Some years ago, there was a programme on the telly called Shogun. In it a man is dunked repeatedly in boiling water until he dies. For some reason I thought of that. And funnily enough, I thought of it again when we did the second foot.

Then they wrapped my be-waxed feet in plastic bags tied at the ankles with pink ribbons, and if I hadn’t seen this done before I’d have been looking around for the hidden cameras.

Ten minutes later, when they peeled off the white wax, to my surprise my feet weren’t in need of urgent skin-grafts but were soft and petal-like. Then they painted all twenty of my nails in a pretty ice-cream pink – they’d laughed indulgently but shaken their heads when I’d asked for the stars and stripes – and sent me on my way. Already I was a convert, promising myself that I’d definitely have it done once a week from now on. The way you do.

Back at home, Emily was hiding her worn-out pallor beneath a mask of make-up. I don’t know how she does it, but when she’d finished she looked fantastic – radiant and shiny and not at all like a sleep-deprived, stressed wreck who’d been working flat-out and living on cigarettes and Lucky Charms.

My family were due to arrive at Emily’s at seven, and when they hadn’t arrived by twenty-five past, I was a ball of anxiety.

‘They’ve got lost!’

‘How could they get lost? It’s six blocks, it’s a straight line!’

‘You know what they’re like. They’ve probably ended up in South Central and are already in a street gang. Gold chains and uzis and bandannas.’

‘Could you imagine your Dad in a bandanna?’ Emily got sidetracked.

‘Could you imagine Mum in one?’ For some reason, we were suddenly snorting with uncontrollable laughter. ‘An orange one.’

‘She’d look like a space-hopper.’ And we were off again, shaking with mirth. It was lovely.

‘Oh God,’ Emily sighed happily, scooping an expert finger under her eye and removing a little pool of mascara, ‘that’s fabulous. Hold on,’ she cocked an ear. ‘I hear them.’

The four of them burst into the house, bringing their collective bad humours with them.

‘It’s her fault we’re late,’ Mum glared at Helen.

‘We’re here now, that’s the main thing,’ Dad tried.

‘And you all look lovely,’ complimented Emily.

Indeed they did. We were a glitzy, perfumed lot (except for Dad), and it came as no surprise when, almost immediately, the Goatee Boys appeared at the door.

‘We’re just going out,’ Emily said shortly, trying to bar them entrance.

‘Hey, I’m Ethan.’ Ethan bobbed up and down, trying to see around Emily and make eye contact with Helen and Anna.

‘Oh, let them in for a second,’ I said.

‘Go on, then.’ Emily stood by narkily as the three of them filed in and stood shyly in front of the girls. I did the introductions and for a few minutes left them to sniff around each other like dogs, then we really did have to go.

‘What do those lads do?’ Dad asked, as he hoisted himself up into Emily’s jeep.

‘Catch VD,’ Emily muttered.

‘They’re students,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ Anna said, ‘but Ethan, the one with the shaved head, he’s going to be the new Messiah.’

Mum’s lips tightened. ‘Oh, he is, is he?’

38

The première of Doves was taking place offDoheny, in a wonderful old-fashioned movie theatre with red velvet seats and art deco mirrored walls, a throwback to a more glamorous age. I was glad we’d made an effort with our appearance, because everyone else looked fairly ritzy. There were even a few photographers hanging around. ‘More likely to be from Variety than People,’ Emily said, but all the same.

Emily went off to network –’ Just a quickie before the movie,’ and I shepherded my charges to our allotted seats. I was just settling myself in comfortably when, a couple of rows ahead, I noticed Troy and Kirsty and instantly shrivelled. Seeing him –and worse still, seeing him with Kirsty – reminded me of my stupidity, of how naïve I’d been. But then I remembered what Emily had said: I wasn’t the first woman who’d let herself be made a fool of and I wouldn’t be the last, and all of a sudden I felt a bit lighter, freer. Perhaps I’d always nurse a desire to stick a fork in his leg, but that wasn’t the worst way to feel about someone.

Troy turned around to check the place out and I lowered my eyes, but too late. He nodded coolly at me, I nodded even more coolly at him – I like to think my head didn’t move at all, just some of my strands of hair – then his look slid over me and arrived at Helen, where it lingered speculatively. Brazenly, Helen winked at him and he grinned back. Kirsty, alerted by some sixth sense, also twisted around and when she saw who Troy was looking at, her whiny voice started up in some attempt to distract him. At least I wasn’t like her, I thought – at least I no longer wanted him.

Then Emily took her seat, the lights went down and the movie began.

‘What kind of film is it?’ Dad whispered hopefully. ‘A horse opera?’

‘Is Harrison Ford in it?’ Mum asked into my other ear.

Harrison Ford has cross-generational appeal in my family; Mum is as keen on him as the rest of us. In fact, even my niece Kate stops crying when Claire plays her the bit in Working Girl when he takes his shirt off – arguably his finest hour.

Well, I can tell you that Doves didn’t star Harrison Ford and it wasn’t a horse opera. I’m not quite sure what it was. It could have been a love story, except the hero kept murdering his girlfriends. It could have been a comedy, except it wasn’t funny. It could have been a porn movie, except it was mostly filmed in black and white so that we’d know the sex wasn’t gratuitous but was essential to the plot. (It really is intensely uncomfortable watching graphic sex scenes while sandwiched between your parents.)

It was the kind of film which makes me feel incredibly thick, which reminds me that I didn’t go to university, that I haven’t read any Simone de Beauvoir, that I thought Kieslowski’s Three Colours: Red was complete tosh (and I’d only gone because When a Man Loves a Woman had been booked out). I spent most of it a) wishing the sex scenes would end and b) trying to think of things to say to Lara afterwards about it, other than ‘pile of shite’. It took me the full 120 minutes of running time to decide that ‘Interesting’ was a good neutral phrase. After two dreadful hours – and seemingly midway through a scene – the credits began to roll, the lights went up and the clapping and whoops began. Mum turned, smiled brightly at me and declared, ‘Marvellous!’ Then muttered in an undertone, ‘The oddest thing I ever saw. I thought The English Patient was bad, but it was nothing on this yoke.’