Looking for Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan

had been together since college and had married immediately after it, which surprised no-one as they’d both looked forty-five on the day they’d turned up for fresher’s week. He did the bad dad jokes, she did the baking, and they had been the first to buy a flat, settle down and start complaining about parking in garden centres on Sunday afternoons.

      ‘I brought some home made hors d’oeuvres!’

      The chiropodist appeared to be picking up the cheese and sniffing it.

      ‘Where’s Billy?’ said Arthur, helping himself to a glass of wine, seeing as the party seemed likely to continue hostess-free.

      ‘Aha,’ said Julia. ‘That kind of explains the bathroom. They’ve had a little contretemps.’

      ‘Good.’ said Arthur. ‘Too much saxophone playing. I hope they split up: when you say their names together it sounds like Canterbury Cathedral.’

      ‘No,’ said Julia. ‘She caught him getting off with a trombonist. Apparently they do amazing things with their lips …’

      ‘Oh dear,’ said Arthur. ‘Things are bad. If this really was the nineteen eighties, we’d have to give her a makeover.’

      Ellie was sitting on the linen basket feeling utterly disconsolate and kicking her white-stockinged toes in the air. The problem about having a huff was it was kind of difficult to know when to stop. She could hear signs of activity outside and knew she ought to go and face them all, but instead she was back looking in the mirror at the amount of polka-dotted lace she’d tied through her curly black hair and thinking, ‘thirty!’ Okay. Relax. She was fine. She wasn’t unhappy. Okay. So she was living with the biggest bastard landlord this side of China. And she had a job which involved a mind boggling amount of paper shifting to no apparent end. And Billy. She didn’t even want to think about him. Okay, so he hadn’t been absolutely ideal – he worked all night and slept all day and wasn’t even anything cool like a vampire – and, okay, his hair was a bit on the mullety side, but she didn’t mind that particularly. But no. He still had to go and bag off with someone who looked like she carried around two ping pong balls in her cheeks. Was this fair? She rubbed roughly at a stubborn tear which had forced its way through several layers of Barry M crème eyeliner.

      How on earth could she go out there? Half of her guests she didn’t even know. With a wince of embarrassment she remembered that she’d invited the postman. And, yet again, another birthday without a word from her mother, which made sixteen in all. She examined her eyes for wrinkles again and found plenty. ‘Not that it matters much from this point on,’ she thought gloomily. ‘It’s all downhill from here, fat arse.’

      She touched up her beauty spot. Oh God. Maybe if she stayed in here all night they’d all go away.

      ‘Umm, hi,’ came a deep growly voice from the other side of the door. It was Loxy, Julia’s super-uxorious boyfriend.

      ‘Julia sent me over to … I don’t know what really. But here I am. And lots of other people are too. Happy birthday by the way.’

      He coughed. Ellie closed her eyes. Loxy was lovely, and so in love with Julia it made Ellie want to puke.

      ‘So … Julia’s looking good, don’t you think? What are you wearing?’

      Ellie glanced down at her hybrid 1984 Madonna/ Strawberry Switchblade/Cyndi Lauper outfit and winced a little. Perhaps it was a little bit over the top. She hoped everyone else was dressed up too. (This was to prove a vain hope, although the security guard from her office was wearing differently coloured neon socks, and her hairdresser’s assistant had got herself a wet look perm done specially).

      Someone was singing about someone else being their favourite waste of time, and Julia glanced around the room. It had filled up quite nicely, although ‘Come Dressed for the Eighties,’ seemed to have been literally translated as ‘Well, In a Way Gap Did Actually Exist in the Eighties.’ There wasn’t a boiler suit in sight, despite the pictures of Tony Hadley on the invites.

      Siobhan and Patrick were in a mood with each other, not exactly unusual given that they’d been a couple for five years and were both chronic workaholics who’d forgotten how to spend any time together. Patrick was pushing the ironic flying saucer sweets in his mouth with the same relentless mechanical motion he used to sell bonds and, Julia suspected, make love. He was staring straight ahead looking mournful. Siobhan, on the other hand, had turned into a parody of someone trying to pretend she wasn’t in a mood with someone; circulating, flirting, laughing loudly. The joys of domesticity. Julia had never lived with anyone, not that Loxy ever stopped dropping hints; in fact, even now as she turned round from pouring wine (Annabel had taken over canapé distribution) he was hovering about worriedly and asking her if she wanted him to break the bathroom door down. Caroline Lafayette was banging on about her gap year in Tibet yet again, despite it being twelve years ago. Colin was hopping from foot to foot, obviously desperate for the toilet. Were all parties always crap, or just Ellie’s? Okay, that was it. She marched out to the bathroom.

      ‘Hedgehog!’ she yelled. ‘I’m bringing out the cake. Everyone is here. We’re going to sing happy birthday. You are going to come out and be nice. Or we’re going to … ehm. We’re going to tell your Big Bastard Landlord that you fancy him.’

      ‘How come,’ said Ellie through the door, ‘when Oscar the Grouch is in a bad mood everyone’s really sympathetic, but when it’s me I get dire threats?’

      ‘He’s cuter than you.’

      ‘He lives in a bin!’

      ‘Come on everyone!’ said Julia as Loxy came out of the kitchen with the Dangermouse cake. She started singing ‘Happy Birthday’.

      People started to join in nervously, however just as they were getting going, the front door slammed open. Shadowed in the open doorway against the wet October evening, the light from the streetlamp bouncing off his face, clutching his saxophone and dripping onto the carpet stood Billy. He lifted the saxophone and started to play along. Slowly, very slowly, the handle of the bathroom door started to turn.

      Ellie burst out of the bathroom.

      ‘Hey, sugar,’ said Billy, curling his lip at her. Billy was medium height and emaciated and looked, in a bad light, like Rob Lowe’s ugly younger brother. After he’d been addicted to crack for fifteen years and had a YTS haircut.

      ‘Sorry,’ said Ellie, calmly. ‘Did someone say something? Or did I just hear a cat being sick?’

      Julia manoeuvred herself to Ellie’s side and put her arm round her.

      ‘Why don’t you just come over here and we’ll cut the cake?’

      ‘It didn’t mean anything, sugar.’

      ‘Would you like a canapé?’ said Annabel. ‘I made them myself.’

      Billy ignored her, pulled on his cigarette and dropped his ash on the carpet. Annabel sniffed loudly.

      ‘Babe, I’ve just composed a little melody for you to show you exactly how much you mean to me.’

      ‘Just as well it’s not the other way around,’ said Ellie, crossly. ‘Otherwise we’d all have to listen to “Agadoo”.’

      Billy lifted up the saxophone, framing himself artistically in the doorway, winked meaningfully at her and threw back his head to start blowing.

      ‘This isn’t the one that sounds like “Baker Street” is it?’ said Ellie.

      Billy paused and slowly lowered the sax. ‘Ehm, yes. Yes it is that one.’

      Ellie sighed and slowly began eating a canapé.

      ‘Oh well. Go on then.’

      ‘You’ve put me off now.’

      ‘Fine.’

      Billy looked down at Annabel, who seemed to have accrued a dustbuster from somewhere.

      ‘Excuse me,