Poppy, cueing my daughter in.
Zoe explains Mum’s bucket list and her desire to look ten years younger. She then thanks the people who’ve helped with the transformation that the audience is about to see and, yet again, we’re told that if we book their services today then a contribution to the charity will be made. I’m glad Mum’s list is making a difference to people but I just want Zoe to get on with it so I can see my mother.
It begins with the video we took; Mum looking dowdy while people guess her age. As planned, the average ends up being just slightly older than Mum is now. Not a depressing result but with room to play with for the beauticians.
‘So, let’s see what you’ve done with the old girl,’ says Poppy. ‘Come on out, Mrs Shepherd.’
Necks crane to see this transformation and there’s an audible gasp when she appears. Mum looks fantastic. I look across at Dad, who is on his feet blowing wolf whistles in between wiping the tears from his eyes. He looks so proud of his beautiful wife.
When she smiles I can see the lovely white teeth she’s so proud of and I can tell she’s wearing very flattering clothes. Her make-up is stunningly perfect but it’s the hair that does it. My family have all been blessed with the brunette hair she had as a young girl and now it’s been restored with subtle balayage to soften the colour for my mum’s age and skin tone. Her normal bob shape has been given layers and shaping which bring out her cheekbones. They really have done the most beautiful job, and once again I feel myself reaching for the pen and that hairdresser.
‘So beautiful I want you off my stage as soon as possible,’ says Poppy affectionately, giving my mum a hug. ‘But now the real test, let’s see how old the public think you look now.’
I feel myself tensing up as I don’t want Mum to be disappointed and happily Zoe hasn’t gone out to anonymous members of the public. Instead, Poppy takes the roving microphone into the audience and asks the ladies seated at the tables.
They each tell her how gorgeous she looks and then say an age which is generally younger than Mum is. And although I know they’re being kind, Mum does look younger and it’s not just about the makeover — she looks full of life. I’m bursting with happiness for her.
The final person Poppy tells us they will ask is James, and Zoe has obviously briefed her boyfriend well. He’s been writing down the ages everyone has said and I can see him doing mental calculations as Poppy approaches. When they get to our table, they give James a little time to get the number right by asking Charlie and Peter what they think of her outfit. After a little light-hearted banter, they turn to James and ask him his honest opinion.
‘Because this lady will know if you’re lying,’ Poppy says, wagging their finger at him.
He stands and leans into the microphone and I can tell the poor guy is nervous. He adds to the other comments saying how stunning Mum looks and, in all honesty, she looks so much younger. He says an age and there’s a murmur around the room as everyone does the calculations. Poppy gets handed a piece of paper as James sits back down.
‘So here’s the result,’ they say as, on stage, Zoe hugs her gran.
‘Mrs S, the audience here think you look an amazing sixty-four years old. That’s not ten years younger... that’s an amazing fourteen years younger.’
Balloons are released from the ceiling as everyone cheers and I can see Mum wiping a tear from her eye as carefully as she can. Dad leaps onto the stage and kisses her tenderly on the cheek before holding her hand and then presenting her once again to the audience. Zoe’s crying too and I realise I’m on the brink of it. I’m so happy for Mum and Dad — so happy.
The red carpet has been rolled away and the space is now a dance floor. ‘Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves’ starts us off and I leap up to grab my mum and daughter from their respective partners and whirl them around to the music.
What a day.