The Love of My Afterlife(49)
I wait a few minutes, but there’s no answer. I try again. “I really did appreciate you telling me to knock over the juice, by the way! But I’ve reached another dead end, no pun intended.”
I wait hopefully, padding out into the living room in case she appears in there. And then into the bathroom, where the big mirror is. Nope. No sign.
I sulk at myself in the mirror. I’ve developed a bit of a tan over the last few days. It makes my eyes look bright and clear, and the freckles scattered over my nose have deepened.
“At least when I die a second time, I’ll look marginally better than I did the first,” I muse grimly. I tut at my reflection. It was a huge stroke of luck getting into the silent disco without a ticket, but a posh gala at a country house? I wouldn’t have the faintest clue where to begin.
Unless…As swiftly as if the memory has been inserted into my brain, I remember what Aled said about Cooper writing some story about a bank heist. If he can write a story about infiltrating a bank and have it be plausible, then surely, surely he would know how one might slip uncaught into, say, a fancy charity gala at a country house?
Plus, there’s the small matter of needing to be in a couple to get in.
I pull out my phone and write the text.
I NEED YOUR HELP.
* * *
The bell on the door of the pharmacy jingles cheerily as I burst in the next morning. Jan jumps up from watching the Broadway filming of Hamilton, her face softening when she sees that it’s only me and not someone in desperate and immediate need of diarrhoea relief—a customer type more common than any of us would prefer.
“How are you feeling, love?” Jan asks, her voice wobbling with sympathy. “Leanne told me…you know…” Her eyes flicker down towards my crotch. She trails off discreetly, for which I am grateful.
“About the possible thrush!” Leanne calls out, her head popping out from the back, her voice resounding. An elderly woman browsing the loofah selection looks me up and down. “Apple cider vinegar, dear. A gallon of apple cider vinegar.”
“I am…fine. Very well,” I say to Leanne, pasting a smile onto my face. “Thank you so much for your help.”
Jan comes out from behind the counter and puts her hands on her hips. “You’re acting different.”
“Am I?” I shrug. “I don’t think so.”
“You are…What is it? Something’s off…”
“Wait…” Jan says curiously. “She’s being nice.”
“OMG, that’s it. She’s being nice,” Leanne adds, as if the very notion is absurd. “What’s wrong?” She dashes out from behind the counter and places the back of her hand on my forehead as if to check my temperature.
“Oi!” I shoo her away.
“Seriously, though. What’s going on?”
I wonder what would happen if I told them that the reason I’m being nice is because I want help infiltrating a fancy gala so that I can find a man who has to kiss me within the next four days or else I will die once more and be swept up into a possibly unknown afterlife where my eternity could be spent acting as a guinea pig for a madwoman’s Cupid service.
“I’m actually here because, um, I’m going to a costume party and I need your help.”
The words feel entirely foreign coming out of my mouth. This is a sentence I never expected I would say. A sentence I never wanted to say.
“Theme?” Leanne breathes, pressing her neon-green nails against her chest.
“Famous couples throughout history.”
“Ah yes, a classic. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I need something that looks, but is not, expensive. The people going there are fancy as all get-out, and I really need to blend in.”
“Ooh, how about Celine Dion and René Angélil?” Jan suggests excitedly. “They were very glamourous.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure the man I’m going with would be able to pull off René.”
“A man, eh?” Leanne raises an eyebrow.
“Just a friend. Well, not even that, really.”
“How about Barbra Streisand and James Brolin?” Jan tries. “You could wear a lovely updo like Barbra does in Funny Girl!”
“Better…but…I’m not sure they’re obvious enough.”
“You want obvious?”
“I want to look good, but not too noticeable. Nothing too quirky—I need to look like I fit.”
“Okay, so…basic. Well, then you want Gatsby and Daisy. You can wear something sparkly and just get your not-so-much-a-friend into a tux. Hey presto.”
I nod. “That sounds doable.”
I screw my face up and try to remember the last party I went to. I can’t, which is fine, because parties I’ve seen on television seem like a full-on nightmare. All those performatively jolly people, beige food, small talk, DJs.
Leanne grabs her phone and pulls up her calendar app. “How long do I have to design the costume? I can try to do everything at cost, but obviously there’s my time and the fittings, and you’ll definitely want embellishments—”
“Oh no, you don’t understand,” I cut in. “The gala is on Thursday night.”