I pressed the bell marked “Jenner,” and became aware of a lens pointing at me out of the bell paraphernalia: a video entryphone. After a while a female voice said, “Hello?”
“This is Rosie Richardson. I’ve come with Oliver Marchant but he’s running late in the studio.”
“Come on up, it’s the third floor.”
It buzzed, but I pushed instead of pulled and missed it. I had to ring again.
“Hello?”
“I’m sorry, it didn’t—”
The buzzer went again and I still didn’t catch it in time, so I had to ring again, getting an extremely exasperated voice on the other end. This time I made it in—into a foyer which smelt like a hotel and had gray carpet climbing up the walls. When I stepped out of the lift at the third floor I could hear party sounds coming from an open door along the corridor to the right.
It led onto a tiny platform at the top of a spiral staircase. Below was a cavernous space with one wall made entirely of glass looking out onto the Thames. The whole floor was suspended on metal poles and surrounded by railings with another floor below. In the center you could see down to an unusually long thin swimming pool. Everything else was painted white.
There were about thirty people on the platform, a little group of them looking out over the river, another group peering down at the swimming pool, and the rest seated in a circle in some very, very odd chairs, which were like wrought-iron sculptures with cushions. From above it looked like a surrealist painting, with the guests molded into unusual shapes and forms by their chosen seat. I could see Richard Jenner, a tiny, wizened pixie of a man, lying on a peculiar chaise longue that positioned him with his legs higher than his head.
I set off down the wrought-iron staircase making too much noise with my heels. When I got to the bottom I didn’t know what to do. I could see several famous faces, but no one I knew. The groups looked pretty locked in, with large expanses of floor between them. No one was wearing any shoes. I stood there awkwardly, then Jenner caught sight of me, did a sideways roll out of his chair onto one leg, and scurried towards me, grasping my hand, talking in a low, nasal voice.
“Hello, my darling, have you got a drink? Hazel—drink, drink, drink,” he said, gesturing to a girl in a French maid’s outfit standing by a table full of colored drinks. “Come in, come in, sit down, meet some people, now you are?—tell me remind me.”
“I’m Rosie Richardson, I was invited by Oliver Marchant.”
“Of course, my darling, of course, we’ve met before, of course.” We hadn’t. “Lovely to see you again. Here you are, one of my specials.” He handed me a peach-colored cocktail. “Oliver has just called. He won’t be long. Now, my darling, would you mind taking your shoes off? We don’t want to mark the floor.”
In fact I minded very much because there was a hole in the toe of one of my stockings, but I took off my shoes obediently, feeling suddenly small and dumpy, and handed them to the waiting maid.
“Thank you, my darling. I’m afraid the Dalai’s having a bit of a nightmare fitting everything in and he’s probably not going to make it. But we will have Mick and Jerry—fingers crossed—and we’ve already got—Blake, Dave Rufford and Ken,” he said conspiratorially, waving a hand towards the window. There indeed, in a little group all on their own, were a pushy young Liberal MP, the drummer from a seventies rock band, and a commercials director who had just made the leap to the big screen with a movie set in the drains beneath London.
My appointed seat was a giant version of an ordinary kitchen chair, cast in wrought iron. I had to climb onto it, and I sat feeling like a baby in a high chair, swigging at my cocktail. It was black-frock house, as far as the women were concerned. Colors other than black did not feature in the outfit choices. A woman sitting below me craned her neck round, framed her mouth into a smile which had no effect on her eyes and was kind enough to ask me what I did. “I’m in publishing.”
“Oh, really? What do you do?”
Her interest was not able to surmount the fact that I was only in publicity and after a stilted exchange she turned away with a distracted smile. The only other conversation I had until Oliver arrived was thanking the cocktail waitress. It was impossible to communicate with anyone else in that position, but climbing down was too much of a performance to entertain. So I just sat quietly and listened.
Hughie Harrington-Ellis was perched uncomfortably on the edge of a cast-iron stool, talking to another seventies musician who seemed to be called Gary. I couldn’t place him precisely but I knew he was from a band who still performed together in spite of middle age. To look at him, he could have been a bank manager. Dave Rufford came to join the group with his wife. He was tall, with a long gaunt face. He was wearing sunglasses, and a dark-green baggy suit. His wife, who was around forty and extremely smart, was holding a baby.
“Hello, mate,” said Gary. “How’s it going?”
“Survivin’, survivin’,” said Dave. “’Ere, this is Max. Ugly little blighter, in’e?”
Hughie had got up with exaggerated cordiality to greet the couple. He was surveying the baby with a show of fascinated detachment.
“You see, what is so marvelous about infants is that they don’t recognize celebrity at all,” he said. “You simply have no idea, Maximilian, do you, who you are surrounded by?”
“Right,” said Gary.
“Ugly little blighter,” said Dave.
“’Ere, d’you get that ’orse?” said Gary.
“Yeah. It’s a bastard.”
“Dave’s taken up hunting,” said Gary to Hughie.
“My dear,” said Hughie.
“He thinks he’s the lord of the manor,” said the wife, in a genuinely posh voice.
“Where you keepin’ ’im?” said Dave.
“We’re ’avin another stable block built ’cos I’ve been keepin’ the Ferraris in the stables so we’re ’avin this new block built all in the style of the old one. I’m gonna put some of me wine in there as well ’cos I’m not happy about the cellars in the Rectory. I ’ad this bloke come round and ’e said it was too damp for it down there, so we’re ’avin another cellar under the new stables that’s all, like, the right temperature.”
“I do hope the horses don’t crap in your Château Margaux, dear boy.”
“Right,” said Gary. “Huh huh. Yur.”
“He wouldn’t notice the difference if they did,” murmured the wife.
“Do you drive the Ferraris?” asked Hughie.
“Nah. Well, a bit. It’s more for the investment. No capital gains. Nah, I drive the Aston usually, or the Roller. ’Owbout you? Got a decent motor?”
“Ooooh, no, no. No, I just bang round in an old Ford Fiesta,” said Hughie. “I have so much trouble you know being ‘spotted.’ I simply can’t get anywhere in a more ostentatious vehicle.”
Dave Rufford looked utterly crushed for only a moment. “Yeah, well, I ’ave me windows tinted,” he said.
One of the waitresses came and bent over Richard. He talked to her, looking distressed, then stood up to address the group with the air of a man about to announce the death of a child.
“Everyone, everyone, a moment, please. I’m so sorry. Mick and Jerry can’t be with us. They have a problem. I am so sorry, my loves. They send you all huge hugs.”
When Oliver appeared I had been sipping away nervously for quite some time. He came down the staircase looking gorgeous in a large soft navy overcoat and a very white shirt. He looked around the room and burst out laughing as Jenner scurried towards him.
“Richard, you mad fucker, what on earth are you doing to your guests? It looks like something by Hieronymus Bosch.” He shook Richard’s hand, allowed himself to be relieved of the coat and declined the offered cocktails. “I’m not touching one of your concoctions, Richard, I’ve been had before. I’ll have a Scotch if you’ve got one.” Then he came straight over to me and kissed me on the lips. “Sweetheart, I’m really sorry, I just got caught, how awful for you. Has Jenner
been looking after you? Richard, how dare you put her on this insane chair?”
He took my hand and helped me to my feet. When I stood up, I noticed that I was drunk. Fortunately Richard had whisked Oliver away so perhaps he hadn’t noticed. I stood rooted to the spot, terrified.
Someone announced dinner. There was a display of wriggling and leaping as the guests extracted themselves from the chairs and set off in the same direction. We were all going to have to go down another spiral staircase to the next layer.
My brain was starting to revolve now, really quite fast. Trying to control a rising panic attack, I concentrated very hard on the stairs, counting the treads. As long as I didn’t fall over or say anything then no one would know. There were many round tables with white tablecloths. I got into my chair, somehow. There was a white hexagonal plate in front of me with a tiny bird on it, trussed up with one of its eggs next to it. Oliver was at the other side of the table. He was next to Jenner’s girlfriend. She seemed to be about twelve. She was beautiful, all dressed in black, and talking to Ken Garside, the movie director who had made the film about the drains.
I stared at them, trying to focus my eyes. Snatches of their conversation drifted over. Her voice was a Miss London singsong with every sentence dropping to the same note.
“What? No? Ree-ly?” Apparently something disgusting was happening, drainwise, downstairs and Things kept being released into the swimming pool. “It’s reelye bad, you know. D’you think we should, like, take the whole pool out?”
She seemed to feel that Ken Garside should know all about plumbing because of the drain movie. He looked very puzzled. I drank some water, hoping it would clear my head, but instead it set my stomach off. I felt a shift inside, followed by a wave of nausea.
Oliver had rescued Ken Garside from the drain discussion and was talking to Annalene about Jenner’s film. “Seriously, Annalene . . . very, very impressed . . . get away from this old bastard . . . spread your wings.” I couldn’t understand why he was being so enthusiastic. The girl was really wooden and stupid. The film was total rubbish, but I could hear him enthusing: “Definitive. . . seminal . . . key.”
The chap sitting on the other side of me touched my arm, making me jump.
“Could you pass the butter, please? Hi, I’m Liam.” I knew. He was another celebrity.
“Hello. I’m Rosie.” I concentrated hard on passing the butter.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine. I squinted at the Irish actor. He had been in a film the year before about the IRA. There were interviews with him in the papers saying, “I can’t take this sex appeal stuff seriously,” and extolling the virtues of married life. He used to be pictured with his two babies and a sensible-looking wife whom he’d been with since school. Recently there had been stories about him having an affair with a model. He’d been pictured putting two fingers up and telling the photographers to fuck off.
“Do you know lots of these folks here?”
“No, no.”
By now, I really didn’t want anyone to talk to me. It simply wasn’t wise. If I could just stare quietly at a piece of bread then all would be well.
“Me neither,” he said. “I’ve never fockin’ met any of them before. I’ve never met Richard Jenner. He just rang me up. It’s fockin’ mad.”
“Why did you come, then?” I said, trying to get my brain to stay still.
Just then Hughie Harrington-Ellis came and sat on the other side of me.
“Shall we eat?” he said. The thought of food was not good at all. I stuck my fork into the bird’s tiny little egg feeling like a child murderer. I took a bite and there was a vile taste in my mouth which mingled unpleasantly with something sweet on the quail’s skin. My stomach heaved, then settled.
Hughie turned his back to me and started talking to the Irish actor. I could hear the Irish voice, full of indignation: “Tabloids . . . filth, scum . . . reptiles . . . none of their fockin’ business.”
“You didn’t say that when you were doing all those profiles with your wife and baby, did you?” I slurred.
“As Oscar said,‘In the old days men had the rack, now they have the press,’” said Hughie, ignoring me, “the lowest form of life, ‘unable to discriminate between a bicycle accident and the collapse of civilization.’ That’s Shaw.”
“. . . vindictive . . . gobshite.”
“. . . ’avin a fireplace put in next to the bath, made out of bits of this ancient Greek pillar.”
I could hear Oliver across the table. “You see the problem with Melvyn . . .”
“Fockin’ scombags.”
“Sold two Ferraris.”
“. . . two hundred grand . . .”
“. . . seen her show? Total embarrassment.”
“. . . seems a bleedin’ lot for a fireplace, but . . .”
“. . . Renaissance man delusions . . .”
“. . . lookin’ at ancient history when you’re ’avin a bath an’ a fag . . .”
Suddenly, I knew I was going to be sick. Where was the loo? I looked round the room. Whiteness, black dresses, and very bright ties against very white shirts danced and crossed each other. The floor was not attached to the walls, it was another of the platforms. I was going to have to walk fifty feet across that wooden floor before I could even start on another spiral staircase. Oliver looked across at me. I felt the vomit rising, started to get to my feet, sat down again, politely cupped my hands over my mouth and threw up into them.
When I finally laid my head on my pillow that night, I wanted to die. At first Oliver had been kind. He came over to me like a shot, gave me napkins and whispered, “It’s OK, it’s OK, I’ll get you out of here, come on.” He placed himself between me and the faces, put his arm round me and propelled me to the staircase. He counted me up the stairs, “Come on, come on, next one, next one.” I looked down, the faces were still all there, pink, like piggies.
After a while I was in a bathroom, which was hospital white. I washed my mouth and face and lay down on the cool floor, wanting to stay there, possibly live there, perhaps even marry the cool floor. I could hear Oliver and Richard Jenner outside. Oliver sounded angry.
When we got outside he was not being nice anymore. I was being sick again in the flower beds outside the flat. “It’s like going out with a fucking puppy,” he said. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“You should never drink the cocktails at Richard’s house. He does this every time. It’s completely ridiculous.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
There was a pause. “So. It’s my fault, is it?” he said pleasantly. “It’s my fault. Of course. But then you didn’t need to knock them back, did you?” A wild look came into his eye. “You didn’t, did you? You didn’t need to knock them back. How many did you have?”
I was getting the hang of what to do when he was like this—nothing. If you neither did nor said anything he had nothing to react to.
“How many did you have?” he said again as we walked to the car. I didn’t respond. He suddenly spun round to face me, towering over me.
“How—many—drinks—did—you—have?”
He glared down, his mouth contorting. There was a post box beside us. He brought his fist down on top of it, hard. It must have hurt him but he didn’t react. Then he turned back and opened the car door. “Get in.”
We drove along in silence.
“Rosie,” he was quiet now, controlled, “I asked you how many drinks you had. How many drinks, Rosie?”
The vomit was on its way up again. I gulped, violently.
“You’re not going to be sick again. Shall I stop the car?”
I shook my head.
“How many drinks did you have?”
Silence. Driving.
“How many drinks did you have?”
We continued in this vein until King’s Cross. As we hit the West-way he grew calm
er.
He stopped the car outside my house. I looked across at him. He was beautiful. He was a lunatic: his brows furrowed, his mouth twisted.
“I’m not coming in with you,” he said.
Fair enough. I looked down, sorrowfully. My coat had regurgitated food all over it.
“I finally did it,” I said.
“What?”
“Turned into a pizza.”
I did not expect Oliver to ring after that. I had let myself down, I knew. I was a danger to myself and everyone around me. The hangover took three days to clear. I went round to Shirley’s with Rhoda on day four, Saturday night, and lay in front of the TV eating Milk Tray. For the first time since I had met Oliver, I began to believe life was possible without him; that it might be nicer even. Previously I had begun to fear that there was something secret and horrible about me which I didn’t understand. That would explain why sometimes Oliver was nice to me and loved me and sometimes he didn’t want me at all and was vile and distant.
“It’s not you that’s horrible, it’s him that’s horrible,” said Shirley. “We love you all the time.”
“I wouldn’t go over the top about it,” said Rhoda.
“But it can’t be all his fault,” I pointed out.
“Look. Shuddup. You have no judgment,” said Rhoda.
“OK, you threw up in his car—” said Shirley.
“I did not throw up in his car.”
“OK, you threw up on his friend.”
“I did not throw up on Hughie Harrington-Ellis. I threw up in my hands and a small portion of it strayed onto Hughie Harrington-Ellis.”
“I think it was a perfect symbolic gesture.”
“An existential act.”
“You have no idea what that means. You are just too tragic,” I said.
When I got home I was in high spirits. I had made a mistake, I’d fallen for the wrong guy. So what? Sort of thing that could happen to anyone. No harm done. Live to see another day. Make mine a large one—oops, it’s down me trousers. Harhar. Free. Free as a bird, free as a fish. Then the phone rang.
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