The Uber driver clearly doesn’t know what to think when he picks us up from outside Jake’s house. He must be used to seeing plenty of unusual sights driving around Bristol on a Saturday night, but he does a double take when he sees us two.
I’m dressed as James Bond, wearing a tuxedo and toting a toy gun, while Jake is dressed in a dog onesie complete with floppy ears.
“You’re going to Woodfield Road?” he asks very hesitantly as we clamber into the back seats.
“Yes, that’s right, thank you,” I reply, avoiding the temptation to impersonate Roger Moore.
We certainly don’t look as if we should be going to the same event.
“Why are they holding it at Dan’s house this year?” Jake asks as we drive across town.
“Apparently his place is a bit bigger, and presumably it’s his turn to host. It’s been at Jessie’s the last two times, hasn’t it?”
This is Jessie’s third fancy-dress birthday party in a row, and it’s always a joint party with Dan, one of her university friends, who shares the same birthday. It’s become something of a tradition. Following on from Disney and Harry Potter, the theme for this evening is the London Underground. The coin chose for me to go as Bond Street rather than Oxford Circus, and me having to dress up like a clown.
“Drop off Josh,” the automated voice of the satnav instructs the driver as we pull up on the side of the road. He’s not spoken to us during the ten-minute ride, presumably worried that we are complete psychos.
“I bet you he’s going to give you a bad rating,” Jake says as we walk along the pavement, looking for where we’re meant to be going. We’re somewhere in Redland, but I’m not familiar with this area.
“My rating is already bad from when I took Jade to Longleat Safari that time. I had to get an Uber, as neither of us could drive.”
“Oh yeah, I remember that. Didn’t the car get damaged or something?”
“Yeah. One of the monkeys pulled the wing mirror off. The driver went mad. I thought he was going to kick us out in the lion enclosure.”
“Oh God.” Jake looks around to find where Dan’s house is, as the driver has seemingly taken us too far. “Do we know what number his house is?”
“Number three, wasn’t it?”
Jake trails behind me, adjusting his dog costume as I ring the doorbell. I get into character and point my gun at the door, waiting for Jessie or Dan to answer.
As the door opens I realize it’s not Jessie. Or Dan. Rather, I’m pointing a gun in the face of a horrified old lady, who starts to scream.
“Oh no, Josh, it’s number five,” Jake, looking down at his phone, calls out from around the corner.
Thanks, Jake, thirty seconds earlier would have been lovely.
To my right, I see a group of nuns filing into a house a few doors down. There are one, two, three . . .
Seven Sisters. That’s the house.
I realize I’m still pointing the gun toward the woman, who is now cowering.
“I’m very sorry, madam, I believe we have the wrong house. Sorry to disturb you.” I put the gun back into the inside pocket of my dinner jacket and leave the gray-haired lady rooted to the spot.
She looks out into the street in horror as I walk away.
After we eventually arrive at the right house, we make our way inside and are immediately swarmed by bakers and bankers.
“Told you everyone would come as Baker Street or Bank—so obvious.”
“I don’t see any other dogs.”
We head through the crowded house to find Jessie, aware that the other guests are judging our costumes. The place is smaller than I was expecting and messier. The unwashed plates are stacked up beside the sink, and in the lounge there are so many shoes left lying around that it looks like Clarks’s during sale season. We spot Jessie standing next to a couple of members of ABBA. She’s dressed as Paddington Bear, complete with a luggage tag and marmalade sandwiches. Her long, straight dark hair escapes from underneath her red hat.
“Are you going to hold on to those all night?” I say, pointing to the sandwiches, which are already the worse for wear.
“They’re getting a bit soggy actually,” she says as she gives us both hugs. I try and avoid her rubbing marmalade over my tux. “You both look great—Bond Street, I presume, and . . . what are you this year, Jake?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Well, I can see you’re a dog again. I’m trying to think what station that is. Dog, doggy, puppy . . . oh, is there an Isle of Dogs?”
Jake shakes his head and woofs.
“Woofing Broadway? Woofing Bec?”
“No, I’m Barking.”
“You certainly are barking. Are you going to wear the same outfit every year?”
Jake came as Fluffy from Harry Potter last year and Tramp from Lady and the Tramp the year before.
“Anyway, happy birthday! Are you enjoying your party?” Jake says, dejected.
“Yes, I’m having a great time, thanks. Nice to see everyone has made so much effort. Or at least most people.”
Right on cue, a girl walks past wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a coat hanger draped around her neck.
“Hanger Lane,” Jessie whispers, looking highly unimpressed.
“Oh, of course.”
“Twenty-seven, then? You’re getting on. How does it feel?” I can’t help ribbing her after all the abuse she gives me for my age.
“Pretty much the same as twenty-six so far. Strangely enough.”
“Twenty-seven is a good age.”
“I’m surprised you can remember, it was quite a while ago for you.”
“I don’t think you can make any more jokes, now you’re in your late twenties.”
“Twenty-seven isn’t late twenties. It’s still mid twenties, surely?” She looks genuinely concerned.
“Won’t be long ’til thirty,” I joke.
“But you will always be older than me.”
I can’t win this one.
Jessie turns around as Björn Borg (Wimbledon) approaches with a birthday card for her. Jake and I retreat to the corner, trying to work out who everyone is dressed as.
“Presumably the couple in cabin crew outfits are Heathrow terminals? What’s the person wearing the crown meant to be?”
“Umm, King’s Cross?”
“Yes, good shout, I was wondering why he looked so grumpy. What about the guy in the astronaut outfit?”
“What station could that link to?”
“Is there something moon-related? Space . . . ?”
“Or star something? What about Eurostar?”
“No, I’ve got it. I think it’s Euston.”
“Euston?”
“Yes, as in ‘Euston, we have a problem!’”
“Oh God, that’s so tenuous.”
“How about the guy holding the snooker cue?”
“I have no idea. Jess, what’s the guy with the snooker cue meant to be?” I catch her as she’s going to get another drink.
She looks around to see who we mean. He’s standing next to two guys wearing Arsenal and Tottenham football shirts.
“Oh, apparently he’s meant to be Kew Gardens. I think they all left their outfit choices to the very last minute.”
“Really? After all the effort we put in?” Jake says.
Jessie rolls her eyes.
“He’s probably wondering why you’ve come as a dog, to be fair.”
“It’s Barking! Zone four. Hammersmith and City, and District lines. It’s actually a very clever costume.” Jessie has gone before Jake has even finished his defense.
“Wasn’t that girl here last year?” I discreetly point to a girl standing across the room. She has also managed to repurpose her previous outfit and is again wearing a toilet seat around her neck. Perhaps I should start recycling my costumes, as my wardrobe is full of outfits worn once that I need to stick on eBay.
“Yeah, I remember we chatted with her last time. Why don’t you go and say hi?”
“Why can’t we both go?”
“Well, you’re single, and she’s clearly here on her own and is very good-looking. Do I need to say more?”
“She’s dressed as a toilet!”
“Go on, it will be good practice for you!”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m ready.”
“You don’t have to propose to her, just have a chat . . . Hang on, I’ve got to take this. It’s the hotel.” Jake follows Jessie into the kitchen to take the phone call. He’s on duty all weekend, meaning he has to be prepared for any emergency. At the thirty-fifth of thirty-six hotels in the city, there tends to be a major problem every week.
“Very convenient timing,” I say to him as he walks away, which makes it look like I’m talking to myself.
I flip the coin to decide. It tells me to go and talk to her, rather than standing on my own and playing on my phone. I take the long route around the room to give me time to build up my confidence. This is a bad idea, as I am now approaching her from behind. I weigh up whether I should tap her on the back to get her attention until I decide against this and instead spring around, looking like a maniac.
“Oh, hi,” she says, almost jumping. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Sorry . . . hi . . . I think we met last year?”
“Yes, I have some hazy memory of that,” she says with an Irish lilt.
She is pretty, with shoulder-length ginger hair and bright blue eyes.
“I like the outfit, again,” I say, looking down before jerking my head back up quickly so it doesn’t look like I’m staring at her chest.
“Yes, I had to get my money’s worth for this toilet seat. Moaning Myrtle . . . Waterloo. I’m hoping next year is a music theme so I can come as Lou Reed.”
“Or Lou Bega. Both musical geniuses, really.”
“Very true. I am just annoyed that those guys dressed up as ABBA stole my idea and came as Waterloo. Thought I’d be unique.” She looks across the room, before turning back to me. “What are you?”
I take my gun out.
“Bond Street, James Bond Street.”
Did I really just do that?
“Of course, looking very suave. Especially compared to everyone else.”
“Yes, that’s not too hard when that guy’s carrying a can of beer and has got a dildo on his head, dressed as Cockfosters.”
“So have you had a good year?” she says, laughing as she looks at the guy I’m referring to.
“Yeah, not bad, thanks. You?”
“Yep. It’s gone quickly, hasn’t it?”
What else do you say to someone you only see on an annual basis?
Think of something, Josh.
I try to recall anything I can remember about her from last year.
Fortunately, Jessie joins us on her way back from the kitchen, holding a couple of drinks.
“Did you want one?”
“Only if it’s shaken, not stirred.”
Really, Josh?
“What were you two chatting about? Can I join?” Jessie asks Waterloo.
“I was just asking how . . . sorry, what’s your name?”
“It’s Josh.”
“How Josh’s year has been.”
“Oh, he’s not started telling you about his coin, has he?”
I swing around to look at Jessie.
“No, what’s this about a coin?”
I watch on as Jessie recaps everything to this random girl dressed as a toilet.
“Wow, that’s very brave. So how does it work? Would you have to flip a coin if I ask whether you’re coming out with us afterward?”
“Yes, that’s about right.”
“This sounds like it could be fun.” She smiles.
AFTER TOO MANY drinks at the party, we walk from the house toward the Clifton Triangle. The motliest crew you’ve ever seen. To my left I have an Angel, to my right someone dressed as a Victoria sandwich. Four guys dressed as ABBA, a handful of Bakers in white chef’s hats, two of the Seven Sisters, the guy with his snooker cue, Waterloo, and Jessie, still holding her marmalade sandwiches, make up our entourage, with others following farther behind us. I don’t know where Jake has got to.
“Did you see they’ve changed their name back to Lizard Lounge again?” Waterloo asks me as she takes a puff of a cigarette. She’s left the toilet seat behind, so looks the most normal of us all.
“Are we really going there? Surely there’s a better club we could go to. The music is so cheesy.”
“Yes, that’s why it’s great, duh.”
“Why don’t we go to La Rocca?” one of the nuns suggests.
“Josh, flip your coin to see if we should go to Lizard Lounge or La Rocca,” Waterloo demands.
“OK, everyone, heads is Lizard Lounge, tails is La Rocca. Agreed?”
Everyone huddles around as we pause on the pavement to make the big decision.
I toss the coin into the night’s sky.
“Heads. Lizard Lounge it is!”
Benny, Björn, and the Bakers all celebrate wildly.
“Yay. Let’s go.” Waterloo grabs my arm, excitedly, and drags me down the road.
I haven’t been to Lizard Lounge since school. It is predictably full of students and schoolkids pretending to be over eighteen, and the music is as cheesy as I remember. By the time we’re in the club, our entire group has heard about the coin. Jessie is trying her best to discourage everyone, but it’s no use. Before I know it, everyone is chanting “toss the coin” as a row of shots are lined up for me to down.
The room starts to spin as Waterloo puts her arms around me, and we dance to a medley of nineties hits, getting closer and closer with each song. Our hands all over each other. She leans in right next to my face to be heard over the Spice Girls.
“So, Mr. Bond Street, let’s see if the coin thinks you should kiss me.”
We spend the next twenty minutes interchanging between coin flipping and sloppy, tobacco-tasting snogging.
THE NEXT THING I know, I’m waking up the following morning. I don’t know what time it is. I don’t even know where I am. I struggle to open my eyes. My head kills. Light streams in through the translucent gray curtains.
Is this the house where the party was? I don’t recognize it, if so. It’s not Jessie’s. It’s not Jake’s. Is it Waterloo’s? Did I sleep here? Did we sleep together? How did we get back?
I look down. I’m still dressed in my tuxedo, although judging by the state of it, no one’s going to want to buy it on eBay. I frisk myself for my phone and wallet. Fortunately, I still have them, but I seem to have lost my gun. It’s not in any of my pockets. I turn over in the bed to look for it and, to my surprise, I’m lying next to an Elephant. She is still wearing her trunk.
I decide to get out of bed and out of this mystery flat, before Castle turns up.