With my big plans for tomorrow still in mind, I decide to get an early night and an excessively decent sleep. I get up to take my herbal pills, the happy and the sleepy one, and then I snuggle myself back in to bed.
Half an hour later, I’m still awake. I check the bottle of slumber-inducing hops, valerian and passion flower. Despite the warning on the label, I take a second capsule.
Another hour passes and I’m wide awake.
Saturday night. No reason I can’t pop out for a little while and still stick to my plans for tomorrow. Deciding to join Faith and Poppy at The Tricycle Club, I call Faith to let her know I’m coming. Her mobile is out of signal and I can’t reach her. Not to worry, Faith had mentioned she’d be at the club from 8. By the time I arrive, it’ll be after 11. If I can’t reach her, I’ll find her inside.
In case the extra sleeping tablet kicks in later than expected, I gulp a strong cup of black coffee. And then another.
I get dressed to impress. Sleek black trousers, satin singlet, Stella McCartney blazer. Small concession on the low-heeled black boots. Overall, black is slimming. And my increasingly designer wardrobe is flatteringly tailored. By the time I’ve slapped on blusher, mascara, lipstick and boots, I’m fancying myself as pretty foxy. Even if I say so myself, my investment at the gym is working wonders on my buttocks, in particular. I look – and feel – like a billion-dollar babe. Fergilicious is blaring from my phone. Old school bootilicious – moi? You bet.
And who knows? Getting myself out, I might well meet someone who’s kind, funny, sexy, hopefully handsome, and who likes me back. I’m not looking back at Jordan – and I don’t have to pin my hopes on Harry. Meeting my Prince Charming could, in the realms of possibility, happen as early as this evening.
Letting go of my past failures and insecurities, I book an Uber.
As I set off into Soho in the back of 5* rated Nabil’s Toyota Prius, I’m radiating positive energy.
Who knows what joyful surprise my future holds?
Whatever it is, I’m ready.
When I arrive at the club, it’s just gone 11.30 p.m. The pubs have closed and the queue outside snakes around the corner. I haven’t connected with Faith. If her phone is still out of range, it’s because she’ll be downstairs with Poppy, without reception. If she’s left for home already, I’d be able to reach her. Harry is away in Brighton for a wedding. Tentatively, I make my way to the front doors, bypassing the line of people.
‘Hello,’ I say to the bouncer. He’s short and stocky and his face is grumpy. Is this Duncan, from the door and dance floor on my last visit here?
‘Name?’ He barely glances at me.
‘Gracie Porter.’ He isn’t as friendly as last time. But I’m not sure whether it’s Duncan or not? I try to make eye contact. The Duncan-looking bouncer isn’t looking up from his list. ‘It might be under Eat Me,’ I say, ‘the television show. My friends – and colleagues – and I were VIP guests at your opening last month.’ I don’t mention I was the person who fainted inside the club at such opening. Poppy said it was attributed to the heat at the time. It doesn’t warrant a mention now.
Checking his list, the bouncer replies, ‘You’re not on the list tonight. General entry is back there.’ He jabs a thick finger at the back of the long line.
‘Oh. Um, how long?’
He shrugs. ‘An hour. No guarantee you’ll get in. Packed house tonight.’
‘Really? That long, Duncan?’ I venture.
‘Duncan’s not working tonight.’
‘Of course, what I meant – sorry, what’s your name?’
‘My name’s Gordon.’
‘Right, Gordon. What I meant is, Duncan would certainly remember me. We had quite a chat, Duncan and I, on the night of the opening of this bar.’
‘Lady, I’ve got to keep this line moving.’
‘Of course, I’m so sorry to hold you up, Gordon. It’s just that I was most definitely invited here this evening. I’m almost certain that my friends Faith and Poppy are downstairs right now. Perhaps you could check your list to see if they’re checked in? And then, if you allow me to get to them, they can help to sort—’
‘Lady, you’re not on the list. You need to move to the back of the queue.’
‘Gordon—’
‘Line up.’
‘But—’
‘BACK OF THE QUEUE.’
I slink to the back, every face I pass smugly satisfied I’ve failed to push my way in at the front.
I walk a little way down Wardour Street and try again, now desperately, to get through to Faith. Again, her mobile rings out. Unbelievably, I don’t have Poppy’s number in my phone – I’ve never needed to call her. Poppy’s always just been there for me.
Of course, it begins to rain.
I don’t have an umbrella on me.
I check my app and there are no Ubers available.
I’m scouting the street for a black cab to take me home when a snivelling voice behind me says, ‘Raining again, and here we are. Such serendipity.’
I turn and am shocked to see Alex Sutcliffe standing beside me.
‘Leaving so soon?’ he sneers.
‘As it happens, yes.’ Has he been watching me all this time?
‘And how was it inside?’
‘Alex, have you been spying on me?’
His lips curl in a malevolent grin.
‘Alex, what do you intend to do with those photographs?’ I persist, while I have the chance. Harry and Joanna may have taken care of things with Chit Chat, but, presumably, Alex still holds the shots. Nobody has spoken to him since they were taken.
‘Oh, it turns out I have countless story opportunities now I’m unencumbered by the rules of some silly magazine. Or, as you generously pointed out, the whims of Joanna Minnow,’ he says.
A black cab. Thank you, universe. I hail and it pulls up to the side of the road.
‘Look, Alex, I genuinely regret how everything turned out. I never set out to—’
‘Have me fired?’ he hisses.
Recoiling from his breath, I step back from the kerb.
Alex laughs maniacally.
Then he jumps in my cab and disappears.
25
I can’t find another cab. It’s pouring with rain. I’ve no brolly. One after another, black cabs sail past me with the yellow light off. I’m a proverbial drowned rat when a car pulls up beside me.
‘Gracie! Get in.’ The rear passenger door swings open. Inside is Bip and Ban.
‘Oh, girls.’ I clamber in. ‘Perfect timing!’
‘What are you doing out here all by yourself?’ asks Ban. Or Bip. Their cream-coloured outfits match and it’s too dark for me to spot the mole that distinguishes their faces. Both are wearing heels, one in ankle boots and one in stilettos.
‘They wouldn’t let me into The Tricycle Club,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t on the guest list.’
‘Snooty place anyway,’ Boots sighs, patting my cheeks dry with her scarf. ‘They stopped serving us last time.’
‘And when we got back from the bar, you’d passed out,’ Stilettos chimes in.
‘We were so worried.’
‘It’s so nice to see you, Gracie.’
They’re talking so fast, I can barely keep up.
‘We’re going to Harry’s.’
‘Come with us?’
‘Oh. Well. Um—’
‘Harry won’t be there. But come anyway.’
‘Please will you?’
The driver calls out, ‘Where to, ladies?’
‘We’ve been dying to see you!’
‘Has Harry not said?’
At that instant, the caffeine hits me. Or maybe the sleeping tablets wear off completely. Either way, though it’s coming up to midnight, I’m in no mood to go home. ‘Girls, I’d love to. Let’s go.’
‘Embankment, please.’
The driver pulls away.
Harry’s pad is the penthouse flat of a purpose-built block right on the Embankment. A nar
row balcony runs the length of his open-plan living room overlooking the Thames. The bathrooms – there are two – are floor-to-ceiling marble. The kitchen is granite and stainless steel, and looks as though it’s never been used. In every room, the furniture is modern, tasteful and expensive. The place is immaculate. Despite his cruddy, unstaffed office, Harry’s ‘Agent to the Stars’ business is, by all accounts, booming.
The girls settle us into the second bedroom, with champagne. The double bed is strewn with clothes, make-up and an assortment of accessories. It doesn’t appear slept in – but neither did the master suite when they gave me the grand tour.
It feels a bit voyeuristic to be here, without Harry even knowing I am.
‘Girls, why are you here without Harry?’
‘We have our own keys.’
‘We’re often here on weekends.’
‘Harry’s always working.’
‘He’s at a wedding now, though?’ I say.
‘That’s right.’
‘He says it’s safer for us to come and go from here than where we live,’ Ban says – in the light of the apartment, and after a quick check-in with the girls, I can finally distinguish between them.
‘He’s always looking out for us,’ Bip says.
‘He is the best half-step-brother ever – and we have a few to choose from.’
‘Do you agree he’s the best agent, Gracie?’ Bip asks but Ban sidles closer to me on the bed, expectantly awaiting my answer.
I pause to respond, prompting her to add, ‘Sorry, we don’t mean to upset you. We figured your chat with Harry didn’t go quite to plan last time?’ She pats my shoulder. ‘We think it was just bad timing.’
‘And bad circumstances.’
‘I’m still sure he’s got a soft spot for you.’
‘But Harry was so cross with us about, you know, leading you astray, so we haven’t dared asked,’ Bip admits.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘It was not the best of circumstances last time,’ I concede. My stomach knots with the reminder of Harry rejecting me. ‘The champagne, and other things, I think, got us all carried away that night.’ I take a deep breath. ‘But I assure you, all is well. Harry is my agent – indeed, the best agent, in my opinion – and, I hope, my friend. I’m glad I bumped into you tonight, girls.’
‘Shall we blow-dry your wet hair,’ Bip offers.
‘And let’s get you out of these wet clothes,’ Ban suggests.
‘Have you lost weight, Gracie?’
‘Bip!’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ve toned up,’ I say.
‘You look amazing!’
‘She always did.’
‘Yes, but now she’ll fit into our stuff.’
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ I hasten to say.
I change out of my wet clothes and into a dressing gown. The girls blow-dry my hair as I drink champagne. At their urging, I try on garments from the piles on the bed. My resulting outfit is of Bip and Ban’s design, a daring ensemble of a black leather skirt, strapless red top, rosebud headband, diamanté-studded belt and silver loop earrings. I ditch the belt immediately, feeling equally unsure about the rest. The top is designed to be worn without a bra – miraculously, it is holding me in quite well as in the chest department, at least, the girls are larger than me. However, I have to keep my tummy sucked right in otherwise the material rolls up and exposes my smaller-than-it-used-to-be muffin top. The skirt shows off more of my thighs than I’m comfortable with, and at my age, I’m not sure leather is appropriate.
I voice my concerns and the girls squeeze me into a pair of tan-coloured control-top tights. My belly shrinks to washboard flat. My thighs appear cellulite-free, like I have the legs of Beyoncé.
They tell me, repeatedly, how sexy I look.
Well and truly tipsy from the champagne they keep topping up, I’m open to believing them. We neck another bottle from Harry’s fridge – apparently, Harry won’t mind, the girls do it all the time. There’s been no mention of cocaine, which is a relief. Like giggly teenagers at a sleep-over party, we dance around the room and jump across the bed. Little Mix is blaring out of the Sonos speaker via Spotify.
I’ve had a more languid snoop around Harry’s flat. His refrigerator contains only apples, champagne and a bottle of vodka in the freezer. In his living room, his magazine rack is full of glossies, including a few of what must be the last bastions of printed porn. (Admittedly, the pages are dog-eared wherever there’s a picture of a woman I vaguely recognise from his wall.) A game of Twister sits upon the sideboard.
‘We saw DJ Bassdog on the show, on Monday.’
‘He was so weird, and so hot. You pick the best guests.’
‘Yes. Tell us, who’s on next week?’
‘Can you tell us?’
I make the girls promise not to tell another living soul – after out bonding in the toilets and how kind they’ve been to me tonight, they’ve earned my trust – I tell them about our upcoming guests. Jerry from Love Island, Kenny S from Luton, not Maximillian who plays Poseidon but super-cute Adrian from our advertising department. The girls clap their hands like baby seals.
‘So, what are our plans for tonight?’ I ask. When Ban suggested fun, I’d thought we might head out to a club and dance. Perhaps, meet some men and flirt. ‘It’s almost 1 a.m. and I’m older than you, so if we want to go out dancing, we probably should head off sharpish?
‘We know loads of clubs that are open until 3 a.m.’
‘And later.’
‘I can’t promise how long I’ll last,’ I point out, already abandoning my plans to get up early. I decided to fix my life, but that includes finding joy. Having fun. I’m happy to be out, and being silly, with these two. And a spot of afternoon gardening is still on the table for tomorrow.
Little Mix are singing about getting an ex-boyfriend out of their hair – I’m dancing about, wearing rose-tinted clubbing glasses I won’t be taking out of the flat – feeling so empowered by their girl-power lyrics that I suggest I wouldn’t mind popping by Sway, to demand Jordan return my keys at once, on our way out.
I’ve already updated them on what’s happened in my life since I’ve seen them. The girls venture my proposal might not be my best idea. The party may be over, they point out reasonably, and Jordan might not be there. Another glass of champagne and I convince them we should crash the stupid work event en route.
I know Faith, for sure, wouldn’t let me go anywhere near.
We’re pulling up outside Sway on Great Queen Street, in Holborn, before I realise what a whimsical, alcohol-induced and bad – very bad – idea it is. Now, it’s too late to back out. Robert is out the front smoking a cigarette as the girls jump out of the cab before I can stop them. He rushes over as I tumble out after.
‘Good heavens. Gracie, lovely to see you.’ Robert greets me charmingly. ‘And who are your stunning companions?’ he adds, warming up to the girls.
Robert kisses my cheeks, always so kind, and I introduce him to Bip and Ban.
‘Jordan doesn’t know I’m here,’ I say.
‘No. What are you doing here?’ Robert asks. He isn’t being horrid.
‘I’ve come to collect my keys. Jordan won’t return my calls.’
‘Right. Well, perhaps, let me go and get them for you?’
Too soon, Jordan appears at the top of the stairs outside the club, looking – I must say – exceptionally dapper in a tuxedo, wearing a furiously sexy scowl. Seeing us, he flies down the stairs to right in front of me.
‘What are you doing here?’ he spits.
I’m teetering on low-heeled black boots in the borrowed black leather skirt, strapless red top and rosebud headband. I don’t even have a jacket—we went straight from the flat into a cab and, drunk, I barely noticed the cold. The girls are dressed in identical hot-pink micro-dresses with tiny, white fluffy cardigans.
‘Jordan, you won’t take my calls. I left you a message. I—’
‘I don’t care about my stuff and
I don’t want to speak to you,’ he says. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Give me my keys and I’ll go.’
‘Fine, here.’ Jordan fumbles to remove the key to my flat from his ring. ‘Have your key. Now please, you shouldn’t be here.’
There’s a commotion at the entrance up the top of the stairs. Horrible Rhiannon, and her equally unpleasant work friends, saunter down.
‘What’s she doing here?’ Rhiannon barks at Jordan. Wearing an elegant cocktail dress over her skeletal frames, she looks me and the girls up and down. Her friends snigger rudely at our outfits. I shoot them a stern mind-your-own-business glare.
‘Who are they?’ Bip asks me.
‘They don’t seem very nice,’ Ban whispers.
‘Girls, they’re nobody,’ I say.
‘Actually, I’m his girlfriend,’ Rhiannon says, looking at Jordan.
‘Oh blimey,’ Robert sighs, not knowing where to look.
I’m gobsmacked. Rhiannon. With the poker-straight brown hair, who weighs half of me. I attended drinks for her twenty-first birthday six months ago. It takes a few moments for it to sink in. Rhiannon is now Jordan’s girlfriend.
‘What’s she doing here?’ she repeats, glaring at Jordan.
‘She wanted her key. I didn’t invite her.’
‘Jesus, Jordan,’ is all that comes out of my mouth.
Jordan turns on me with his tawny eyes. ‘Grace, we broke up.’
‘Three weeks ago,’ I scream at him.
‘I’m not doing this.’ He grabs Rhiannon by her arm and practically drags her back inside. She turns to glare at me before she recommences growling at him.
‘That didn’t go well,’ Robert says.
‘No, Robert, it didn’t.’
I’m shaken, but not stirred. I’m upset. But I’m not crying. In shock, I presume.
‘Gracie, I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that. That girl is an utter little cow,’ he says. ‘Let me get you a cab.’
A lone redhead in a decadent long dress offers me a kind smile. I smile forlornly back. Trudy, the lovely receptionist.
Robert escorts us safely away around the corner and, I don’t know how, hails us a black cab within seconds.
Look At Me Now Page 20