Several months later, on a Saturday morning, Patricia hauled herself out of bed, fumbled for her glasses and stumbled to the bathroom. She had a quick wash, then sprayed herself liberally with her favourite ''Britney'' perfume, which she had picked up down the market for the price of a legal, pub-bought bottle of WKD.
''Today's the day.'' she said to her reflection, hugging herself. She frowned at the sight of her face in the unglamorous glasses. She took them off, but it was no good - she couldn't see anything now but a blur. She'd have to wear them. She could always take them off when she got there.
She dressed in the outfit which had cost her two smuggled-out bottles of Breezer and one of Reef. Looking down at her cerise ra-ra skirt and baby-pink skin-tight crop top, she winced at the sight of her belly. Sadly, the purple teddy bear belly-bar in her newly pierced navel just accentuated the flab. As an afterthought, she grabbed her violet hoodie and pulled it on.
She listened outside her mum's bedroom door and heard her snoring lightly. She'd had a can or two, or six, of Fosters last night and would hopefully be out for the count till late afternoon. Even if she did wake earlier she'd be downstairs to grab some more cans and a catering-size bag of cheese and onion crisps, then back to bed for an afternoon in front of the telly. She slipped out through the front door of the flat, down the stairs, and headed for the tube station.
On the train, she was relieved when no-one came to sit near her. She was completely unaware that in emptying half a bottle of the knock-off perfume - active ingredients: creosote, phenol and ammonia - on herself, she had created her own six-foot exclusion zone. She opened her bag and started on her make-up. The eyes were a problem as she couldn't really see where or what she was applying, with her glasses off, and the swaying of the train made matters worse, but she did the best she could. That done, she put her cosmetic bag away and pulled out the newpaper clipping.
Ever since the announcement, the day after the General Election, she had been checking the papers daily for an clue to where Mr Portillo's wedding would take place. About three weeks ago, she had found it, cut it out, and began planning for this day.
Surely, surely, HE would be there. There were so few Tories left that they all tended to stick together. She said a quick prayer, then stood up as she'd reached her stop. She'd memorised the route to the church, from the A-Z . She set off in the right direction, her purple shoes pinching her rather large feet, the stiletto heels making her wobble slightly.
As she approached the church she saw that a large crowd was already gathered outside. About half of these were reporters and paparazzi, and the other half must be guests, judging by their smart attire. She had never seen so many colourful hats, with feathers and nets and flowers in garish colours.
She stood by the wall, where guests and photographers alike were snapping two men who stood by the church door. It was the groom, and an older man, whose brillo-pad-like combover was flapping in the breeze. She had no idea who he was, and assumed he was the Best Man. One of the photographers shouted out, ''Andrew! Over here, mate!'' and he turned his head and smiled. Mr Portillo was smiling and waving from time to time, as he spotted various guests and press people, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight.
Patricia looked at her watch. A quarter to. Where was he? Maybe he wasn't invited, after all. She looked down the road, past the Police cones. Nothing. She turned and peered the other way, and her heart soared as she saw the tall, God-like figure approaching the church, almost in slow motion. To her eyes he was swathed in an aura, and she was sure that she heard music playing in her head. Her heart started pounding, her hands sweating and she felt her cheeks burning so hard that she thought her head would explode.
''Boris.'' she gasped. ''MY Boris!''
She had rehearsed in her head, over and over again, what she would say to him, and, more importantly, what he would say to her in response. As he walked closer to her, she gazed at that mass of bright, silky... gorgeous hair, shimmering like spun gold in the late morning sunshine, and longed to reach up and touch it. Then, he was there, six inches away from her. He sniffed the air with a brief expression of distaste.
She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was, ''Boh...Boh.'' Her mouth hung open, gormlessly. All her words had fled. She laughed nervously, but there was no need. He hadn't even given her a first glance, never mind a second one.
He pushed past her, still seemingly in slow motion, his arm brushing her shoulder, and she just knew she would faint here on the pavement, but her dizziness passed as she turned and watched as he bounded up the steps of the church.
Patricia saw him approach the groom and clap him on the back. Mr Portillo visibly winced, but shook his hand.
''Jolly good luck, old man.'' said Boris. ''May all your troubles be little ones!'' Unfortunately, this was misheard by several reporters and his words to Mr Portillo appeared next morning in the Sunday tabloids as, ''Humble, bumble, mumble...piccaninnies!''
She watched as Boris, her Boris, chatted amiably with a few fellow guests, and she admired his light blue suit, thinking to herself, He must of got that from Marks and Sparks - he looks just GAWJUS in it. In actual fact, it was a bespoke silk suit from an ancient and revered shop on Savile Row, but Patricia knew nothing of such places. It was a stunningly smart suit, but Boris had the knack of looking slightly scruffy in even the most elegant clothing. No matter. To Patricia, he was an Adonis, clothed by the Gods.
The guests were starting to slide into the church. She watched, never taking her eyes off Boris until he, too had disappeared, then leaned against the church wall, exhausted but glowing, resolved to wait for hours if necessary. Then she would speak to him at last.