My beautiful friend

Holidaying with friends means the children are outnumbered, but Sophie White had forgotten how difficult it was to be the plain Jane beside her stunning pal

We went on holiday with another couple and their 10-month-old. “This will be a disaster,” I announced beforehand with my trademark optimism. “We’ll all hate each other by the end of the week.” Himself was refusing to entertain going away with just me, which I couldn’t help but take very personally. According to his logic, it was an act of marital preservation. Apparently, a week alone together would be too boring, as we’ve already said everything we have to say at this point.

I remained unconvinced and mildly insulted, until he pointed out that we would also be outnumbering the children at a ratio of four to three, and that surely would spell at least a few stolen moments of relaxation in between crying jags and sunblock reapplication. Parenting in the heat, I’ve noticed, is exponentially harder than parenting in moderate temperatures — everyone is just a whole lot crankier and stickier.

I told another friend about the plan. “You’re going on a sun holiday with J**?” I nodded happily. “Have fun,” she responded in a tone drenched in sarcasm. “What?” I replied, puzzled. “She’s like the fourth Corr sister. If you wanna go hang around in a bikini with that level of perfection…” she trailed off.

I had not thought this through. Could my fragile ego withstand the proximity to such Corr-like beauty for seven days straight while clad only in ancient, sagging, see-through togs? I am used to her beauty. I would say after 20 years of friendship, I hardly notice it any more, and also she’s not a rub-it-in-yourface

“In practically every picture of us, I am blatantly the Jim to her Andrea”

type of beauty; she genuinely seems unaware of it.

When I scroll through my memory of our life together, a lot of my key moments took place with my Corr-like friend right by my side. In practically every picture of us, I am blatantly the Jim to her Andrea.

I pictured myself lounging poolside with The Corr and decided I needed some help on the bod front. Clearly, I was not thinking straight in my panic, and so proceeded to do something radically out of character. I got a spray tan, and suffice to say, looked utterly ridiculous. While scoffing these macaroons, Himself thought I had chocolate on my face, but sadly it was revealed to be the tan.

I have never had a spray tan in my life; I am usually a bluish shade of corpse and, I might add, quite happy with this. I honestly don’t know what came over me. The spray tan did nothing to quell The Corr’s beauty on the sun loungers. It did, however, provide a lot of fodder for mocking me, which reminded me that The Corr is even funnier than she is beautiful — damn her.

The upside of the spray tan, according to Himself, was that apparently it was like being on holiday with a mahogany stranger, thereby reigniting his interest in me somewhat.