by Ryder, H
“She's the CEO for this fashion chain, very wealthy, knows everybody. Her brother is a top model, you know, the one you like with all the wing tattoos up his neck?” She asks as if her points are jogging my memory, because of course I must know who she is. I shake my head with pursed lips, and she looks pitifully at me, “Call yourself a fashion person?” She scoffs in delight at knowing something I don’t, which happens quiet a lot when it comes to people.
“I’m not a fashion person,” I tell her proudly and emphatically, “I’m a denim person.” True bloody story if there ever was one.
Pete gasps in shock at the final few photos. “And he was with her at this 'do' when he was supposed to be with you?” Shaking her head, my friend will always naturally be on my side regardless whether my doom is my own doing or not. It's her job after all, and what a career I must be.
“He did show eventually,” I was attempting bravery because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted her to know, or was it that I just didn’t want to hear the words out loud, because that would make it true.
“He fucked me in the Brixton Academy, overlooking the ‘mosh’, and then went back to her.” I say in mock pride of my boyfriend and take a large gulp of Jack. Finishing the glass, I and already feeling the numbness that invariably follows the slippery gold liquid, its doing its job on me. Boyfriend, indeed.
They are close in the last two photos, he looks like he’s whispering in her ear, his arm around her waist, I feel sick, all over again, and in the last one they look like their sharing an intimate joke and laugh. I would be crying but I have no tears left, just a big nothing of emptiness feeling deep inside, like something s been surgically removed.
“How do you feel about this?’ She asks me, “I mean, what have you said to him?” She shakes my phone at me, clearly cross on my behalf, which of course I appreciate, it’s her job to be this way.
“I...don't know what to say.” I manage to whimper between more dry gasps of dry eyed crying.
I need more JD. “She's...she's a very beautiful woman,” I sob.
He has history with her.” I shake my head, down the last dregs of my drink before Pete orders me another. “What would I say?”
“You kick his arse that’s what you'd say.” She’s shouting at me, it’s all simple for her she doesn't know him, me with him, I bury my face in my hands, my messy hair tangles around my fingers.
I look up at her, “I am in love with him Pete.” Is all I say before I break again.
“Then you kick hers.” bingo!
Mum’s right about the haircut, note to self, ask her to book at appointment with Gail. Gail is a bloody genius with my hair, which might explain how she can afford to go on month long holidays three times a year to exotic locations. She makes everyone need her, plus it gives her plenty to yabber about whilst she's working, I just fall asleep.
Pete hugs me close and I feel slightly more connected to the world than I had in the last few hours. I am in agony, my heart is breaking, and I don’t understand what I did wrong, what have I done to deserve this?
“Yes, I love him.” I gasp.
“I know you do honey” she comforts me, “stay weird Tharie, it’s what makes you so wonderful” she gets me.
“What am I to do?” In a deliberately pathetic Scarlett O’Hara way.
“It’s obvious Tharie, you get him back!” She winks at me with an engaging smile.
“He'll still want me do you think?” bloody hell.
“Of course, it is obvious he feels the same way, he can’t take his eyes off you, he wants to protect you cherish you, that’s what we all think, what has happened to make him do this?” I shudder at the thoughts I’ve been having, blaming myself, my head rumbles with voices agreeing it’s all my fault too.
Someone is doing this to me deliberately. Someone is sending me photos. Why? To break us up? Again, why? Two people spring to mind, that’s where I start. The plan has been revised.
Motive, means and opportunity, that’s the ticket.
“What was he doing with her? He promised she was in the past, over, and then I see this.” Shaking my head I am instantly feeling stronger, the blood is pumping through my veins with renewed energy. I have been speaking the things that until now had just been thoughts, my dry sobs making my throat raw and sore, I just wanted to sleep, but now I'm awake. I want this thing fixed either way, once and for all time.
So that’s exactly what I do. What happened to the plan Tharie? I stop, am quiet, and all at once, I know exactly what I have to do to make myself feel better.
TC: “Meet me in twenty minutes for a drink?” Please say yes.
PF: “Babes, that sounds medicinal, you OK” she's very, very good.
TC: “I will be in twenty minutes” hope so anyway.
PF: “Then it must be so, where?” Phew!
TC: “Square Bar” the glasses are reassuringly heavy, I may need to throw one.
PF: “See you then, and good luck babes” very good indeed.
Leaving the black cab idling at the curb, I run into the foyer of the great glass building of the Buntonn Group. I look healthy after a good sleep and I have freshly washed hair from the salon, Gail has worked her magic on my locks and I feel great and alive. I am myself, with my favourite boots on and leather skinny black jeans, an old Ramones t-shirt and my RANDom denim jacket. I feel confident and I’m determined, and have my 'don’t get in my way expression' on. When the desk clerk asks me who I want to see. “Jess Stein please, tell her it's Tharie Charles.”
He makes a call, and speaks in low tones, several questions and answers obviously go back and forth and I get looked up and down, a lot. He whispers into the headset, nods and tells me she'll be a moment. Then I suddenly see her with a phone in her hand appearing from the lift into the foyer. Looking at me with a sly grin of someone who knows something I don’t. (Well, that would be everyone surely?)
Jess looks immaculate dressed in mulberry MiuMiu from head to toe, hair blow-dried cascading around her slim shoulders in a perfectly turned out way, and nails impeccably manicured, Dior's new shade of faux-black. A woman in complete control, this is her company, her building, but I’ve had a crap week and I’m not in the mood for prisoners. She finishes her call and folds her phone up delicately.
She smirks a welcoming smile and approaches hand out to shake my hand, “Tharie, how lovely to see you, here.” Her clipped well-educated voice resonates in my skull, it’s a harsh sound that has the beat of someone who reads off a script, with no imagination. Her little flesh coloured Prada sling-backs clack across the tiled floor as she approaches.
I am all smiles and warmth, worth an Oscar nomination for sure.
“Is there anything I can do for you, would you like to sit down dear you look a little pale?” She gestures to the sofas in reception, very polite, almost sympathetic. Nice voice, she wouldn't usually have anything to say, I’d be interested in hearing, but today was not a usual day. ‘Dear’? She’s only a couple of years older than me.
I still say nothing, adjust my smile, it's making my cheeks ache.
I follow her direction and sit. “Is this about Dan?” She asks sitting down in a perfectly ladylike way, knees together angled slightly diagonally, skirt swept tidily underneath so it doesn’t crease while she's sitting down. “Because there’s really nothing I can tell you.” She brushes a non-existent piece of fluff from her skirt, her eyes everywhere except mine.
I remain quiet.
“When I saw him last night,” she meets my gaze finally with her long lashes and perfectly sculpted brows, and smiles waiting for a response, but I don’t give her one, I remain totally impassive, stoic even, my plan? Let her talk she'll tell me everything I want to know, because that's human nature. I can't tell her mood but she shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, looks at her phone a few times wishing it to call her away.
“We went to a charity thing together, Barb arranges these things you understand, and you know Barbara Pearse?” She looks at me for a hint
of response, clearly she wants me to know she's in with the family, I give her my don’t-give-a-damn smile, and I’m a little hung over so I hope my brain got the selection right. I tilt my head slightly in response, but that’s all she’s getting from me. For now.
She's not sure what to do or say to me, I'm not giving her anything, it's making her cross.
“Listen,” she says exasperated at my lack of any response at all, “what Dan chooses to do, and who he chooses to do it with, is his and my business alone Tharie.” She hisses standing. Her knuckles white at holding her phone so tight. The receptionist is looking over, readjusts his headset and dials, Jess's phone rings, I glance over at reception, “I have to take this call.” She tells me obviously relieved that the get out clause she'd instructed from the clerk was going to get her out of talking to me, she lifts the phone to her ear and listens, an odd look flickers over her mask of calm, and the call ends.
She looks at the handset perplexed, what she doesn’t know is her receptionist is Henry's roadie John, him and I are 'acquainted'. He told her to go to hell, well that’s rock n roll types, he is going to quit this job anyway the band is getting signed to a big label. Then she looks back at me, her mask replaced with another fresh one. “Listen Tharie, Dan and I love each other, we go way back, and the minor distractions in his life,” intimating that she means me, “come and go, he always comes back to me.” Not this time, I am about to explain to her.
Enter at C sitting trot, immobility, halt and salute.
Resolve painted on her face, and a big dollop of triumph too. “So, if you'll excuse me I have a business to run.” And she turns to leave, spinning easily on her patent leather heels, but I’m not even nearly done with her.
“Jess,” I say with an extreme calm I am very proud of, “loved the speech by the way, and very moving.” I stand to meet here eye to eye. Even in heels, I stand two fingers taller than her, and I get in her face, “thank you for sending me those photos of Daniel and you last night Jess.” I tell her as she slows trying to pull away from me, I inhale her Prada Candy perfume, intoxicating and too sweet completing the polished persona that’s Jess Stein.
Looking very pleased with herself she smiles again smugly and begins opening her mouth to speak, but I didn’t come for a chat. “Daniel looks so beautiful in one of them, I wanted to thank you.” Jess can’t hide the surprised expression on her face, surprise and confusion in perfect syncrinosity, I get that look a lot. True story.
“I’m going to use it for our invitations.” I manage a smile that could light the room and win me a Bafta, my Mum would be proud. And sweeping my McQueen scarf and jacket from the chair as if to leave, I know she can’t resist knowing.
“You are welcome?” She tells me flashing her long lashes at me, bingo! And flicking her hair from her neck, she looks like she’s won something but is confused at the prize.
One, two…thr……
“What invitations Tharie?” She tilts her head condescendingly like a grown up talking to a child, my bile is up and I so want to kick her arse. And you know I can.
Stay calm and delightful I tell myself, it's the only way to beat evil bitches like her. “Oh, didn’t he tell you, I'm sorry?” I pause for theatrical effect and bat my eyelashes, it’s all about timing you know, any actor will tell you that. “Our engagement invitations.”
I am so proud at my sweetest ever smile, my Mum taught me that. I wink at the clerk smiling uncomfortably at the scene I just created, and spinning on my incredibly gorgeous boots on the marble floor I noisily march to the revolving door trying my best to appear confident. I am shaking uncontrollably on the inside, and if I don’t sit down soon, once my person reaches the outside I’ll be falling over, but I retain my momentum and keep moving forward , and I’m out again in the street, getting into the back of the cab directing him to take me to Mayfair.
“Square Bar please, fast as you can.”
I watch through the cab window, happy I’m leaving Jess standing there, deflated with her mouth agape. Job done, I couldn’t be happier.
Note to self, carry a hip flask.
TC: “Pete, operation take-down complete, on my way, over” so amusing.
PF: “Roger and out team leader.” you got that right, I know who I’d like to roger right now...
Chapter forty-seven, Monday:18thnovember2013 – what?
I sit in my Landrover waiting to leave, it's a dark midnight blue sky, bright with stars, and the half-moon gleams twinkle off the early morning white coating of crisp frost. I glance at my phone, no signal, bugger! For how long? That might explain why I haven’t heard from anyone all weekend, there must be mast maintenance going on. Again.
Bloody hell.
I turn the key and the engine bursts to life, a large ploom of black smoke shoots out of the exhaust, bugger! The service long overdue, so many things to do. Shaking and ticking over, I shove it hard into gear and head to the station. Outside the boundaries of my village my phone starts to beep and vibrate in my bag, suggesting I have lots of texts and messages waiting for me to read on the train. Good, some entertainment will be welcome, train journeys are tedious.
On the cold platform, before I embark however I read the front page of the Metro newspaper, held handily by a fellow commuter, 'singer Henry in night club brawl' in hospital recovering.
Bloodygoddamit! True story.
Stunned, I check my phone, I have missed twenty two calls and nearly fifty texts about what happened last night. Mostly from my Mum, I call her.
EC: “God Catharine, it's bloody awful, he just can’t keep his hands to himself can he? Quell surprise he got himself beaten to a pulp, he looks like the wreck of the bloody Hesperus!” Bloody hell.
Note to self, find out what actually happened to the Hesperus.
TC: “Mum, he'll be fine, the paper says mild concussion.” I say hopefully, the papers apparently, according to Mum, the source of all knowledge, don't always get their stories straight, who'd have thought?
EC: “That friend of yours, he was here all night with us, when were you going to tell your old Mother you had a relationship? Anyway he arranged everything, totally frantic he couldn’t get hold of you, but very calm about Henry, you didn’t tell me about him Catharine, I was so embarrassed, your own Mother has to find out this way, really Catharine.” She must be feeling better because she's put a full-stop at the end of her first tirade, gaining breath for the next volley, and the criticism has resumed in earnest, next it'll be about my hair...
EC: “And get your hair cut, he looks like a very nice young man, wears a suit and he won’t want a girlfriend with shaggy hair that has hay in it!” Really?
TC: “I’m not his girlfriend Mum.” true bloody sad story.
EC: “Well maybe you could be if you tidied yourself up, wear some colour for heaven’s sake Catharine, you always look so pale and dark, it's not healthy, I bet you’re not eating properly either? Well Daniel, he organised everything, got us all driven about, and we got dinner too.” To my parents, food is very important, and anyone who offers it gets top marks, especially if tea is included, it's the mark of good manners. “And we got tea!” You have to learn to follow conversations with my Mum, she starts in the middle of a story, splices the treads of a tale and changes lanes frequently. Don't ever let her drive you anywhere either. Bloody hell.
TC: “Yes Mum.” I feel like a child again, almost every time.
EC: “And when am I going to be graced with your presence? I'm getting withdraw, I’m on my own remember?” Here we go.
TC: “I’ll see you later in the hospital, and tell you about Daniel then.” I'm on my own too, or is it so easy to forget? And, do I have to?
EC: “And eat something, you'll come home with me, I’ll cook you a roast.” Bloody hell.
TC: “I’m vegetarian Mum.” She doesn’t listen to anything I tell her.
EC: “Sorry, I forgot.” Hmm
TC: “See you later then?” I need a hug.
EC: “Get
a haircut Catharine” Bloody hell again, I already did, but she won't listen, she needs to see.
TC: “Yes, Mum.” She’s not wrong though, I look like I’ve slept rough, and I pick, an albeit quite small piece of hay from its strands, look at it ruefully, bloody hell again.
Note to self, get a blow dry.
Mothers, love them.
I get the gist from the paper, Henry was caught trying to shag an attractive young woman at 'chateu9' not at all unusual, He's a complete slag. Only the woman’s boyfriend failed to see the funny side and broke Henry's collarbone and a few ribs, he's in hospital, not pressing charges. It's not the side his guitar strap sits either, so that's good news for the tour.
Pete and Liza called and texted me, they’ve been to see him, he's black and blue but OK, apparently it's ‘rock and fucking roll'! Well, naturally. He has been moved to a private clinic with an Xbox and a steady stream of young and pretty nurses, it was a request from the artist himself.
Then one from Daniel:
DP: “Tharie, think your phone might be out of signal range, have moved Henry to the family hospital, he will get the best care there in private, He can have pizza delivered there too. Let me know if there's anything else I can do.”
End of messages.
Not even a hello, and can I fuck you later? How rude.
I stride happily from the salon into the bright sunshine of Soho, my hair cut into a blunt shoulder length style, with a chopped fringe by Gail, which has been masterfully returned to its proper state by Ramone. Gail was unavailable, she's in Guatemala.
My nails are painted in Chanel's Rouge Noir and I have bought some new jeans, Frame Denim, so chic. Whistles ankle bar suede’s with the new shape heel and 'just delivered' Tom Ford sunglasses. Feeling rejuvenated I grab a taxi to the hospital to see Henry.
“Tom,” she pauses and rethinks, “your Dad would’ve hated seeing him like this, my Mum whispers to me shaking her head, “I like your hair!”