Friday was deeply uncomfortable with this whole scenario. When a very domineering stylist called Gretel and an intimidatingly intense makeup artist arrived at Ingrid’s apartment, Friday seriously considered jumping out the window and running off into the woods. But it was autumn, and the woods would get cold at night and much as she loved her brown cardigan she didn’t think it had sufficient thermal protection to prevent hypothermia. So she stayed and she endured.

Friday was wearing Ingrid’s designer jeans and sweatshirt, which actually fit well and made her look like she had a shape, so she felt physically ill with self-consciousness already. As Gretel wheeled in a rack of designer dresses, the idea of putting on a ballgown made her want to vomit.

Melanie and Ingrid were having the time of their lives. They squealed with delight each time a new dress came out, like some people squeal when they see a cute puppy.

‘I want to look absolutely stunning,’ Ingrid informed her stylist. ‘I want to look so good Binky faints, or has a stroke or something like that.’

‘But Binky fell in love with you when you were wearing a blue cardigan and purposefully ugly glasses,’ said Friday. ‘You don’t need any of that. He’s already crazy about you.’

‘I know,’ said Ingrid. ‘I know it’s not rational. But this is a mating ritual. I’m instinctively driven to do this.’

Friday felt very confused. She didn’t feel this impulse at all. It must have shown on her face.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Melanie. ‘Just because you don’t want to do this, doesn’t mean you’re abnormal or a weirdo.’

‘You know, ninety-nine times out of one hundred if you’re being reassured that you’re not abnormal, it is because you are abnormal,’ said Friday.

‘But you don’t need to preen and puff out your feathers,’ said Melanie. ‘Ian is vain enough for the both of you. He’s like a peacock. For peacocks, it’s the male who has the spectacular fan of tail feathers. The female is dull and bland.’

‘So you’re saying I have an avian-style relationship,’ said Friday.

‘Of course not,’ said Melanie. ‘I’d never use the word avian when I could just say “bird”.’

‘Why do you have this impulse to wear uncomfortable, old-fashioned clothes?’ asked Friday as she inspected the gowns narrowly. She was genuinely curious, because it was so alien to her own instincts.

‘You know how when baby turtles are born they don’t know anything, but they instinctively head to the water?’ said Ingrid.

Friday nodded.

‘Well, some mating rituals are like that,’ explained Ingrid. ‘I don’t know why I want to dress up like a princess. It makes no sense. And yet I do.’

‘But you are a princess,’ countered Friday. ‘Whatever you wear, you are dressing like a princess.’

Ingrid shrugged. ‘Princesses watch Disney movies and get unrealistic expectations too.’

‘I’m going to wear my dark green, strapless, backless cocktail dress,’ said Melanie.

‘There isn’t a dark green, strapless, backless cocktail dress here,’ said Ingrid.

‘No,’ agreed Melanie. ‘I have one at home. Mummy is express couriering it to me. It’ll be arriving this afternoon. Your dresses are lovely, but I’m at least six inches taller than you, and, while I want to show off my back and shoulders, I don’t want to wear a floor-length gown that only goes as far as my knees.’

‘If you’re going with green,’ said Ingrid, ‘I’ll wear powder blue. Binky loves blue.’

‘Does he?’ asked Melanie.

‘He may not now,’ said Ingrid, ‘but he will when he sees me in this dress.’

‘What are we going to do about Friday?’ asked Melanie. They both turned to look at her.

‘Nothing,’ said Friday. ‘I’m going to stay here and read a book.’

‘You can’t do that,’ said Melanie.

‘It would cause a diplomatic incident,’ agreed Ingrid. ‘You would offend my father.’

‘I seriously doubt that is the case,’ said Friday. ‘I think his royal highness has a lot more important things on his mind.’

‘Well, you’d offend this royal highness,’ said Ingrid, puffing up and speaking with all her regal authority. ‘I invite you into my home, share with you the very clothes off my back and this is how you repay me – by refusing to attend my twenty-first birthday party?!’

Friday cringed. She realised she was being cowardly, but she was genuinely horrified by the idea of having to wear one of these dresses.

‘But I really, really, really don’t want to,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t mind going to the party, but couldn’t I just wear jeans?’

‘No!’ said Melanie and Ingrid in unison.

‘I just feel physically sick at the idea of everyone looking at me when I’m dressed up like a vertically challenged Barbie doll,’ said Friday

Melanie sat on the couch next to her. She took pity on her friend. ‘Friday, no one is going to look at you. Everyone there will also be in uncomfortable clothes that they’re not used to wearing, and be wildly self-conscious about their own appearance.’

‘Except the men,’ said Ingrid. ‘They’ll just wear tuxedos like they always do. So boring.’

‘All eyes will be on Ingrid,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m sure that, no matter how nice a gown we dress you in, you’ll manage to make yourself look non-descript and boring and no one will notice you. You have a real talent for that.’

‘Do you think?’ asked Friday. She practically felt like weeping, this conversation was making her feel so vulnerable.

‘I know,’ said Melanie.

‘Okay,’ said Friday.

‘Hurray!’ said Ingrid. ‘What do you think, Gretel? The pink one with the sequins?’

‘Oh no,’ said Gretel, sizing Friday up shrewdly. ‘I have just the thing for her colouring.’

‘Is it brown?’ asked Friday. ‘Do you have anything in brown? I like brown.’

‘It’s red,’ said Gretel, whipping out a fire-engine red frock.

Friday would have made a run for it right then and there, except her legs had turned to jelly at the sight of it.

‘Perfect!’ exclaimed Melanie. ‘You’re right. Red is the exact right colour to bring out the muddy brown in her eyes.’

‘And I have a diamond tiara that will be just the thing for making her mousy dull hair sparkle,’ added Ingrid.

Friday started mentally reciting the periodic table in Norwegian to try to calm her nerves, or at least prevent herself from screaming. She suddenly had enormous sympathy for Edvard Munch and wondered if his famous painting, The Scream, was in fact a picture of someone being forced to dress up for a ball.