by Mandy Baggot
The chill whipped under his tuxedo jacket and he waited for traffic to lessen before he stepped across the road towards the café. There was only one thing left to do to ease his way out of this night and into the morning. Get drunk.
3
Waitrose, Kensington, London
Ava hated it. She looked like the love child of a toilet brush and Billy Idol. This wasn’t Bowie in his heyday, this was simply hay – only blonder and shorter and just as smelly. But she hadn’t admitted she hated it to Sissy. She had instead composed her face into what she thought was the look of a rock musician and had given the mirror the appropriate attitude. Then she’d handed over an extortionate amount of money and fled the salon, on a clock to get to Tesco before she was supposed to be at Debs’. Except Waitrose was much closer and time was of the essence. She only hoped, after forking out for her new hair, she could afford their nibbles.
Waitrose seemed to have ‘luxury’ Christmas crackers at the end of every aisle – prizes ranging from nail clippers and golf tees to a plastic moustache and a Chinese puzzle. Ava was having trouble finding anything she wanted. Festive crisps she was going to get last, firstly she needed to grab chocolate – milk chocolate, the biggest slab they had – and ensure any red wine she bought was over thirteen per cent.
She navigated a stand of ‘luxury’ mince pies and Christmas puddings. Everything was ‘luxury’ around here including the prices. She was going to have to start watching the pennies now she had told Leo they were over and he could keep his job as well. She’d never liked selling apartments even though she was good at it. It was always just meant to be a stopgap. The job she’d snapped up to distance herself from her mother’s modelling agency and to try and head off her mother’s intention to still push modelling gigs her way. She could almost hear her mother now, a rewind from the time before she got the apparently apocalyptic tattoo no manner of cover-up was going to fix: It’s Dubai, darling. A night in the Burj Al Arab. They wanted Tina but she’s in LA. If you’d just do this incredible juice-fast diet all the girls are on, you’d be in perfect shape in two weeks – a month tops.
And that was the heart of their relationship. Rhoda Devlin, former model, now a partner at an agency Ava had been signed up to as soon as she was old enough to smile, still trying to direct her life. Still wanting her to be the model daughter in every sense of the phrase. She couldn’t wait for her mother to see what she’d done with her hair. Perhaps, at last, she would see that apart from a little work on the agency’s social media accounts, she wanted no other involvement.
Her phone trilled and Ava dipped her hand into her black leather messenger bag and retrieved her phone.
Rhoda Rhinestone.
It was a petty nickname for her own mother but it did make her smile every time it flashed up. Flash was appropriate, her mother had always thought she was two sequins above everyone else. Ava read the text which had apparently come in an hour ago.
Brilliant news, darling! Wonderful opportunity for you on a beach in the Azores if you detox. I’ve booked us into a fantastic retreat in Goa. Yashtanga and spa treatments. I’ve emailed through the details…
Ava’s gaze broke away from the text as the email arrived in her inbox. The woman was unstoppable. She had no idea what Yashtanga meant and ‘spa treatments’ was code for mud, cling-film-style body wraps and colon cleansing. Another beep and a second message arrived.
Leo could come with you. Sun, sand and smoked tofu should smooth over relations.
Ava gritted her teeth, the words blurring as her eyes reacted to the horrible realisation that she hadn’t been the only one Leo had been in contact with today. He had obviously spoken to her mother and she would lay bets that he hadn’t mentioned the fact he was sleeping with the woman in charge of selling the penthouse suites.
‘I just want to get to the biscuits for cheese.’
Ava received an elbow to her side and looked up at a large man dressed all in tweed, green Hunter boots on his feet, a flat cap on his head. He was in the centre of London looking like he’d just walked off the cover of Angling Times – and he had just shoved her because she was in his way.
‘Do you mind?’ Ava shot back, her body prickling from his ignorance and the messages from Rhoda Rhinestone.
‘Do you?’ the reply came. ‘I’m trying to get to the biscuits.’
‘Well now,’ Ava began, hands on hips and standing her ground, ‘I’m not moving an inch until you learn some bloody manners.’
‘What did you say?’ the man asked, squaring up to his full six feet.
Ava narrowed her eyes at him, angst about Leo, her mother, her horrible hay hair, bubbling dangerously under the surface. ‘I said,’ she started, ‘if you don’t learn some manners pretty bloody quickly I’m going to take down those luxury biscuits for cheese and shove them right up your—’
‘Is there a problem here, madam?’
It was a youthful, happy, smiling, full of pre-Christmas cheer staff member with a badge that said ‘Justin’.
‘Yes!’ Ava exclaimed. ‘Yes, there is a problem! This... excuse for a gentleman, has forgotten his manners en route to the luxury biscuits for cheese.’
‘This lady, although I use the term very loosely, has decided to verbally attack me for absolutely no reason whatsoever,’ the man dressed in green responded.
‘You!’ Ava said, pointing a finger. ‘You think you can just swan in here with your gentry gait and your... and your snooty boots... I bet... I bet you’ve got a Land Rover parked outside you don’t even need!’
‘How dare you!’
‘How dare I what?’ Ava continued. ‘Voice an opinion? Want a please or an excuse me? Manners are a requirement to shop here, aren’t they, Justin?’ She nodded at the shop worker, her blonde spikes barely moving an inch due to the amount of putty Sissy had rubbed in.
‘Well, I...’ Justin answered as a small crowd of shoppers began to congregate at the end of the aisle to watch the exchange.
‘All I wanted,’ the man yelled. ‘Was my biscuits for cheese.’
‘Please,’ Ava interjected angrily.
‘Oh for God’s sake... please,’ the man stated with an infuriated sigh.
Satisfied, Ava reached up to the shelf and pulled down the biscuit box, offering it out to the man. He grabbed it, whipping it from Ava’s grasp and almost sending her off balance.
‘For your information,’ the man hissed as Ava straightened up, ‘I have a Nissan Navara and, going by your hair, I’d say you were one of those loud-mouth lesbians who wishes she was a man.’
Now Ava was seething. She reached onto the shelf. The first thing that came to hand was a multipack of Ryvitas, followed by Carr’s water biscuits and a rather weighty plastic orange box of Jacob’s crackers. She threw them, one after the other, at the retreating gamekeeper-garbed man who was swearing and cussing but could do nothing but shield his head with his hands as Ava continued to attack.
Gluten-free breadsticks were for Cassandra – she probably ate them herself – the artisan kale chips were for Leo because he liked upmarket crap like that – they hit the man in the eye – and the final item to make its mark, before security took her by her arms, was rice crackers from Thailand.
‘That was assault!’ the man bellowed, cheeks as red as a fox-hunting jacket. ‘I want her charged! You saw it! You all saw it!’
Ava tried to shake off the two security guards. ‘Oh, go on back to your Nissan Navara and your lamping... or whatever else it is you’re pretending to do in central London dressed like that!’
‘Ava?’
Ava turned her bright blonde head in the direction of a voice she recognised all too well. Her mouth shut then and she closed her eyes. Now she was wishing for a police van. Being arrested would be far preferable to having a conversation about this with her mother.
4
Deschamps Brasserie, 4th Arrondissement, Paris
Julien raised his index finger at the barman indicating his need for a refill. He w
as three glasses of beer down, in the middle of the Friday party crowd, yet not part of their happy thriving mass. He was there but not there – an isolated island, unreachable, untouched by the rest of the planet.
‘Merci,’ he said to the barman as another beer glass was set down in front of him. He took a swig, the foam froth catching his top lip. Shifting slightly on his stool at the bar he turned to face the room. The sound of joyful chatter from the many customers rose over the background music playing from the café’s speakers. Couples held hands, smoked, dined on mussels, crêpes and gougères, a group of young men in the corner played air violin in time to nothing in particular, and four women dressed in short frocks, thick tights and Ugg boots – designer shopping bags at their feet – laughed over a carafe of red wine. Hanging from each front window frame by a red-and-white checked ribbon were rustic rattan stars covered in a coating of glistening snow spray. Fir cones tied together with gold tape cascaded down between each window. Christmas was coming whether anyone wanted it to or not.
‘Julien!’
Hearing his name, he turned. Coming his way was his best friend, the only friend he hadn’t completely pushed aside. Didier. Julien waved a hand, not wanting the company but knowing it was inevitable.
‘How are you, my friend?’ Didier greeted above the hubbub of talk, leaning in to kiss Julien on each cheek then slapping him on the back.
‘I’m good,’ he lied, widening out a smile. ‘Very good.’
Didier appraised him, his chocolate-coloured eyes bulging from his mocha skin as he seemed to analyse Julien’s statement. He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head a little. ‘Then why are you here alone?’
Julien realised his mistake now. Didier had left a message – make that several messages – on his voicemail about coming out with him tonight. He hadn’t responded.
‘It was... a thing... a business thing... with my father.’ Julien pulled at the lapel of his tuxedo as if his dress explained everything.
Didier pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘You could have called me back to tell me that.’
Julien blew out a breath. ‘I wasn’t sure I was going to go. I suppose I didn’t really... in the end.’
‘You are fighting with him again,’ Didier stated, beckoning the bartender.
‘No,’ Julien said, shaking his head.
‘Why do you always try to lie to me, Julien? Am I not your friend?’
‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘OK, we may have had an exchange but... not really a fight.’ How did you describe yelling about your dead sister to your father, step-mother and a woman wearing a basket of fruit as couture?
‘You should have said you would come out with me tonight,’ Didier said, taking a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He bit one out with his teeth then lit up.
Julien had no answer for that. He picked up his glass of beer and buried his mouth in the liquid.
‘So, you will come out?’ Didier continued.
‘I am out,’ Julien answered.
‘Not here,’ Didier said, blowing smoke in Julien’s face. ‘To a club. Dancing. More drinks until the morning comes.’
Didier’s exuberance burst from every pore. He had always been that way, ever since they studied at college together. Bright, intellectually as well as creatively, he was the very epitome of someone who lived their life blowing in the breeze, making decisions on the throw of the dice.
Julien shook his head. ‘Not tonight, I’m tired.’
Didier struck him with another look that suggested disbelief. ‘Tired?’ he asked. ‘Tired because you have slept all day?’
‘What?’ He hadn’t slept all day today. He had watched a couple of reruns of Sous Le Soleil and stared out his window as the gendarmes took away a singing man dressed as Papa Noël.
‘You are fooling no one, Julien,’ Didier said, his eyebrows meeting in the middle. ‘When was the last time you picked up your camera?’
What was it with everyone? He’d spent years with a camera strung around his neck, living and breathing his art, not once had anyone said to him Julien, when was the last time you put your camera down?
‘Is there a point to this, Didier?’ he responded. ‘If I answer will you stop asking me to come dancing?’
‘Lauren would not want this,’ Didier said.
A breath left Julien and floated into the air, mixing with the smoke and the scent of crème brûlée. ‘At least you are not too scared to say her name.’
‘What do you mean?’ Didier asked, resting his cigarette in the ashtray on the bar.
Julien shook his head. ‘My father... he likes to pretend she didn’t even exist.’
‘I am sure that is not true,’ Didier insisted. ‘I saw him... at the funeral... he could hardly stand.’ He flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette before reinstalling it in his mouth. ‘That is not the behaviour of a man who does not care.’
It was true. His father hadn’t coped well with Lauren’s service. Gerard was supposed to speak, tell the large congregation what a full life she had led in her twenty-five years. Instead he had clung on to Vivienne, burying his head in her shoulder, his face contorted with grief, leaving the words to be read by the priest.
‘He has moved on now,’ Julien stated, absentmindedly.
Didier smiled, smoke escaping from his thick lips. ‘That is how the world works, Julien. We have to move on.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I know Lauren would not want to see you like this. Stopping life,’ Didier continued. ‘Not taking photographs.’ He nudged Julien with his arm. ‘She loved your photographs,’ he said. ‘And she definitely understood them more than me.’
Julien smiled then. Didier liked simple things – the Eiffel Tower at night, the Place de la Concorde, boats on the Seine. His friend had struggled with the more arty shots he liked to take – flowers in the hand of a small child looking up at her grandfather, two bicycles leaning against each other outside the Louvre. Those photographs had been at the centre of his last exhibition. He had received praise from critics and press alike, sold more prints than ever before and received a string of commissions. Now it all felt like a world away.
Julien looked around him. Smiling faces, animated chatter, the sound of an accordion drifting in from outside. His stomach contracted as two plates of croque monsieur were brought out by the waitress. He almost craved the soft, melted cheese and smoked ham. When was the last time he had felt hungry?
‘You should take more photographs,’ Didier stated, sipping his drink. ‘Have another exhibition like before.’
Julien blew out a breath. ‘It isn’t as simple as that. I can’t just go out and take some pictures, book a gallery and hope that people come.’ He sighed. ‘It takes planning... and... inspiration.’
And that was what he was lacking the most. Inspiration. Motivation for his job and pretty much the entire rest of his life.
‘You could take photos of me,’ Didier stated, wide-eyed, then posing as if he were a model.
‘You want my new muse to be you,’ Julien said.
‘Why not?’ Didier asked, hands on hips, still pouting. ‘My mother says I have the look of Sébastien Foucan and he has been in a James Bond movie.’
Julien shook his head, trying not to laugh.
‘You think I am not good enough for your camera?’ Didier asked, sounding insulted.
‘I think you would get bored or lose concentration as soon as you saw a beautiful girl or needed another grand crème.’
‘I could be your practice, then,’ Didier suggested. ‘Tomorrow! We could go out, I could lay myself naked across the steps of the Sacré Coeur holding a kitten.’
‘You do that and the gendarmes will take your freedom,’ Julien replied.
‘No kitten, then,’ Didier said. ‘But tomorrow. Let’s go out, you can take some photos of the city and I will buy all the coffee.’
Julien sighed. ‘I can’t.’
‘Julien...’
‘I’m sorry, Didier.’ He swallowed.
‘I’m just not ready.’
5
Kensington, London
‘I don’t know what you were thinking,’ Rhoda breathed. ‘If one of those security personnel decides to make a quick buck, you, throwing savoury snacks around, is going to go viral. And that isn’t the sort of publicity the company needs.’
She wanted to say no one would recognise her as Rhoda Devlin’s daughter and no one would care, but the best thing to do was say nothing. She kept her mouth clamped shut, teeth gripped together like an advert for Fixodent. She hadn’t said one word since Rhoda had waded in with apologies and a fifty-pound note (who carried those in the real world?) before bundling her into her Audi. Silence was a tactic she had been employing since the Armageddon tattoo.
‘And... you’d better give me the name of the salon that did that to your hair so we can start legal proceedings.’
Ava bit her teeth so hard the enamel started to ache. Why had her mother been in that Waitrose? Why had Leo had the absolute gall to text her? Couldn’t everyone, for once, just leave her alone?