The Godmother

by Carrie Adams

  I walked into the Channel 4 party alone. It is something that I pride myself on being able to do. It gives me confidence to step over the threshold of a room full of people I don’t know all by myself. That extra bit of confidence fuels me as far as the bar, the rest is down to alcohol.

  Channel 4 had taken over a huge restaurant in Mayfair, complete with state-of-the-art pod loos that looked like they’d come off the set of Cocoon and a VIP bar that if you couldn’t get into, you could at least look down into from above. In fact, the toilets were above the VIP area, so actually you were defecating on the heads of those special people who were separated from us mere mortals by a length of twisted red chord. I wondered, as I waited for my drink, whether the architect had been making a point.

  There was the typical jostle at the bar. The TV workers knew the drill—get in as many drinks as possible before it becomes a paying bar and don’t digress from what is on offer. Vodka and cranberry “cocktail” was free, vodka and tonic would set you back seven quid. I opted for a free bottle of beer, raised it to my mouth, when an elbow appeared from nowhere and knocked it hard against my teeth.

  “Ow!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh my God, are you OK? So sorry.”

  I could taste blood.

  “Oh shit, you’ve lost a tooth.”

  I put my hand up to my mouth. Toothless was not going to help me find a spawning partner.

  “Perhaps that wasn’t very funny.”

  I shook my head. I made sure I had a full set of teeth before finally turning to look at my assailant.

  “Cinderella,” he said.

  Salt-and-pepper man. “Ow,” I said, though strangely it no longer hurt.

  “You’d look perfect at a vampire party.”

  I frowned.

  “Still not funny?”

  I shook my head again, but was beginning to smile.

  “Good thing I chose to represent comics rather than be one.”

  “I’m not sure you had a choice.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t. Though I always thought I had the potential to do the hideous-until-on-stage sort of thing well.” He shrugged. “Didn’t work, though. I have to rely on becoming incredibly wealthy instead.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “Have you heard of Ali G?”

  I was impressed. “You represent Ali G?”

  “No. But I could. And that’s the point, as I keep telling my mother.”

  I smiled again.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “It’s a free bar,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean now.”

  Smooth. I started to feel quite excited about the evening. Which was a far cry from sitting on my sofa at home wondering if I could possibly get out of coming at all.

  I extended my hand. “Tessa King. In case you forgot.”

  He took it. “James Kent. In case you never knew.”

  How about that, I wouldn’t even have to change my initials. What was I thinking? I was turning into a nutter.

  “Are you all right? You’re frowning. It’s making me nervous. Whatever you’ve heard about me is untrue. OK, she was fifteen. But I was eleven, so it doesn’t count.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My last sexual experience. What were you thinking about?”

  There was a beat in my head, a comic beat. You read them in scripts. Someone says something funny then, beat.

  “My next one.”

  I turned back to the bar and sucked on my beer. I couldn’t believe I’d said that. Filthy cow.

  We walked across the room together. James seemed to know every other person at the party, which had a strange way of making him appear even sexier, and I was sober, so it wasn’t a beer-goggle thing. He introduced me to almost everyone he spoke to, which I liked. I can’t stand being a spare part. When he didn’t, he always apologized afterwards and said it was because he couldn’t remember the person’s name. Then he introduced me to someone who needed no introduction. Helen’s mother. What the hell she was doing there I couldn’t imagine. I always forgot that she was editor in chief of a broadsheet, which meant she didn’t need invites. She looked magnificent, of course.

  “Tessa. How are you? Still single?”

  “Actually, I’m a lesbian these days. I’m sleeping with a top female judge. Who’s married. But don’t tell anyone.”

  Marguerite smiled through her perfectly capped teeth.

  “Darling, I’m so pleased you’ve finally accepted it. But honestly, you should tell people, it won’t come as a surprise to anyone, I can assure you.”

  Damn it, I walked into that. Before I had a chance to reply, though the perfect one wouldn’t come to me until at least twenty-four hours later, she touched James on the arm. “James, I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Anything I can do?” said James, smiling at her. I wanted to slam my stiletto heel into his shoe.

  “I was hoping you would think about joining our media panel.” Those squared off, stubby dark red nails that I knew too well jutted out of the long cuffs of a white silk shirt.

  “Monthly meetings at the Groucho Club, dinner on me. We have some incredible people on it.” She listed some. I had no idea who any of them were, but James was obviously impressed. “We would so like you to join. You’re our first choice.”

  Marguerite looked good that night, clad in black leather trousers and fabulous boots, but it is amazing how ugly beauty can be on the wrong person. I noticed her hand stay a fraction too long on James’s arm. I had enough competition from women in their twenties; if I had to compete with the forty-and fifty-year-olds as well, I was damned. That thought sparked off another, more terrible one: Marguerite wasn’t looking to settle down and breed—in fact, for the commitment-shy male, she was perfect. I felt a terrible urge to snatch James back, but even I (misguided as I am) knew that would be unseemly.

  “We could have lunch,” she said. “Or meet after work for a drink.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I saw your grandsons the other day,” I said, butting in. “They’ll be talking soon—what’s it going to be? Grandmère? Grand-maman? Nan?”

  “I’ve no idea, I really haven’t thought about it,” Marguerite replied. “Listen, Tessa, I have a favor to ask you.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Now what was she up to?

  “Would you mind keeping an eye on Helen? I fear she is a little out of her depth here. Apart from friends, they’ve really invited the very top people. It’s important for Neil.”

  “Come on, you’ve nothing to worry about,” I said. “Helen doesn’t have to say a word, and people fall over each other to get to talk to her.”

  “Exactly. I think people probably expect a little more content from her,” said Marguerite. “I’m just saying she might need your support. Please think about my offer, James, and call me next week,” she said before turning away. Her brutality lay in her subtlety. You can retaliate against barbed insults; it is harder when they are so veiled. We continued weaving our way through the room.

  James frowned at me. “You seem to be on peculiar terms with Marguerite. You do realize she has a reputation of crushing anyone who crosses her.”

  “She wouldn’t dare. I know too much.”

  “And why exactly would that be?” asked James.

  I shrugged. “She’s Helen’s mother.”

  “Oh, I see.” There was a pause. “Do you mind me asking, but who is Helen? It’s just that it seems like a crucial detail I’m missing.”

  “Neil’s wife,” I said confused.

  “Neil’s married?” It came out quickly. He tried to cover it up while I tried to ignore the intonation in his voice. But I knew what that question meant. It meant Neil didn’t act like a married man. He didn’t tell people he was a married man. And he didn’t wear a wedding ring because he said it made him look like a “poof.”

  “They have twins. My godsons, in fact.”

  “Jesus, more godchildren.”

  I imagine
d Mr. Kent mark a cross in the negative column.

  Nearly five. “Four,” I said. Funny how things change. Once, having a smattering of godchildren was a compliment. It meant you had good friends; you were chosen above others to care for the most important people in their lives; it meant you had staying power. Right now it felt like a sign around my neck. Leper. Outcast. Unfertilized. Pitied but could be useful some time in the future when little ______ needed a job.

  “Oh, yes,” said James. “I remember. Course. Stupid.” He was trying to cover up his bluff. I definitely hadn’t told him about my godchildren when we’d performed our own special brand of dirty dancing on the night Caspar drank himself unconscious, and it made me feel bad for him. It wasn’t his fault Neil was so disrespectful of his wife.

  “Come on over and meet her, she’s lovely. One of my oldest friends, in fact.” I didn’t want to think about it. Not tonight.

  “One more thing, then I’ll drop the subject.”

  “What?” I asked, perhaps more aggressively than I should have.

  “Is it Cherie Booth?”

  “What?”

  “The judge you’re sleeping with. Is it Cherie Booth?”

  I winked at him.

  Helen was inside the place for special people. Her week in the country had worked: she looked phenomenal. Sleek and thin in a strappy black Dolce & Gabbana dress which showed no evidence of a bulge, let alone the sagging twin skin she claimed she had. That Helen had carried two six-pound babies inside her just over five months ago seemed impossible. A week was not long enough to have had surgery and recovered, was it? No, Helen was just born that way. She caught my eye and immediately came over to the twisted red chord. She looked so relieved to see me that I was reminded what a strange double-edged sword beauty was. She wanted to look her best, but her best made her virtually unapproachable. She hugged me hard. Heavily.

  “Thank God you’re here. Come on in.”

  “Sorry, there’s a list,” said an emaciated woman with a clipboard.

  “I’ll just get Neil,” said Helen.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “It’s fine, hang on.”

  Helen returned a few minutes later, looking flustered and embarrassed. I could tell that the conversation with Neil had not gone well. I had seen for myself how he had kept her waiting—he was too busy holding court. Before barely hearing her out, he had glanced over at me and then spoken rapidly into his wife’s ear before turning back to his eager audience. Clearly I was not important enough. I put Helen out of her misery.

  “I can’t come in. I promised Billy I would loiter by the door and she’ll be here any minute. We’ll come and find you later.”

  “But—”

  “It’s all right. You’re working tonight, meanwhile we all get to enjoy the party; it doesn’t seem fair. And, by the way, you look spectacular, so go back into that hallowed place and knock ’em dead. But before I go, this is James Kent.” I didn’t mean it to sound like such an announcement. This is James Kent, the father of my unborn children. “He knows your mother,” I said, covering my hormones.

  “Poor you,” said Helen.

  “How are all the performing monkeys in there?” James asked.

  “Vying for limelight.”

  “That’s why they keep them cordoned off. Channel 4 knows they’re better off keeping their comedians seen but not heard. They’re all moody bastards in real life.”

  I hoped he hadn’t gone overboard. Helen got defensive if she thought Neil was being attacked, but not that night. That night she needed ammunition.

  “You’re right about that,” she replied, smiling at him.

  “Very nice to meet you. Neil is a lucky man.”

  We turned to leave when I heard the lucky man himself. “James, James, you’re on the list, mate. Come on in, let me get you a glass of champagne.” He frowned at Helen and me. “Don’t you two girls ever run out of things to talk about? Tessa, sorry about coming in. If it was up to me…” He looked at James. “But you didn’t have to queue, mate.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said.

  “Come in, come in.”

  “Thanks, but Tessa and I are going to find…” The pause was tiny. “Billy. But it has been a joy talking to your lovely wife.” Was it my imagination, or did James put an unusual emphasis on that last word?

  “Tessa is with you?” Neil couldn’t take the tone of incredulity out of his voice.

  “Actually, I was tagging along with her. See you later. Hope the show is a success.” He put his arm across my shoulders, turned us around like a couple on a cuckoo clock, and we walked away giggling. I wasn’t going to say my friend’s husband was a tosser, and he wasn’t going to say my friend’s husband was a tosser, but I knew we were both thinking it. My only regret was not being able to take Helen with us.

  James got ambushed a couple of times. On the third I saw Nick and Francesca walk through the door, so peeled off and went to see them. It wasn’t until I was a foot in front of them that I realized Ben and Sasha were just behind them. I felt my stride falter and it confused me so much I felt myself begin to dither around them and, rather than risk kissing Ben hello, I kissed none of them and held back awkwardly. I don’t think anyone noticed. All four of them were in a buoyant mood. I gathered they had bumped into each other in a nearby pub, which they’d both independently ducked into for a quick nerve-tightener, which turned into three. I was smiling at all of them, but trying not to look at Ben, which made me look at him, which made me feel as if I was staring. Damn it.

  James followed me over. I introduced him to my friends but it didn’t feel so fun any more. Feeling queasy, I deserted them by offering to do battle at the bar. My heart was racing. I had really hoped this thing had passed. I thought a couple of weeks of abstaining from clinging to the photo frame and I’d licked it. I felt a cool hand snake around my shoulders. I turned. It was Sasha.

  “Thought you might need a hand.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who’s the dish?”

  “I just met him at the bar.”

  “I met Ben at a bar.”

  I know. You picked him up. “Don’t. You’ll fuel my already over-active imagination. I’m trying not to think about what color our en suite should be.”

  We laughed. But the sad thing was, it was partially true. Or had been, until Ben and Sasha showed up.

  “Well, he seems like a good bloke.”

  Most of my friends were desperate to see me paired away and impregnated, but usually not Sasha. She gave me more credit than I was due and believed I was in the situation I was because I chose to be.

  “Bright, funny, articulate, good-looking.”

  “There must be a catch,” I said.

  “Perhaps he’s married,” said Sasha.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked defensively.

  “He seems quite well trained. Oh, Tessa, don’t look so horrified, I was only joking. I know your rules, you don’t do married men.”

  And why? Because since turning thirty I’d been propositioned by so bloody many. But my moral high ground was beginning to feel like quicksand. I decided it was better to change the subject. “He mentioned his mother.”

  “Ah,” said Sasha. “That’ll be the catch.”

  We returned to the table, carrying drinks for the eagerly inebriated. I tried to remember how I normally acted around my friends, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have Helen there as a foil for my anger and I couldn’t turn my back on Ben and engage in deep and meaningful conversation with someone else because we were huddled around a tiny table and it wasn’t a deep and meaningful sort of atmosphere. The wives were admiring the exposed buttock cheeks of the young men handing out the drinks and the husbands were trying to spot tit tape. I suspected their nerve-tighteners had been doubles or they’d been in the pub longer than they should have been. Francesca was being particularly raucous. I was delighted to see her in skintight jeans, high black boots and a ribbed black polo neck—perfect boho chic
. Nick just sat and watched her adoringly. Sasha looked striking, as always, and Ben smiled at me effortlessly, chatted to me effortlessly, took the piss effortlessly. Was this whole dramatic episode taking place in my head and my head alone? I swallowed more beer and moved up to vodka. Someone grabbed my cheeks and squeezed them. It was Ben.

  “Smile, honeychild,” he said.

  I stared at him.

  “What’s the matter?” He asked me quietly enough, but everyone turned to hear the answer.

  “Nothing.”

  “You look so worried,” said Ben.

  I am a foolish, foolish, foolish woman. “I was just wondering where Billy’s got to, she promised she’d come this evening.”

  “She’ll be here,” he said and turned back to the table.

  “I think Tessa is actually wondering where that handsome James Kent got to,” said Nick.

  “I’m not.”

  “Rarely have I seen you so subdued at a party, Miss King. Has this one got under your skin?”

  “I only just met him.”

  “At the bar,” said Sasha.

  “Sasha met Ben at a bar,” said Francesca, giggling.

  I KNOW.

  “I said that.”

  “Could it be, yes it could,” hummed Nick, clicking his fingers like a Jet. Nick was a lovely man but he didn’t really drink, so it went to his head quickly.

  “Oo, Tessa, let’s have a drink to celebrate,” said Francesca. Actually, she shouted that.

  “There is nothing to celebrate,” I insisted.

  “Well, let’s have drinks anyway.”

  “What’s got into you?” I asked, laughing at her.

  “I’m a mother on day release. Don’t get in my way. Ohmygod, he’s looking over here again, I think!”

  Sasha leaned forward conspiratorially. “He’s making sure he knows where you are. Let’s do a test,” she said—and she is supposed to be the grown-up of the group.

  I shook my head in despair. My friends were pissed. More pissed than I was. This was not the status quo.

  “What kind of test?” asked Nick, enthusiastically.

  “Tessa has to get up and go somewhere; we’ll see if he comes over as she is leaving.”