‘Remember, Bip is shorter, with a small mole on her left cheek.’
‘And Ban is taller, with shorter hair.’
Feeling an instant closeness to them, I tell them I ended things with my boyfriend this morning.
‘You broke up with Master J?’
‘Well, no. Sort of. I broke up with my boyfriend, Jordan.’ I haven’t stopped to consider what will happen with my mystery boyfriend for the purpose of the show now that I’m single in real life. I suppose, nothing. Eat Me is, after all, a dramatisation. Surely, there’s no reason I can’t keep my pretend boyfriend, if I must?
‘Were you together long?’
‘Over a year.’
‘Was he horrible to you? Is that why you dumped him?’
The question takes me aback for a moment. I haven’t yet discussed all of the details, all of my angst, with Faith.
‘He wasn’t horrible to me. He just… wasn’t very warm.’ It’s surprising, how not-upset I am about us breaking up. I guess that’s how it goes when your partner slowly dumps you first, surreptitiously, disappointment by disappointment, over many months. On the day you make the call, the hurt’s been fully paid. ‘More like a selfish twat than horrible,’ I finish firmly.
The girls giggle. ‘Aren’t they all?’
‘Most of them.’
They make me better, instantly. Like I’m not the only loser who can’t be loved.
‘Maybe there’s someone else you’re meant to be with,’ Bin says.
‘Mmm. Maybe, like, Harry?’ Ban suggests.
‘Oh, no, Harry is my agent.’ I only half-object. ‘I mean, he’s lovely. But…
‘But what? He’s lovely. You’re lovely.’
‘You should go for it, Gracie.’
‘And not hold back!’
‘Definitely!’
I don’t deny I won’t.
With a little prompting, both girls confess to being ‘not in a relationship’ right now, then they each run through a shortlist of men with whom they’re engaging in some sort of sexual liaison. Harry doesn’t rate a mention. I’ve poked about, but I still don’t have a definitive steer on their relationship. The girls are twenty-one and twenty-two years old, work as part-time models, Harry as their agent, and live together in a one-bedroom flat in Elephant and Castle. They mention they often crash in Harry’s spare room, in his amazing flat beside the Embankment. Yet they’re keen to suggest a romantic involvement between Harry and me? They can’t be lovers. Ex-lovers, maybe? I just don’t know. And every time I get close to asking, our conversation curve balls. Albeit I’m happier than I think I’ve ever been.
I confess to having a fleeting thought the girls might have been propositioning me earlier in the toilets. In giggles, they’re generous enough to insist that if they were so inclined, I’d be their number-one choice.
We can’t stop talking!
A smooth voice behind me says, ‘Well, well, well.’
I turn, aiming for… actually, I’m not sure what I was aiming for, but when I turn my head, my face is almost pressed against Harry’s (seemingly well-kitted) crotch.
I bet you he’s a decent cucumber, if not an aubergine.
‘Well, well,’ Harry repeats, making light as I correct my position. He’s so adorable.
He takes the seat next to me. I inhale deeply, wanting to smell his scent. Nothing. The coke has numbed my senses?
Bip and Ban excuse themselves to the bathroom, I presume for another line. They mouth, not as discreetly as I’d like, ‘Good luck,’ before they totter off.
‘I see you’ve been getting to know the girls,’ Harry says.
I bat my insanely long lashes at him vampishly.
Harry brushes my cheek with his fingers and grins lopsidedly.
I catch him glancing, but not gawking, at my chest. ‘Yes. We’re having a lovely time, thank you.’
‘And the others?’ He looks over to the VIP area, where Faith and Poppy are surrounded by a pool of attractive men. They seem perfectly fine without me.
‘It’s too loud over there,’ I say, mindful not to stare at Faith for too long, lest I draw her attention. ‘The twins are looking after me.’
‘The twins?’ Harry chuckles. Sexy.
‘Not really. But they like it. They think I’m cute.’
‘You are cute,’ he teases.
‘And I, in turn, adore them.’
‘They are adorable,’ Harry says. ‘Exhausting, at times. But adorable.’
I take the opportunity to make my final fact-check. ‘Have you ever been particularly adoring of any one, or indeed both of them, at any point?’ I ask. The cocaine is making me bold. Or I’m so comfortable with Harry? I do find it so easy to talk to him. Thus, on this matter, I have to know if Harry has any unresolved feelings. The girls, clearly not. But I want to know where Harry stands with them.
Harry stares into my eyes, into my yearning pools of bluey-violet for just that little bit too long. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks me. ‘Gracie, can I get you some water?’
I’m not overly bothered that Harry skirted the question. I was, perhaps, being too comfortable. His history is none of my business. And it doesn’t matter. All that matters is: what is Harry playing at with me? ‘Never mind. But, I need to talk to you about something.’ I bat my lashes, hoping he gets my point – I’m being seductive.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Jordan and I broke up today.’
‘Oh.’
‘We had to, really.’
‘That sounds… ominous.’
I was rather hoping for more. Also, I think the cocaine is wearing off. I don’t feel as euphoric. Actually, I feel a little panicked. Like it’s fight or flight. And I don’t want to flee right now. Not from Harry.
‘There’s a not-so-pleasant twist, but…’ I also don’t want to talk about Jordan. ‘Bottom line is, we made each other miserable. I want to be happy.’
‘You deserve to be happy,’ Harry assures me, giving my waist a squeeze. Swooning at his touch, I sway in my seat, prompting him to repeat, ‘I think you need some water.’
‘I’d like to dance,’ I say. I don’t know where that came from. I wanted to sit here and list all the ways Harry makes me happy. Why I’ve fallen madly in crush with him. I’m unsure where the idea that we should cease our tete-de-tete and hit the dancefloor sprung from, frankly. Perhaps because it’s how I got Jordan – a trusted icebreaker to move from talking to something more?
‘I don’t dance,’ Harry laughs. ‘The girls will love to.’ He looks around the room for them.
‘Dance with me, Harry,’ I say, rising from my seat and pulling him by his hand.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Harry stands, but he doesn’t budge further.
I’m teetering precariously in Faith’s boots. ‘Come on, you know you want to.’ I don’t recognise the song, but the DJ is playing a banging tune. The room starts spinning.
Oh dear, those laser light beams aren’t great in my eyes.
Harry reaches out and steadies me by my arms with his big, manly hands. ‘Are you okay there?’
‘Yes. No. Oh God, Harry…’
My head rushes and I don’t know what happens because right there in the middle of the club I pass out.
20
I remember being helped into Faith’s spare bed, where, fully dressed in last night’s clothes, I’m currently unable to sleep. My eyelids twitch. My gaze darts hopelessly around the room. Repetitive snippets of events replay over and over in my head, cocaine coursing through my veins. A poo-smeared flat. Jordan. Poor, sweet Benny. Joanna calling me dull, and reminding me to dress appropriately. Liz’s article describing Faith and Poppy as saucy and effervescent. Me, ensconced in the dark nook of The Tricycle Club with the girls. The Barbie twins. Me, informing Harry I’m single. Him not exactly biting his arm off to make the most of it. Dance with me, Harry.
Passing out, and bundled into bed, but no sleep. Just these endless thoughts that will not q
uit.
Benny. Jordan. Poo.
Joanna. Dull. Awful.
A ridiculously pink ruffled skirt, and popping out tits.
The Tricycle Club.
Duncan the bouncer.
Macy?
Faith.
Poppy.
I was rude to them. I know I was.
The twins.
The toilets.
The confessions.
And Harry…
Who cannot possibly be as infatuated with me as I was led to believe
… or as my mother would dearly love to be true.
It is torture.
I have only myself to blame.
Faith comes in to check on me as dawn breaks through the crack in her curtains. Visibly alarmed I’m still awake, she offers me tablets – sleeping pills presumably, though I daren’t ask.
Last thing I remember, she’s patting me off to sleep.
‘Miss Gracie, wakey-wakey!’
I peel my eyes open. Poppy is sitting astride me on the bed, making what seems to be an attempt to mount me – a less worrying description might be she’s performing the sort of bouncing-all-over-the-bed wake-up I did to my parents as a young child. (I was around five-years-old when my mother put a stop to such carry-ons.)
‘Wake up!’
Uggghhh. Everything hurts.
I pretend I’m asleep.
I should have known it wouldn’t dissuade Poppy. ‘Miss Gracie, wake up. I want to show you something.’
I hit her with my pillow.
‘Yay! You’re awake.’ From a more civilised position beside my feet, she opens a newspaper. ‘Look.’
It’s pitch-black outside.
‘Poppy, what time is it?’
‘It’s just gone five o’clock.’
We were out Thursday night. Did I lose Friday? I hope that’s all the days I’ve lost. My head feels split in half.
‘Friday night?’
Checking me over carefully, as if I may be brain-damaged, Poppy confirms, ‘Yes, Friday night. You’ve been sleeping since forever, my princess.’
‘Oh yes, I’m a bona fide Sleeping Beauty,’ I reply roughly, falling back onto the pillow. Albeit without the lithe figure and angelic vocals of your usual storybook heroine, nor the ladylike demeanour. Not to mention the Prince flipping Charming on horseback.
I was Cinderella last night. At the stroke of midnight, the spell was broken.
Faith enters the room and thrusts a cold bottle of orange-brown sludge at me. ‘Here.’ The label on the bottle reads ‘25% mango, 40% orange, 30% banana’. The liquid inside looks lumpy and vile. What’s in the other five per cent? ‘Drink it,’ Faith says.
I drink.
She collects the empty bottle and marches out without further engagement.
‘Look at this,’ Poppy says, sliding the newspaper onto my lap. In the entertainment pull-out, she points to a picture of me standing next to the wandering bald man from upstairs at The Tricycle Club last night. Apparently, he’s a famous film producer. Also, the owner of the club. In the photo, I’m wearing the same slinky black top and pink ruffled skirt that’s still on me. The producer, a stranger, had taken me so by surprise the camera caught me with a wide grin and my head tossed back. Only, instead of appearing alarmed, I look like his well-at-ease muse.
‘Joanna is thrilled,’ Poppy exclaims. ‘She didn’t even mind that we all missed coming into the station today. She said to tell you to rest up, her little star, and that she can’t wait to see the coverage we get tomorrow at Drake’s party.’
‘Sorry, what party?’
‘Remember, the invitations from Joanna? Drake. You know his songs. He did the duet with Rhianna. Ooh na na, what’s my name? Ooh, na na, what’s my name?’
‘Poppy. Your name is Poppy.’ I’m not that battered that I’ve forgotten her name, for heavens sakes.
‘Oh, Miss Gracie. What a cutie you are. Okay, what about this one?’ Using my legs as a drum, Poppy begins to rap. ‘Trap, TrapMoneyBenny. This shit got me in my feelings. Gotta be real with it, yup. It’s called “In My Feelings”. By Drake. His party is tomorrow. I’m so excited!’
Is it a song about Benny? How odd. Not the point. ‘Lovely. But there’ll be no “real-ing it” at any party for me tomorrow, Poppy. I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Um, I don’t think we have a choice, my angel. Joanna expects us to at least show our faces.’ Sweet Poppy, who never gets exasperated, sighs audibly.
She checks my forehead with the back of her hand and presses her palm against my chest. ‘Oh my, I don’t know whether you’re hot or cold?’
Probably because I’m shivering, Poppy scuttles around the bed and tucks me tight under the covers. It’s the end of February, so chilly outside. But Faith’s boiler is cranked-up hot and toasty. Soon, I’ll be sweating.
‘I know you feel awful right now, but it’ll be better by tomorrow,’ she babbles on. ‘I don’t know what got into you last night, but I’m guessing you’re on a comedown? Hmm… I probably have something that will help. Two secs. Let me check.’
As Poppy leaves the room, a frowning Faith appears at the doorway. ‘Well? What happened last night? If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were on drugs.’
I won’t lie to Faith.
My silence is telling.
‘Jesus. It explains the state of you. Do you remember getting home? You were a total mess. You’d fainted on Harry. His sisters were worried sick.’
‘Whose sisters?’
‘Harry’s sisters. Half-sisters. The girls you spent most of the night with and who obviously fed you drugs.’
It’s not the point Faith’s trying to make, but I can’t believe I missed the fact the girls are Harry’s half-sisters. It all makes sense. They’ve known him forever – since they were born. They’re practically inseparable, and Harry is clearly protective of them. Yet they were instigating a romantic relationship between him and me. How mortifying that I basically accused him of fancying them last night at The Tricycle Club! Harry must have mentioned their relationship when he introduced them, as it isn’t news to Faith. I was obviously too busy fantasising about him, then falling off my chair, to have paid attention.
‘The bouncers helped us get you out a side entrance and into a cab. Gracie, I found a set of false eyelashes between your boobs.’
For a moment last night, I’d imagined Harry mesmerised by my batting lashes and my heaving cleavage – not dumbstruck by the false lashes on my squished in boobs. Whatever the girls insisted he felt for me before, whatever must he think of me now?
Sober, Faith needn’t remind me of the mess I was. I remember all too well – give me the blackout of a hangover over this total recall of a comedown any day.
‘I’m sorry, Faith.’
‘I almost called an ambulance. Please don’t ever do that to yourself again.’
Faith leaves the room, mad as hell at me, and clearly upset, and I break down completely. Poppy returns and I sob, uncontrollably, into her lap.
‘It’s okay, Faith was up all night worrying about you, that’s all. She’s just tired.’ Poppy wipes at my tears with her sleeve. ‘We were all worried about you.’
‘But you’re not cross with me, Poppy. Or are you?’
I’ve never felt so sorry for myself in my life. I can’t understand why anyone would become a regular drug-taker? From start to finish, my experience was less than pleasurable – the good bits were a big fake. I swear to God, I won’t be touching anything like it again.
Poppy hugs me tighter. ‘I’m not cross with you, Miss Gracie,’ she says.
We’ve transcended being colleagues. Bless her, Poppy is my friend.
When I calm down, she props me up on the pillows. Fussing about in her handbag, she presses a few small pills into my hand.
‘What are they?’
‘Milk thistle to support your liver, St John’s Wort to lift your mood and vitamin Bs for your nerves. They’re drugs to help you feel better, poppet.’
<
br /> I protest I don’t want any more drugs and from somewhere in the kitchen I hear clanging.
Poppy insists the tablets are entirely herbal and perfectly legal. I agree to take them on the condition I can be left alone to wallow in private.
I swallow everything and Poppy leaves the room. Shortly after, I hear her leave the flat.
When Faith checks in on me about an hour later and I’m still restless, she returns with more sleeping pills – the strong ones. I know Faith has them purely for when she’s had to take a red-eye flight from New York to London and head straight into her office after landing.
I take them without question.
‘I’m going to fix my life,’ I say.
‘Shh. Gracie, it was just one night, a silly mistake.’
But it’s not just one night. It’s not just one silly mistake. My life isn’t working for me. I’m sad, too much of the time. I’m lonely, even when I’m not alone. I’m becoming petty and jealous and I never used to be like this. I want to be the joyous, Gracie who everyone loved to laugh and have fun with. Mostly, I want to love myself again – because though I’ve never been the best or thinnest person in the room, I never used to compare. For as long as I can remember, until recently, I was always pretty good at doing me.
‘No, it’s not that. I don’t like my life the way it is. I’m going to fix it. I’m going to fix me.’
‘Okay, darling. But now shh. Go to sleep.’
I relent. I relax. Faith stays with me, silently, until I succumb.
21
When I venture out of Faith’s spare room, she’s stretched out on her living room floor, stroking a contented-looking Benny, both of them basking in a slither of sunshine. Faith embodies effortless chic in flannel pyjamas – words that don’t usually go together, ‘chic’ and ‘flannel pyjamas’, but she pulls it off. I’m still in the Thursday night clothes. Cleavage-making black top. Pink ruffles to my knees.
‘Afternoon.’ Faith stretches her long limbs. On the carpet, Benny does likewise.
‘Afternoon?’
‘It’s just gone noon.’
‘No.’
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