‘Polly!’
I tried desperately to focus. ‘Good grief.’ I squinted. ‘Lottie!’
‘What on earth are you doing here, and why were you in the men’s? Heavens, you look terrible!’
‘Do I? Oh well, never mind.’ I grinned up at my erstwhile flatmate and hugged her warmly, grateful for something friendly to hang on to. ‘I’m having a terrific time!’
We wobbled precariously. ‘Hey, steady – gosh, you look completely plastered. Are you all right? Is Nick with you?’ She looked around for my husband.
‘No, no, I’m with Sham, he’s a film director,’ I confided happily.
Lottie frowned. ‘Sham? But where’s Nick?’
‘Oh, he’s busy farming. Now, don’t you worry, it’s not like that, Lottie – it’s all strictly above board. It’s just that he thinks I’ve got hidden talents, you see, thinks I’ve got the makings of a marvellous director, so he’s giving me the benefit of his vast expertise.’
‘I bet he is,’ she said drily.
‘Oh, Lottie, don’t be like that, come and meet him!’ I dragged her bodily over to our table. ‘Sam,’ I called loudly, perhaps too loudly, because quite a few people turned round. ‘Hey, Sam, stand up please, I want you to meet one of my very best friends in the whole world, Lottie – shit, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Parker,’ she put in helpfully, ‘and don’t shout, Polly.’
‘Parker, that’s it, she got married, you see, lost her real name which was why I couldn’t remember it, oh, and Lottie, this is Sam Weston, an extremely famous film director, you’ve heard of him, of course, haven’t you?’
‘Well –’
‘Oh God, Lottie, you’re hopeless, he’s done loads of things, haven’t you, Sam? Come on, what have you done?’ I bellowed. ‘Tell her what you’ve done! Come on!’
Suddenly I had to grip hold of the back of a chair as I swayed violently and experienced a rush of blood to the head. Too much shouting, probably. I wondered if I could possibly walk around the front of the chair and get my bottom on to its seat.
Sam was on his feet now, shaking Lottie by the hand. ‘I assure you I haven’t done anything remotely memorable; there’s no reason why you should have heard of me.’
Lottie smiled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t get to the cinema much these days.’
‘I don’t blame you – most of it’s rubbish.’
‘Hey, Lottie, sit down!’ I’d finally managed to park my own bottom and was keen for others to join me. It was making me dizzy looking up at them. ‘Sam, oi, Sam, how about getting a drink for Lottie, where are your manners, eh?’ I yelled. The people at the next table turned to stare at me.
‘Er, sure – what can I get you, Lottie?’
‘Oh no, not for me,’ said Lottie, waving her hand. ‘I’ve got one over there; I’m with a party from the office – oh, here’s one of them. Polly, you remember Peggy, don’t you?’
An extremely large American colleague of Lottie’s came bounding up, fairly shaking the floorboards as she bounced to a halt. Remember her? I’d nearly fallen asleep on her. Nick and I had once spent a mind-numbing evening in her company at a party of Lottie’s where she’d singlehandedly bored for America. All night long we’d been treated to her views on IKEA furniture, Marks and Spencer pre-cooked meals, Benetton jumpers, Sainsbury’s crème fraiche and the joys of Mars Bar ice creams. Now I can shop till I’m sick, but this girl had me beaten into a paper bag. Nick and I had finally escaped, reeling and gasping into the night, vowing never again to accept an invitation without having a full dossier on the other guests first. She grinned toothily at me.
‘Polly, hi! How y’doing? Hey, I love your beads. You must tell me where you got them, I’d love to take some back to the States. You wouldn’t believe it but it’s just impossible to get hold of that kind of thing out there, weird, isn’t it? What d’you think of this dress, by the way?’ She glanced down at the snot-green tent affair she was wearing. ‘Bet you can’t guess where I got it?’ she asked gleefully.
‘Harvey Nicks?’ I hazarded meekly, knowing full well that that was what she wanted to hear but that Oxfam was nearer the mark.
‘Wrong! Marks and Spencer, fourteen ninety-nine, don’t you think that’s just incredible value?’
‘Incredible,’ I agreed weakly.
Peggy smiled with satisfaction and looked around ominously, as if searching for somewhere to park her heavily upholstered derrière and continue this fascinating retail discussion. Sam looked alarmed, as well he might. Luckily I was alive to the situation.
‘Oh, er, Lottie, is that the rest of your crowd from the office over there?’ I asked, peering into the middle distance. ‘I think they’re waving to us,’ I lied.
‘Where?’ Lottie strained to see.
‘There, behind that pillar, they’re beckoning to you, I think.’
‘Really? I can’t see, but perhaps we’d better go – they’ll be wondering where we are. Come on, Peggy.’ She seized Peggy’s huge arm and bent down to peck me on the cheek.
‘Listen, are you really all right, Polly?’ she hissed in my ear.
‘Yes, of course, why?’
‘Because you look absolutely out of your head, that’s why. D’you want me to get you a taxi or anything?’ She looked worried.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m having a whale of a time!’
‘Really?’
‘Bloody hell, Lottie, I haven’t had so much fun in ages!’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ She looked doubtful. ‘Only I know you …’
‘Course I’m sure, now get back to the rest of your crowd – go on!’
She laughed. ‘Bugger off, you mean. All right, but take it easy, OK?’
I grinned and waved her on her way, winking conspiratorially at Sam as she went. We settled down into another cosy gaze. This time I tried out a sort of come-hither one, complete with languid licking of lips. It was a huge success, I think, judging by the way he guffawed with pleasure. I wriggled happily in my seat. This was bliss. It was weeks, months – no, years even – since I’d felt this way. Silly, light-headed, frivolous, irresponsible – drunk, even – but why not? I was still young, wasn’t I?
Sam leaned forward, looking a bit concerned. ‘Polly, would you rather make a move now? Your train’s not for a while yet, but I’ll wait with you at the station if you like. We could get a cup of coffee?’
‘But we’ve only just got here. There’s still bags of time, isn’t there?’
‘Sure, but you look a bit tired.’
‘Me? Tired? Rubbish, I’m having a brilliant time!’
He smiled and looked at his watch. ‘OK, if you’re sure, but you’d better not have any more to drink. I just hope yours is the last stop on the line because I can’t see you waking up for it. I’ll have to hang a notice round your neck – “Wake me up at Truro”.’
‘Like Paddington Bear.’
He smiled and took my hand. ‘Just like a little bear.’
I let him take my hand. That was OK, I decided. After all, we’d held hands before, so we weren’t breaking new ground. I sighed blissfully as he stroked my fingers. God, he was attractive. If I wasn’t married and in love with Nick … He smiled and I smiled back. I couldn’t think why I hadn’t thought of this before, I mean, the world must be full of gorgeous married men, why stop at this one? Why not find some more? There must be loads of them with time on their hands, ready and willing for a bit of innocuous eye contact and platonic hand-holding, why not make it a pastime? A sort of hobby? I wondered if Nick would be prepared to put some money into a little scheme if I went into business. Set myself up as an expert, give lessons, that sort of thing – after all, he’d offered to set me up in a shop, hadn’t he? I was just idly wondering if a council grant would be possible when I found myself being dragged to my feet. Neither my feet nor the rest of my body wanted to move an inch.
‘Come on,’ said a voice in my ear, ‘just one dance then I’ll put you on that train. I jus
t want to hold you once in my arms before you go.’
I couldn’t even speak now, let alone put up any resistance, so I let myself be half dragged, half carried to the dance floor. Once there, I fell into his arms. I didn’t like to tell him it was a mistake but I knew it was, I’d felt much better sitting down. People seemed to be cannoning into us from all over the place, so I hung on tight and buried my face in his shoulder.
I felt awfully sick but didn’t like to open my mouth to tell him so in case I gave a practical demonstration. Coloured lights were swirling horribly above me and the music was unbearably loud. I shut my eyes tight. I was dimly aware that the tails of my body had crept out and were hanging down on the wrong side of my trousers, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Sartorial elegance be damned, I had more important things to contend with, like how to stay upright.
Whitney Houston pounded urgently into my ears. My head was throbbing. Sam held me close and stroked my hair. If only I was sober enough to enjoy it, but I really did feel terribly ill.
‘Sam, I …’ I whispered into the pounding music, looking up into his face.
He smiled down at me and I realized that he must have thought I was lifting my face to be kissed. He bent his head and his lips brushed mine, warm and soft, but definitely unwelcome in the light of my condition. I gritted my teeth. Please don’t let me be sick now, oh please God, not now! It was important that he didn’t kiss me again so I kept my head buried in his shoulder, praying that the dance would end soon and we could get far enough away from the pounding music for me to tell him how ill I felt. All of a sudden I knew I couldn’t wait till the end of the record. I had to act fast or I was going to disgrace myself in a very big way and make a terrible mess all over the dance floor.
‘Sam, I feel awful,’ I muttered, ‘I must –’ I made an almighty effort to wrench myself free of his arms but, sadly, simultaneously lost the fight. The one I’d been waging to stay upright. The flashing lights fell from the ceiling in a dazzling display of colour and the dance floor came up to meet them. Ceiling and floor collided with an almighty flash of white. After that, there was nothing. Just blackness.
Chapter Twelve
When I came to, I was lying in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a room I didn’t recognise. My head was throbbing like a waiting taxi and my eyes ached in their sockets. I opened them slowly. Where the hell was I? Battling through a wave of pain and nausea I tried to work it out. The curtains were drawn, but it was light. I narrowed my eyes. Too light. I peered around nervously. The room was smart, a tasteful grey and white colour scheme prevailed, but it was tomblike, impersonal, and it smacked of efficiency – a hospital perhaps? Private, of course, I thought, glancing down at the inch-thick carpet. I hoped to God Nick had kept up the BUPA payments. Two seconds later I realized that glancing at the carpet had been a huge mistake, as my tummy rose to my throat like a high-speed lift and I clutched my mouth.
‘Nurse, nurse!’ I yelled, looking around wildly. I was about to be very ill and I needed a bowl, or preferably a bucket, right now.
‘NURSE!’ I shrieked in panic.
No nurse, and no handy red button with which to summon one. Damn. Still clutching my mouth, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. There was a door, slightly ajar, to my left. A bathroom? I bolted towards it, hoping it wasn’t a wardrobe as it had been on one disastrous occasion at a house party in Scotland, but happily, instead of encountering a row of shining Churchill brogues, I encountered a shining marble bathroom instead. I made it to the loo with seconds to spare and was violently, and repeatedly, sick.
I clutched the porcelain to steady myself and sank down gingerly on to the cold tiled floor. I shivered. It occurred to me that I hadn’t a stitch on. I grabbed a towel from a rail and pulled it around me, shaking now and feeling extremely ill. This was extraordinary. Where on earth was I, and why was I naked? It was a pretty rum sort of hospital that liked their patients starkers, wasn’t it? I looked around, desperate for clues.
The bathroom was a riot of marble and chrome, with so many gleaming surfaces and sparkling taps it made your eyes ache to look at it. Perhaps this doubled as an operating theatre? The lights were certainly bright enough and there were plenty of marble slabs for surgery, handy really, because I was going to need some in my brain quite soon. ‘Oooooh … Christ!’ I moaned and clutched my head.
Holding it carefully, as if bits might spill out, I hobbled gingerly back to bed. I lay down and turned on my side. Surely a nurse would come soon, to check I was OK. I hoped so, I certainly couldn’t go looking for one in my condition. I stared at the hygienic-looking bedside table beside me. Nine o’clock, said my watch.
Through the table’s glass top I spotted a little black Bible. I blinked. Heavens, that was a bit pessimistic, wasn’t it? Was it handily placed there for the last rites, perhaps? Didn’t give one much faith in the medical team, did it? I stared at the spine of the book underneath it. A Guide To London’s Night Spots. I blinked again. Wow. One minute the inmates were on their deathbeds and the next they were dancing round their handbags. Talk about kill or cure.
Suddenly I had a nasty thought. I sat bolt upright and stared at the dressing table. There was a tray with a teapot on it, and some cups, two cups, and round the rim of the cups something was written in green – The Royal … something … Hotel. Oh! I gulped. A hotel! Not a hospital at all, but – what was I doing in a hotel? How had I got here? I racked my addled brain and tried desperately to piece together the happenings of the previous night.
Well, first we’d all gone out to dinner, that much was clear, then a few of us had gone on to Annabel’s, and then … what next? I frowned. Somewhere along the line I remembered getting stupendously drunk and dancing with Sam, but then what? Well, then I’d woken up in a hotel bedroom with no clothes on, that’s what. I froze. Oh my God! I clapped my hand over my mouth. Had I slept with him? Had I? My eyes grew huge with fear. No! No, I couldn’t have, because if I had – well, where was he now?
I sprang from the bed with hitherto unimaginable alacrity, rushed to the wardrobe and flung it open. Empty. I ran to the curtains and swept them aside, hastily shutting them again as a startled passer-by got a full-frontal. No, he definitely wasn’t here, which was a rattling good sign, because if, if by any catastrophic chance anything untoward had occurred – God forbid – well, then he’d certainly be here now, wouldn’t he? Being even more untoward? I mean, who forks out for a hotel room for only one bunk-up, for heaven’s sake? Hardly worth the effort, is it? No, he’d definitely still be here, demanding his early-morning rights.
I paced nervously round the room, looking for clues. I sorted out my clothes which were scattered about. No boxer shorts amongst them – good. I peeked cautiously in the waste-paper basket – nothing rubber and unspeakable in there. Excellent, things were looking up. I sat down on the bed, relief flooding over me. Yes, of course, I’d obviously missed the last train and had been parked here by some good samaritan to sleep off my alcoholic stupor – what a relief!
I flopped back thankfully on the bed, and as I did so a piece of paper flew off the bedside table. It fluttered about in the breeze my flop had created and then spiralled slowly down to the floor like a sycamore seed. I watched as it landed. My heart just about stopped beating. I jumped off the bed and fell on it. My hand shook as I spread it out.
Saturday, 7.00 a.m.
Darling Polly,
Thank you for a wonderful evening. Sorry you missed your train, but it was worth it, wasn’t it? Had to dash off early this morning but I’ll ring you soon.
Love always, Sam.
I stared at the paper in disbelief. I read it again. Seven a.m., it said, so he’d been here … all night. My hand flew to my mouth and something cold gripped my heart. I’d slept with him. I must have done. My stomach curdled with revulsion. I dropped the piece of paper and it fluttered down to the carpet again. I stared at it, stunned.
Then I picked it up again. ‘It was wor
th it, wasn’t it?’ The words swam in and out of focus. I tried to think what that meant. Did it necessarily mean that … yes, of course it did, Polly, what else could it mean? Oh God! I sank to my knees on the carpet, hid my face in my hands and doubled up in agony like a footballer who’s been kneed in the groin. How could I? How could I have gone to bed with him? Had I really been that drunk, was it possible?
I lay down on my side, holding myself, shivering with cold and self-pity. I pulled my towel around me and stared at the grey carpet, which was getting less tasteful by the minute. I felt numb. I simply couldn’t believe I’d done it. As I lay there, something green and shiny caught my eye. It was sticking out from under the bed, right by my shoes. I pulled it out. It was an empty champagne bottle. I sat up and looked around. Sure enough, sitting on the dressing table was a champagne glass. I glanced wildly around the room and there, on the windowsill, just behind the curtain, was another. Only this one had lipstick on the rim. I got shakily to my feet, walked over and picked it up. Pink lipstick. My lipstick. Clearly these had been our pre-, and possibly post-, coital drinks.
I sat down on the little stool by the dressing table, put my head in my hands and wept. I hated myself. I just wanted to die. Tears streamed down my face and I let them fall unchecked. I’d broken my marriage vows, I’d been unfaithful to Nick, I’d – Nick! Suddenly I froze. I sat bolt upright like a pin in a bowling alley and my tears stopped in mid-stream. Hell! No! It was Saturday! Saturday morning, and I should be in Cornwall, not dying gracefully in a London hotel room! I should be checking the Foxtons delivery, Nick would kill me – Jesus!
I scrambled to my feet and raced to my bundle of clothes, grabbing bra, body, trousers, shirt and – oh God, platforms. I scrambled into them. Infidelity might find me doubled up on the floor in agony but the impending wrath of my husband had me throwing my clothes on, grabbing my handbag, dragging a comb through my hair and bolting out of that room in three minutes flat.
Going Too Far Page 17