My Favourite Part

28: the long arm of coincidence

"Ready?"

"Come on then!"

"Ange, babe, we're greying over here."

"Ta-da!" I slide into the 3-way FaceTime frame in my Ascot dress to the sound of Caz and Babe's applause. For all the effort that went into it, you'd think Ascot was more than a big horse race for the royals. That's all it is, really – although Caz says that's treason to say.

Thanks to Caz's maman, the endearing white dress is no more – the dress is fitted like a fishtail from the waist down, overlaid with a light blue lace and a slim black satin strip in the middle, and punctuated with a black and white lace frill along the bottom. It feels like it belongs on a size 4 body with the surname Windsor, rather than a size 8 Channing, but smoothing down the light-as-air lace against my body, I realise how exciting the feeling of being someone else is. This must be what it's like to be Hannah Montana.

"Shit, it's so pretty!" Babe goggles. She's eternally dressed like she's going to the airport, in tight crop tees and designer sweats, and she makes it work better than anyone – her validation always makes me that little bit smugger.

"Um, excuse me," I feign offence, "why do you sound so surprised?"

"Because she didn't know it was possible to look fit without showing tits," Caz answers in her smart-arse way, "I believe they call it class, Barbara."

Eric's on the other side of the room, trying to do up his tie in the mirror, and I see his shoulders jolt in silent laughter, but the smile goes as suddenly as it came. I know he feels a little awkward, and I get why.

In another universe, the three of them would get on like a house on fire. We'd all have lunch in a swanky hotel restaurant, and they'd grill him and make him nervous, but he'd win them over with his charm and wit, and they'd tell me how funny and cute and perfect for me he was when he left. In this universe, it's a little more complex. I clear my throat and turn my attention back to the call before I make myself upset.

"Okay, so I'm thinking cut-out heels?"

"The black ones?"

"Mhm."

"Oh, yes, for sure."

"Yeah, those are cute."

"And," I tip-toe the dresser before scurrying back into frame, "butterfly clips?" I hold the silver pins hovering at either side of my head. Caz nods in approval,

"So gorge."

I stayed up later than I should have last night, stressing (to Eric's cheeky amusement) trying to figure out whether a navy clutch clashed with or complemented baby blue, and whether to go with a bold red lip or a subtle champagne, but I beam, casual and elegant, like I just threw finishing pieces on just this morning.

"Alright, final question then; the Shakespearean question, if you will: to straighten or not to straighten?"

"That is the question," Babe grins.

"Votes to straighten?" To nobody's surprise, Caz's hand shoots up, grazing her own dark, sheen locks on the way.

"And votes for the curls?" Babe raises a casual finger, but Eric, still struggling in front of the mirror, drops his tie and sticks up a long arm. I forget to stifle my laugh when I look over and grin.

Babe's raised brow is innocent, but her tone isn't,

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. I think I'll just leave it," I squint at the tiny numbers at the top of the screen, "don't know if I have long enough to straighten anyway. Ah, I love you too, Caz," I add when I'm flipped off in utter Caz fashion.