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Phoebe gave her a quick, rather shamefaced look. ‘Are you sure, Tiff? It’s just that I thought—at the beginning—that it was Tony and you...’
Tiffany laughed. ‘Hardly. We know each other far too well.’ She contemplated Phoebe with a satisfied smile, like the cat with the cream. ‘Put yourself in my hands, and you’ll knock his eyes out on Friday.’
Phoebe could hardly believe her own eyes when she was finally allowed to look in the mirror on Friday evening. Her own hair was concealed under a shoulder-length blonde wig, which Tiffany had purloined from her mother’s room. Her eyes were slumbrous with kohl, and her lips gleamed a deep, wicked red.
‘You look more like Madonna than she does,’ said Tiffany.
Downstairs, Phoebe was disappointed to discover that Tony had gone ahead to the party with some of the others.
‘Whose party is it, anyway?’ she asked Tiffany, who shrugged vaguely.
‘Just the usual bash,’ she returned. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
She’d expected the house to be another designer nightmare, like Tiffany’s, so North Fitton House came as a pleasant surprise. She lingered on the steps, breathing in the fragrance of the night-scented stocks which filled the stone urns flanking the front door.
Tiffany gave her a little push. ‘Come on. There’s a hungry man waiting in there.’
Tony’s reaction was all that she could have desired.
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