Cloudy with a Chance of Love: The unmissable laugh-out-loud read. Fiona Collins

I have a lot to contain. There’s that phrase, isn’t there, about pouring curves into clothes; in my case, it’s more like stuffing them in, but I can hold up okay, with the right scaffolding (i.e. Spanx) and the right style of clothes. I never wear trousers, for example, they make me look like a traffic warden. I tried to lose weight once, but it didn’t really work; my face went all gaunt and I looked weird so I decided to keep my curves. Jeff always said he liked them – he said he loved my sizeable bottom – but obviously he didn’t, not that much. He now prefers to get a handle on the skinny witch that is Gabby. My curves were too much for him, that’s all I can conclude. A better man would have appreciated them forever.

      So I’d donned the scaffolding and clothes I hoped suited me. Before I’d left the house at half eight, I’d checked myself from all angles and given myself a once-over with the de-fluffing roller, then I’d thrown on my beige faux-fur coat and tottered out of the house with an enforced wiggle. This pencil skirt was on the tight side, but was a trusted favourite. I hoped Sam was right and that I looked classic and not an old fright.

      ‘Are you nearly ready?’ I asked Sam.

      ‘Nearly,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got to do my nails. Are you excited about tonight, Daryl?’

      ‘Excited? No. Looking forward to it in a weird, kind of warped-curiosity way? Yes.’

      She sat down, grabbed a fuchsia nail polish from a drawer she pulled out behind her, and started painting her nails.

      ‘Are you scared to put yourself out there, because of what happened with Jeff?’

      ‘Mmm, let me see,’ I said. I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘I loved a man, thought he loved me, gave him a daughter, was married to him for umpteen years despite him being a bit of an arse, then he ran off with my best friend. Of course I’m scared. You know I am!’

      ‘You’ll be okay, Daryl, honestly. I’ll be there. How does it feel without your wedding ring?’

      I looked down at my left hand and twiddled the space where my ring used to be.

      ‘Honestly? Half fabulous, half really, really sad. But I’m glad it’s gone.’

      ‘If you feel sad with it missing you can always get some big old costume jewellery for the other fingers.’

      ‘Hmm… there’s not looking mumsy, then there’s crazy lady!’

      ‘Ha, nothing wrong with a little bit of crazy!’

      ‘You’d know!’

      ‘Absolutely,’ she grinned. ‘You really will be fine, you know. And if you’re not, I’m here to catch you.’

      ‘Well, thank you. Don’t do it yet, though – your nails aren’t dry.’

      I finally got her out of her kitchen fifteen minutes later, but she was now faffing with her hair at the hall mirror. I tried to steer her towards the front door with both hands on her shoulders.

      ‘Come on,’ I pleaded with her as she reached for the Elnett the seventeenth time. ‘Put that down. We’ve done all we can. And it’s going to have to be very speed-y dating if we turn up half an hour late!’

Chapter Five

      There were an awful lot of people wearing an awful lot of outlandish clothes for an event that wasn’t supposed to be fancy dress.

      Sam had insisted it wasn’t. I’d had a sudden thought about it in the car – was tonight themed, were there to be any crazy costumes involved? – but she’d assured me, no, there was no dressing up tonight. It was just normal speed dating, she’d said, reading from a flyer all about it, followed by a disco. It was over-forties, she admitted, which was actually quite a relief. Sam and I both were, obviously, and to be honest I was glad the place wasn’t going to be full of terrible toy boys where we would feel pressure to look and act young. I didn’t want to try and be down with the kids and have to pretend I knew all about Tweeting and Snapchat or whatever. I couldn’t be doing with all that. Over forty was fine.

      As soon as we walked into the packed gastro pub with the massive windows and the shiny oak floor, I turned to Sam and shook my head at her.

      ‘Sam!’

      ‘Oops.’ She put three fingers to her lips and giggled. So did I.

      There before us, some chatting away animatedly, some standing around looking nervous, were dozens of people clearly in full fancy dress. Unless of course Ringo Starr and Katy Perry (dressed in the leopard-print bikini from her Roar video) had fancied a spot of speed dating in South West London tonight. I spotted a Bublé, a Madonna (the pointy bra years), a Britney Spears (sexy flight attendant guise), two Michael Jacksons, a portly Buddy Holly and a Lady Gaga who, quite frankly, could have made a bit more of an effort – she was in a red leotard and a pair of flip-flops, and was wearing three packs of bacon round her neck, on a string. In one corner, a kaleidoscope of eighties band members and musicians had gravitated towards each other like the kindred spirits they were. Look, it’s Sting! Blimey, there’s Boy George with a beer belly! Hold onto your shuttlecocks; is that George Michael, in an ill-fitting wig and some tennis shorts? It looked like a microcosm of the Band Aid studio; somewhere amongst them, Bono would be lurking, looking earnest.

      ‘For god’s sake!’ I exclaimed. ‘Show me that flyer!’

      Sam fished it back out of her bag. I scanned it quickly, and there, across the bottom, in hot pink letters it said, Fancy dress. Theme: Music Icons through the Decades.

      ‘I didn’t read down that far,’ Sam protested.

      I looked down at my plain pencil skirt and my silky blouse. I suppose, if pushed, I could say I’d come as someone from an eighties band… I tried to remember what those two girls off The Human League had looked like – Susanne and Thingy. I could say I’d come as one of them, the blonde one, and that yes, she’d obviously put on quite a bit of weight since the good old days of working as a waitress in a cocktail bar and gyrating behind Phil Oakey… Was she an icon though? Not especially. At least Sam had on leather leggings and that sheer black t-shirt; she could pretend she’d come as a dressed-down Cher. Or a really tall Cheryl Cole.

      Failing that, we could both look really, really dull and like we hadn’t got the memo.

      ‘Fabulous,’ I said. ‘Just brilliant.’ And we looked at each other and burst into giggles. Never mind,’ I added. ‘At least everyone looks over forty.’

      They did. There were no spring chickens amongst this little lot. Lady Gaga’s bottom was a little too creased to really carry off that leotard – bless her – had she not heard of sarongs? One of the Michael Jacksons looked like he’d risk a broken hip if he attempted a moonwalk, and the motley crew in the Eighties Corner were sporting an awful lot of wrinkles above all those ruffles, plus a crop of bristly, Old Romantic grey beards.

      ‘Yep, all over forty, as promised,’ Sam said. ‘Take a good look round, Daryl. Any one of them could be your Mr Right.’

      ‘I doubt it!’ I said, still giggling. ‘Look at them! I’ve seen more fit men down at the bingo hall.’

      ‘Not that you’ve ever been…’

      ‘Not that I’ve ever been. And check out that Justin Timberlake over there! He’s no Trouser Snake, is he? I don’t think he’s going to be rocking anyone’s body tonight.’

      ‘No, he’ll be rocking his own, in a chair.’ That sounded a bit rude so we both laughed.

      One man looked amazing, I did concede – he was the full Adam Ant complete with white lines on his cheeks and a red swashbuckling belt, but due to his leering stance and roving, slightly protruding eyes, I doubted he was much of a dandy highwayman, more a randy postman. He wouldn’t be much cop, I was sure of it, and I didn’t hold much hope for any of