One Day in December(19)

She toots on her streamer again as she leaves, laughing, and I shove my head underneath my pillow. I love that girl.

There are two clothes carriers hanging in the lounge when I emerge exactly nine and a half minutes later, and Sarah is practically hopping on the spot. Even more worryingly, the carriers are emblazoned with a fancy-dress hire company logo.

‘Umm, Sar …?’ I’m starting to realize she wasn’t kidding when she said she had a plan.

‘You’re going to die when you see,’ she says, her fists bunched with excitement like a kid on school-trip day.

I place my coffee down slowly. ‘Should I look now?’

‘Yes. But first you have to promise me that you’ll do exactly as I say for the next few hours, no questions asked.’

‘You sound like an undercover spy. Have you and Jack been watching too much James Bond again?’

She holds one of the carriers out towards me, but clutches on to it when I go to take it from her. ‘Promise first.’

I laugh and shake my head, intrigued. ‘Go on then, I promise.’

She hands it over with a little clap, then flaps her hands for me to hurry up and look inside. Holding it out at arm’s length, I give it a shake and then slide the central zipper down a few inches to sneak a glimpse.

‘It’s pink …’ I say, and she nods, fast.

I whoosh the zip all the way down and shrug the plastic cover off, revealing an instantly recognizable candyfloss-pink satin bomber jacket and black satin leggings.

‘You want me to dress up as a Pink Lady for my birthday?’

She grins and whips her own outfit out. ‘Not just you.’

‘We’re both pink ladies.’ I speak slowly, because I’m somewhat confused. ‘I mean, I kind of love it already as a birthday theme, but what are we going to do once we’re dressed? Because we’re going to stick out like sore thumbs down The Castle.’

‘We’re not going to the pub.’ Sarah’s eyes gleam with anticipation.

‘Can I ask where we are going?’

She laughs. ‘You can ask, but I won’t tell you the truth.’

‘How did I know you were going to say that?’

She unzips her jacket and slides her arms into it. ‘You have seen the movie, right?’

‘Once or twice.’ I roll my eyes, because everyone on the planet has seen Grease at least a dozen times, usually because it’s on TV on New Year’s Day and you can’t physically bring yourself to move and find the remote.

I hold up my satin leggings doubtfully. The waistband is about six inches across. ‘I hope they stretch,’ I say.

‘They do. I tried them on at about six o’clock this morning.’

Her words make me realize how hard she’s trying to give me a fun birthday; and the part of my mind that’s constantly feeling guilty at the moment gives me a hefty dig. Whatever it is she has planned for us today, I need to give her my one hundred per cent best.

‘Pink Ladies it is then,’ I say with a laugh.

She looks at her watch. ‘We need to leave at eleven. Go and jump in the shower, I’ve already been in. I’ll do your flicky eyeliner for you when you’re out.’

It’s midday and we’re on a train out of Waterloo, and it’s fair to say we’re getting our fair share of odd looks. I’m not surprised. We’re the only Pink Ladies on board today, and we definitely have the most fabulous hair and make-up. Sarah’s gone with a high, flippy ponytail that seems to swish around independently of her head, and between us we’ve wrangled mine into bubble curls Olivia Newton-John herself would be envious of. Sarah’s thought of everything: gum for us to chew, jaunty black neck scarves, white-rimmed plastic shades perched in our hair and gin-in-a-tin for the train to get us in the mood for wherever it is we’re going.

‘Should we assume fake names?’

Sarah considers my question seriously. ‘What would yours be?’

‘Hmm. Tricky. I think it needs to sound kitsch and American and fifties, so how about … Lula-May?’

She looks at me thoughtfully. ‘I like what you did there. So if you’re Lula-May, that must make me Sara-Belle.’

‘It sure is nice to meet you.’

‘Nice to make your acquaintance too, Lula-May.’

We incline our heads to each other graciously, then clink tins and neck our gin to cement our new friendship.

‘Will you tell me where we’re going yet?’

‘Just trust me, little lady. You’re gonna love it.’ She attempts a really terrible Deep South drawl.

‘You sound more like John Wayne than Sara-Belle,’ I laugh. ‘I think I might fancy you.’

Sarah stashes our empty tins in the back pockets of the seats in front of us. ‘It’s my sexual energy. I can’t hold it in.’ She glances up as the electronic voice-over tells us that we’re approaching Barnes. ‘Come on. This is our stop.’

The first thing I notice when we get outside the station is that we’re not the only people who look like extras in a Grease remake. Swing dresses and Teddy boy suits are interspersed amongst the regular sunny Saturday lunchtime shoppers, and the occasional flash of pink satin tells me there’s going to be quite a gang of Pink Ladies.

‘Sarah!’