‘80s songs were pumping on the stereo. Madonna. The Vapours. The Knack. Lily’s living room looked like a scene from Star Trek. The green twinkle lights she’d hung for a festive touch cast a sickly hue. The hommous looked positively repellent. And then there were the guests: dancing (badly), talking (loudly) and drinking the toxic party punch in plastic cups.

It was Neil’s appalling suggestion to have everyone dress as a dead person. And so, Elvis and Mother Theresa were deep in conversation while Kurt Cobain and Princess Di were doing shots by the window. The green light and clouds of smoke made the room look like a meeting for Dead Celebrities Anonymous.

Lily, in her bouffant wig and swooping eyeliner, shimmied as she refilled the chip bowl. “Who the heck are you?” Jesus was ogling her.
“Amy Winehouse.”
“She’s not dead!”
“Not yet, but there’s a good chance she will be by the end of the party!”
Jesus snorted. Lily glared at him.
“If we’re getting picky, I’m pretty sure Jesus rose from the dead, buddy.”