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circulation is? Our chances of no one spotting us are approximately forty-five thousand to one. We’ll never, ever live it down.”
    Even I had to admit that the costumes were toe-curlingly embarrassing, but Lucia promised, “Believe me, kids, your own mothers won’t recognize you when I’m through. You’ve got to have your make-up done yet. I’ll tell Hazel to slap it on good and thick, OK? And she can stuff your cheeks with cotton wool to change the shape of your faces.”
    “OK.” There was nothing else we could say. Because just then Tessa came striding through, snapping out instructions left, right and centre, shouting at the seamstress who hadn’t adjusted my costume quickly enough, giving my bum another withering look, and glaring at Graham and telling him he wasn’t holding his shoulders straight enough and what did he think he was, a bag of chips? It was perfectly clear that, however mortifying, we had no choice whatsoever about being the cavorting cupids. Anyone who said no to Tessa might find their life expectancy severely reduced.

bouffant hair
    We tested out Lucia’s claim on Graham’s mum. We were supposed to go straight up to have our wigs adjusted once Hazel, the make-up artist, had finished with us, but instead we slipped down to the kitchen. It was boiling hot in there, with pans simmering on every ring, and there seemed to be hundreds of people rushing in different directions. Sally was barking commands and doing something violent to half a dead animal with a very large cleaver. She did a massive double take when she saw us coming.
    “What the…?”
    Lucia and Hazel had clearly done a brilliant job, because she didn’t have a clue who we were until Graham mumbled through a mouthful of cotton wool, “It’s me, Mum.”
    “Dear God!” Sally dropped the cleaver and it clattered noisily to the floor. “What on earth are you two doing?”
    We explained about the bug and Tessa press-ganging us into service.
    “That woman’s got a nerve!” said Sally crossly. “Still, at least I won’t have to worry about you getting sunburnt. Or drowned. Or both. I guess it will keep you out of trouble.”
    She couldn’t have been more wrong.
    Graham’s mum was rushed off her feet, so we left her to it and took ourselves up to the room that Sizal Bouffant, hairdressing supremo, had set up as a temporary salon.
    “Cupids!” he exclaimed ecstatically as we appeared in the doorway. “Darlings, how absolutely delicious you look. Straight out of Botticelli!”
    “Where’s Botticelli?” I whispered to Graham.
    “Not where,” he hissed. “
Who
. Botticelli was a painter.” He didn’t say any more but I could see he wasn’t too thrilled by the comparison.
    “Come along, my plumptious beauties!” cooed Sizal, indicating where we should sit. “By the time I’ve finished, you’ll look truly divine.”
    Graham stomped across the room and dropped into his chair with a grim, tight-lipped expression. I followed, settling myself down next to him.
    Sizal adjusted our wigs to fit in a matter of minutes, but it turned out that our visit to the kitchen had been a big mistake. The steamy heat had caused our ringlets to unwind and we had to spend the next hour sitting in curlers being reset.
    While we were waiting, the woman who’d remarked the night before about Josie having a bald patch came in. It turned out that her name was Kelly and she was one of the attendant nymphs.
    She sat down in the chair on the other side of Graham, and Sizal explained how he was going to dress her long, red hair. Apparently she didn’t have any say in the matter, he was following strict instructions from Josie. He started work and it was then that I made the discovery that women like to talk to their hairdressers. I mean,
really
talk. About everything: boyfriend troubles, runaway husbands, faithless friends, money worries, holiday destinations, sick dogs and squashed cats. I reckon if you sat in a salon for long enough,