The invite said simply 10pm 24 Dec and an address

The invitation lay, without benefit of envelope, on the hall mat together with a slew of Christmas cards and a note from the post office saying they had been unable to deliver your parcel and please call this number etc.

You turned the invitation over, looking for a name, an RSVP. The reverse side was blank. The Old Mews. A real enough address, with a number of (very expensive) dwellings hidden away down the wide cobbled lane where once carriages of the rich and their high-stepping horses trundled into shelter. Where nowadays City bankers pay fortunes to sleep in the former humble dwellings of coachmen and grooms.

But, not being of the City, you know no one who lives in the Old Mews. The invite is a mistake, slipped through the wrong door. You think of your neighbours either side in their pretty terraces with cast iron fences like your own, and lace at the bay windows – unlike your own more stylish Roman blinds. Neither the retired Council worker to the left nor the single middle-aged teacher to the right would likely have more claim on an Old Mews connection than you do. You caress the blue card, admire the tasteful design, and want the invite to be for you.

No. If not a mistake, it’s a joke. You are used to being the butt of jokes. Your meticulous ways (overly fussy the naysayers call you), careful clothing (dresses like a 1950s maiden aunt you once overheard in the ladies’ toilet) and unwillingness to be drawn into office gossip (too good for us, one snide commentator had put it, to your face), make you an outsider. You don’t mind, too much, when you are passed over for promotion, or are never the one asked to accompany the boss to client meetings. One day your talents will be recognised.

But this Christmas you won’t fall for their jokey traps. You won’t arrive at The Old Mews at 10 pm – three hours after the party started, if there’s a party at all – to be met with winks and grins and open laughter at your gullibility.

The invitation hovered over the paper recycling box, but you changed your mind and instead attached it to the fridge with the reindeer magnet your four-year-old nephew pressed upon you last weekend and which you had meant to hide in a kitchen drawer until the next visit.

Over the next two days, there were busy times at work when you didn’t think of the invite batting its alluring eyelashes at you from the fridge. You strained for snatches of jokes, for insider references to confirm your colleagues were behind this. There was nothing. They ignored you, panicked with their own deadlines.

***

You will have a light meal, read, go to bed. Tomorrow you will travel out to your sister’s home for turkey and pudding with your parents. You mentally check off the presents stacked by size on the otherwise unused dining room table. Everyone is accounted for. Not that they need anything, with their comfortable, contented lives.

You turn to leave the bedroom, hesitate. You open the wardrobe door, stare at the dress.

It might not be a joke. The invite might be for you. A secret admirer. A rich secret admirer. You sigh, tell yourself not to be silly, and close the door.

At 7.30 pm you put your dinner plate in the empty dishwasher, straighten up, ponder for a moment, and walk slowly upstairs. The invite on the bed lures you, demands you open the wardrobe door …

You go downstairs, open your book, start reading.

At 8.30 pm you put the book aside and go upstairs again. Try me on, see how I look, the dress whispers as you stroke its glittering top. You shake your head, close the door, and return to your book.

At 9 pm a fit of brashness overtakes you. Walking swiftly upstairs, pulse skittering with daring, you shower, wash your hair, dry it and let it float about your shoulders where it never normally belongs. You dig out your best underwear, new tights, apply a light touch of make up, and then, only then, gently lift the hanger with the dress from its place. You quickly wriggle into it, holding your breath, search for the row of tiny side buttons and do them up with trembling fingers. Only a tad tighter than five years ago.

The matching shoes are in a box at the back of the wardrobe, and you slide your feet into them, remembering now how they pinched after an evening of dancing … dancing with him … You brush the thought away. Love gained and lost in the heartbeat of a wedding.

You force yourself to look in the mirror but only to check all the component parts are where they should be. After calling an Uber, you grab your one coat and your gloves, and wait, fighting the nausea in your stomach which shouts at you to cancel the car. You don’t.

It’s just on 10 pm when the car arrives at the Old Mews. Many of the dwellings have Christmas lights blazing but the party house is identified by a doorman in an old-fashioned greatcoat and top hat admitting a line of smiling, chattering invitees.

You clutch the blue card and join them, recognising no one. Not an office hoax. Your mood lifts, even though the possibility of an incorrect address remains. You arrive at the door, show your invite. The doorman nods, gestures you through with a subtle, friendly wink.

And there you are, among the kind laughter of strangers, the scent of expensive perfumes, the headiness of seasonal joy. A dark-haired stranger in a tuxedo bears down on you, arms held wide.

‘My darling Jenny!’ he exclaims, and you blink because Jenny is your name, but who is he? ‘You came! As gorgeous as ever! Now we can let the night begin.’

And you fall into his embrace, and let your life begin.

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