12. Girl in the Red Dress

With no particular plan we start exploring the side streets between Grafton Street and Dame Street, which are crammed with little boutiques, restaurants and cafés all decked out with fairy lights and red ribbon bows. We wander into the Powerscourt Centre, which is a bustling place converted from the courtyard of three Georgian buildings. A pianist is playing carols on the ground floor, and on the third floor we find a French café, where we sit with coffees overlooking the action – neither of us can face lunch after our breakfast and buns, or more coffee really, but, as Joe says, it’s the price of renting the seat.

Joe sees an alert on his phone and shows me: it’s a picture of his parents, on the slopes.

‘Aw,’ I say, smiling at the two of them. ‘I love that they’ve embraced WhatsApp, but your dad still signs his messages “love Mum and Dad”.’

I like Joe’s parents a lot. His dad – also coincidentally called Michael, like my dad – used to play golf with mine, and his mum, Genevieve, is from Ealing and taught science at my school. My favourite anecdote about them is to do with Joe’s birth. His mum went into labour on 15 October, which was the night of the Great Storm of 1987, and his father was trying to keep the severity of the storm from his mum because he didn’t want her to be frightened. Mr Lee was a structural engineer and he was picturing all the direst scenarios like Queen Charlotte’s Hospital losing power – which could well have happened, by all accounts – and kept turning off the radio and shushing the medical staff whenever they mentioned anything.

‘Oh yeah,’ Joe says, when I remind him. ‘That was classic Dad. Pretend a bad thing’s not happening. Obviously Mum knew about the storm, but she says she didn’t have the mental energy to worry about it, and it gave him something to do.’

I smile, thinking it’s a shame my parents couldn’t manage their disagreements that way. I don’t think it was even the constant disagreements that broke my parents up, though that obviously didn’t help. They just wanted different things: my mum wanted to go out and socialize, my dad wanted to stay home and listen to jazz. My mum wanted to go to a different place every year on holiday; my dad didn’t really care for travelling at all. As my mum put it, they were just happier apart than they were together. For years I blamed her, thinking that wasn’t a reason to break up – but eventually I had to accept that it wasn’t my decision and that after all, maybe she was right.

I check my own phone and see that there are alerts from everyone on our wider friends WhatsApp, which is unimaginatively called Ealing. Kiran has said: So is anyone going to the Drayton on Christmas Eve? and it seems the answer is no. Kiran is too tired to go out past eight o’clock. Paul and Javier have a lot of prep to do as they’re hosting Paul’s parents for Christmas, plus a Friendmas celebration on Boxing Day. Caroline says if nobody else is free, she and Stefan are going to have a quiet night in. I’m expecting Paul or Javier to comment on the fact that Joe and I are both AWOL, but nobody seems to have noticed.

‘What’s wrong with everyone this year?’ I say to Joe.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, why is nobody going to the Drayton? What about tradition?’

‘We’re all getting old, I suppose,’ he says. ‘We’ve got other commitments. I’ve been kidnapped by this woman who’s taken me on a crazy trip to Dublin, for instance.’

‘Ha, ha,’ I say. ‘Don’t you think it’s sad, though?’

‘We’ll do it next year,’ Joe says. ‘And at least I’ll be with you. That’s a tradition, right? We’ll make a little Drayton tribute corner right here in Dublin.’

‘Mm,’ I say, feeling torn; that does sound nice, but I can’t let go of the hope that I might end up having a very different Christmas Eve this year. To change the subject, I say, ‘Do you think Stefan is going to propose this Christmas?’

‘How would I know?’ Joe says, which reminds me of his limitations; much as I love talking to him, it’s not like talking to my female friends. ‘Is he meant to be?’ he asks a minute later.

‘Well, that’s the thing. Caroline is really hoping he will, but she won’t bring up the topic or discuss it with him at all. Do you think that’s strange?’

‘Not really. It’s traditional, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think it’s a great tradition … I think it’s weird that you wouldn’t discuss it together and that he’s the one who gets to decide when it happens. They share bills, they decide where to go on holiday together – why can’t they discuss something as big as getting married?’ I feel disloyal saying all this, not least because I do like Stefan a lot. He’s an artist – or rather a painter, as he corrected me once when I said that – but dresses and acts like an accountant; he leads a very orderly life and is up at six every day to go to his studio before his day job teaching art. I think he’ll come good.

‘So I take it you wouldn’t want a flashmob proposal or to be asked on, what’s it called, a jumbotron?’ Joe says.

I shudder. ‘Nope. I think it’s a big decision, and you should have a conversation about it first, like two adults.’

‘Got it,’ says Joe. ‘I’ll be sure to tell your intended that’s what you’d prefer. Also maybe a list of pros and cons. A spreadsheet?’

‘Very funny.’ I look at my watch. ‘Oh, God, Joe – it’s already two thirty! How did that happen?’

This keeps on happening; we sit down for a cup of coffee, and I blink, and two hours have gone by. We’re not really in a museum mood by now, so instead we wander along a cobbled lane towards a market called the George’s Street Arcade, a treasure trove full of second-hand bookstalls and poster shops. I notice a vintage clothes shop and ask Joe if he’d mind us dropping in.

‘Knock yourself out. I’ll meet you in Grogan’s.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The pub on the corner, just behind us there. I had it as a backup plan, in case we had to invoke the Rule of Joe.’

I nod. I’m familiar with the Rule of Joe, which says that people on holiday together should spend at least half an hour on their own every day.

Entering this shop really is like stepping back in time – in the sense that suddenly it could be any year between now and 1970. Actually, it feels quite 1990s. There’s a scented candle with a light woodsy smell, masking any mothball aroma. A girl with goth make-up is sitting behind the counter reading The Mists of Avalon, and they’re playing ‘Blue’ by Joni Mitchell, which I introduced to Andrew. I swear I went months without thinking of him before this week, but lately everything is conspiring to remind me of him. I distract myself by flicking through the rails, running my hand absently over the brocade, silk and velvet, until my fingertips encounter something luxuriously silky and soft. It’s a long red silk evening dress that looks like it’s from the 1940s. My favourite decade.

‘Will I hang that up for you in the fitting room?’ says the girl, and I smile as I remember how puzzled I was when Andrew used to say ‘will’ instead of ‘shall’. ‘I don’t have a crystal ball – I don’t know if you will or not,’ I used to tell him.

I duck into the changing room. I’m really not sure if the dress is going to fit, especially after that lunch, but to my amazement it zips up as if it’s been made for me. The bias cut is so flattering, and the low-cut neck makes my skin look as creamy and lush as the head on a pint of Guinness. But then I glance at the price tag and gasp out loud; there’s no way I can justify this.

‘Oh, that’s only gorgeous on you,’ the girl says. ‘That’s the real bombshell look.’

‘Thanks – I just wish I had somewhere to wear it.’

‘It could be nice for a wedding? If you’ve any weddings coming up.’

‘Only about a hundred.’ I went to four weddings last year, and next year, 2020, is even busier: I have five between May and August. I don’t think this would be appropriate for a wedding, though, really; it’s way too attention-seeking, albeit in a good way.

‘Let’s have some fun with it, and you can take a picture anyway,’ she suggests.

That’s nice of her. I let her kit me out with a beautiful emerald necklace, some block-heeled shoes with a diamante clasp and a brown fur jacket – she checks first if I have any objection to fur, and I tell her not if it’s vintage.

‘Same here. I’m vegan myself, but I always say the animal’s already been murdered anyway, so why let all their pain and suffering go to waste?’

I put the fur back on a hanger, but even without it the dress is gorgeous; a vision of pin-up glamour. And it would be a really great dress to perform in. I was never one for draping myself over the piano while singing ‘Makin’ Whoopee’ through false eyelashes. But it was nice to have a reason to get dressed up every week. That part of my life is over now, though. I don’t need it, so I put it straight back on the hanger, after thanking the sales assistant.

I’m getting ready to leave when I notice a pile of fliers advertising a ‘Private Dinner at a Georgian Residence’ – obviously some kind of supper club. It’s tonight.

‘Oh, take one,’ the shop assistant urges. ‘My friend runs it. It will be deadly. It’s always a great crowd. It’s probably booked up, but you could sign up to the list and get on to the next one. It’s a bit like Henrietta Street – you know, the tenement museum.’

This leaves me none the wiser, but I take the flier, not bothering to explain that by the time the next one rolls around I’ll be back in London, and go to join Joe in the pub. Standing outside, I have to double-check that I have the right place: one sign outside describes it as Castle Lounge while the other wall says Grogan’s. Inside, it’s a buzzy little place, with crazy-carpeted floors and wood-panelled walls displaying an eclectic collection of paintings and photographs. Little fringed lamps are suspended from the ceilings, casting a mellow light, and it’s already full of people gathered around small tables on low blue velvet stools. I notice Joe at the back, sitting in front of a pint of Guinness with the comic book he bought earlier.

‘See anything nice?’ he asks as I sit down.

‘No, there was a lovely dress – I was tempted. But I’m already on a lovely holiday, so I had to say no to it. Otherwise, I won’t even be able to afford avocado toast, let alone my mortgage.’

‘And the flat whites. Don’t forget the flat whites.’

‘I know. We are the generation that lives in a flat white. I didn’t know you drank Guinness.’

‘I don’t. I said “a pint” and before I could say of what, he poured me a Guinness. So I guess a pint means a Guinness. What do you want to drink?’

‘I suppose I’ll have a Guinness as well. Do you want a top-up?’

‘Watch this – they come to you.’ He holds up a hand, and a girl comes over, carrying a tray, and takes my order.

‘Very civilized, isn’t it?’ Joe notices the flier poking out of my pocket. ‘What’s that?’ As soon as I explain what it is, he says, ‘Why don’t we go?’

‘It’s expensive … And it’s probably booked out,’ I say. ‘Although I do like the idea of it.’ I’ve been to two of these before, and it was fun meeting new people – and it would be nice to do it in Dublin and meet some locals.

‘Ah,’ Joe says. ‘I forgot. You’re a guesser, not an asker.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A guesser just makes up their own mind that something will be booked out, or that they won’t be allowed to sit there, or that someone wouldn’t be willing to do them a favour … whereas an asker will ask the question.’

‘Hm.’ This makes sense. ‘I see what you mean. I suppose I’m a guesser. I guess so, anyway. Are you an asker?’

‘I’m an asker when it comes to stuff like this. I mean, it’s a two-minute phone call. Do you want me to phone? I’m easy. If you think it’s too expensive we can just go to McDonald’s.’

It is expensive, but I’m pondering something else.

‘How many weddings are you going to next year?’

‘Me? I have no idea. A couple? I’d have to check my diary.’

‘Well, I’m going to six. I mean I’m invited to six. And I only genuinely want to go to one of them. The other five all involve travel. Even if they’re not abroad it means a hotel or B&B. And what with flights, tights and taxis, they each cost me between three and five hundred pounds, or even more for the ones abroad. What’s funny?’

‘Flights, Tights and Taxis. That could be the title of your autobiography. No, I hear you – weddings are expensive.’

‘Yes! And I’ve just been guessing – or assuming – that each couple would be devastated if I didn’t go. But what if they weren’t? What if they were just inviting me to be polite, or they had someone else they really wanted to invite instead of me, or they just didn’t mind either way?’

‘All plausible options.’

‘So I might just not go. And that will save me …’ I have to get out my phone calculator, as maths isn’t my strong point. ‘Up to two thousand five hundred pounds. Or maybe more.’

‘Nice to have – you’ll have paid off that mortgage in no time.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ My inheritance obviously gave me a good deposit. But I’ve still got many zeroes to go before I own the flat rather than the bank.

‘What about you?’ I ask curiously. ‘Have you ever thought about trying to buy your flat?’ Joe’s flat is so much a part of him, I sometimes forget that he is still renting.

‘Ah. Well, actually, I hadn’t told you yet.’ He wipes some froth off his mouth. ‘I’ve put in an offer on a flat – a place in Acton.’

‘In Acton?’ I repeat, as if he’s told me Mars. ‘But –’ Nothing wrong with Acton, but it’s really far out west – next door to Ealing in fact. ‘Where in Acton?’

‘East Acton,’ Joe says, which makes sense: it’s the cheapest part. Joe is well paid, but this is still London – just about.

‘Yes, the offer’s been accepted – so now it’s all in the hands of the lawyers.’

‘So you’ll be moving to Acton,’ I repeat. I am surprised at how unsettled this makes me feel – much worse, in fact, than the idea of the friends all abandoning our Christmas drinks tradition. For as long as I can remember, Joe’s place has been our haunt in central London, where we all gather after nights out or just on weekend afternoons. I can’t imagine knocking on that door and not having him answer. Not to mention that, if he lives in Acton, we’ll be at opposite ends of London, which often sounds the death knell for friendships. ‘I’ll never see you again,’ I say, joking. ‘Don’t you need to be near Soho, where all the action is?’

‘Not if we’re moving the offices out to Brentford,’ Joe says. ‘And there are lots of other film and TV studios out west – Pinewood, the BBC – so it’s a good location for me.’

‘Of course. Well – congratulations. Have you got a picture?’ He shows me the listing, and I try to act supportive and enthusiastic. I am happy for Joe, obviously. I suppose this had to happen – he couldn’t live in central London for ever. But it seems like the end of an era.

Grogan’s is filling up now, and people are standing at the bar as well as thronging the tables. We’re crammed into a little alcove table, thigh to thigh, and it’s getting dark outside, the roar of conversation building like a storm.

‘Hey, look at that,’ says Joe. I follow his gaze and see a blur on the wall, deep blues and purples and reds; I’m momentarily confused until I realize it’s a stained-glass window.

‘What are the odds? First a café, then we find one in a pub. Like I said – hidden treasures.’

But then, suddenly, I spot something else behind him. Or rather, someone else. And this time, I know it’s not a mirage – it’s an actual sighting. Not of Andrew himself, but of Conor, one of his fellow musicians, who was in the sextet with him back in Verona. He looks a bit older now, of course, but it’s definitely him, standing in a corner, pint in hand, laughing with two other guys. Thankfully neither of them is Andrew, but who knows when he might pop in? This is exactly the kind of place where I can see him whiling away a chilly evening at Christmas time. He could walk in at any minute.

‘Joe,’ I hiss. ‘We have to go. Now!’ And I zip out of the side door, grabbing my coat on the way, without even checking to see if Joe’s following me.

‘I hadn’t even finished my pint,’ he complains. ‘What was it this time?’

‘It was his friend. Conor. One of the guys in Italy! It was definitely, definitely him.’

‘And you ran away from him like a fugitive because …’

I don’t want to admit it but I can’t really hide things from Joe that easily. ‘Because if I see Andrew ahead of Christmas Eve, I won’t know if he would have turned up of his own accord. I’ll never know that unless I can avoid him – until it’s time.’

I can see Joe is biting his lip in the effort to suppress all the remarks I know he wants to make.

‘I know,’ I admit. ‘It’s ridiculous. And superstitious and all the rest of it.’

‘I didn’t say anything,’ says Joe.

‘You didn’t need to. I can see it all over your face.’

‘I tell you what,’ says Joe. ‘If you want to lie low, let’s do that tonight. We don’t have to go out for dinner. What do you say we order room service and watch an old film, or something?’

I have to admit, that sounds very appealing. But I don’t want to spend my whole time in Dublin in hiding. I decide I need to do something to reclaim my destiny – to make this trip less about finding Andrew and more about having an adventure; until the 24th, at least.

‘No. Let’s do the supper club,’ I tell him. ‘If they have space. And do you know what? I think I am going to get that dress.’