by Lucy Lord
‘I ask myself the same thing every day.’
‘Git.’
‘Git?’ Andy laughed. ‘I don’t think anybody’s said that to me since I was twelve.’
Her new iPhone beeped. Bella was always the last person to get around to the technology everybody else had been using for years.
‘Oooh, Facebook message.’
Andy rolled his eyes.
‘It’s from Poppy. A round robin about a party she’s having tonight. Now, why do you think she’d include me in that? She knows I’m not in New York. Is she just trying to rub my nose in how bloody glamorous her life is?’
‘Belles, stop it.’ Andy took the phone away from her and topped up her glass. ‘And listen to yourself. Your life’s not too bad, now really, is it?’ He gestured at the leafy canopy above them, at their lavish picnic spread, across to the Serpentine, where a magnificent heron was picking his long, spindly-legged way through the swampy undergrowth, staring at them beadily.
‘No it’s not, it’s wonderful.’ Bella lay back and rested her head on Andy’s lap, smiling up at him. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
Poppy and Damian’s Prohibition party (dress code: gangsters and molls) was in full swing, their interior-brickworked warehouse flat crammed to the rafters with glamorous New Yorkers. Not bad, considering they’d only been living there a few months. Although pretty much all of them were new contacts of Poppy’s, thought Damian bitterly, as he poured himself a strong cocktail out of a teapot into a pretty china teacup. Another of Poppy’s bright ideas, though he’d mixed the cocktails.
In one corner of the room he could see his wife holding court, a group of admirers hanging on her every word as she joshed and twinkled and giggled. She looked absolutely stunning, he had to admit, in the eau-de-nil silk slip with coffee-coloured lace trim she’d picked up at Sandra’s vintage store. She’d set her blonde hair in pin curls against her head, topped off with a coffee-coloured lace headband.
Come on, he tried to snap himself out of it as the strong liquor warmed his veins. Your wife is bloody gorgeous, and it’s not her fault you can’t get a fucking break.
He’d finally come up with what he thought was a brilliant idea for his screenplay, but so far all his tentative enquiries had drawn blanks. Early days, mate, early days, he told himself.
‘DAMIAN!’ a huge voice bellowed in his ear. ‘MY MAN!’
‘Lars!’ Damian looked around with relief. At last, somebody he could call a friend of his own. ‘Am I glad to see you. But …’ He started laughing now. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’
‘Don’t you fanshy me?’ Lars did a little shimmy in his floor-length gold lamé bias-cut frock. ‘I wash thinking I would be a gangster, and then I thought, No, more fun to be a moll. The chicksh have all the fun these days, my friend, do they not?’ He was glassy-eyed and slurring a bit and Damian could tell he was more than a little pissed already. The Romanian girl who’d ‘loved the banker more than the man’ had a lot to answer for, he reflected.
‘Never a truer word said. But where on earth did you find something like that to fit you?’
‘Many specialist transvestite shops in NYC, my friend.’
Damian started laughing again. Lars really did look magnificent in a platinum-blonde Mae West wig, with long satin gloves, long beads and long cigarette holder. His cheeks were rouged, his lips scarlet, his eyes adorned with enormous, spider-like false lashes.
‘And did they do your face at the tranny shop too?’
Lars roared with laughter. ‘What do you think, my friend? That that is a shkill I learned at Merrill Lynch? Yesh, they did my fashe. And now I must drink.’
He poured himself a drink from the teapot, downed it in one, then poured himself another.
‘And now I musht say hello to your beautiful wife.’
‘In that case, come with me.’
They weaved their way through the crowds to where Poppy was now chatting to Marty and Eleanor.
‘Lars!’ Eleanor threw up her arms, beaming. She looked fabulous in a Louise Brooks black wig and scarlet dress made entirely of feathers, with a matching scarlet pout.
‘Wow,’ said Marty amiably. ‘I don’t know which of you three girls is the most gorgeous.’
Poppy smiled. Her boss was a good sort.
‘So glad you could come,’ she said, reaching up for a hug. ‘You look fantastic!’
‘You too, babe, you too,’ said Lars, picking her up and twirling her round and round like a rag doll. Damian tried not to feel hurt that Lars had once picked him up like a rag doll. Just snap out of it, you tit.
‘So,’ Eleanor turned her sincere pale blue eyes on him. ‘Poppy says you’re writing a screenplay? My, what a creative couple you are.’
Damian looked at her suspiciously. Was she taking the piss?
‘I wish I could be creative like that, but as Marty says, there’s only room for one creative mind in our marriage. I was always the business brain, but I’m afraid that turned to mush once Hammy was born.’ She laughed self-deprecatingly and Damian started to relax. She was a nice woman and he really had to get a grip.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ he said, his natural good manners returning. ‘And of course, being a mother is the most important job of all.’
‘You’re sweet,’ she said, smiling and putting a hand on his forearm. ‘So tell me about your screenplay.’
In the kitchen, Marco, Chase and Fabrice were sniffing poppers and dancing to Donna Summer. Poppy burst into peals of laughter as she walked through to get another bottle of champagne out of the fridge.
‘Nothing like conforming to stereotype,’ she giggled.
‘Want some, cutie pie?’ Fabrice offered her the little brown bottle.
‘Oh, OK, fuck it, why not?’ It was her party and she could sniff kiddy drugs if she wanted to. She took a large sniff and felt a huge rush of blood to her head, the disco music suddenly making perfect sense.
‘I feel luuuuur-uuur-uuur-uuuurve,’ she sang, dancing around with her arms in the air. ‘I feel luuuurve!’
All three of her newish gay friends followed suit, and they pranced around the kitchen together, like – well, just like gay people on amyl.
‘God, life is great when you’re off your tits, isn’t it?’ Poppy shouted over the music.
‘Hey, looks like I’ve found the right party,’ said Sandra, the vintage-store owner, bursting through the kitchen door. ‘Poppy, doll, you look fabulous!’
‘You too, Sandra,’ said Poppy with chemically enhanced feeling. Her new female friend was done up in her own approximation of gangster-chic, in black pin-striped shorts and waistcoat, with PVC over-the-knee boots, her peroxide-blonde hair piled up into a trilby.
‘Guys, this is Sandra …’
‘Hey, Sandra,’ said Marco. ‘We met when we shot Poppy Takes Manhattan in your to-die-for store, remember? I’m Marco, the assistant director. And this is my partner, Chase.’
‘Oh, Gaaaaawd, I should have guessed. Way too good looking to be straight, both of ya. Way to go, laws of what a waste. And you!’ She pointed at Fabrice, who was bare-chested in tight leather pants, his only concession to the dress code a trilby and white bow tie that stood out against his inky black, perfectly smooth chest. ‘No point in asking, huh?’
‘No point at all.’ Fabrice grinned, sensing a fellow outrageous free spirit. ‘I’m Fabrice.’
‘Well, Sandra, you’re in safe hands here,’ said Poppy. ‘Help yourself to drinks. I just have to mingle for a couple of minutes …’ She was worried about Damian and wanted to check that he was OK. He’d been in a weird mood all night. Actually, all week, if truth be told, ever since coming up against his last brick wall, screenplay-wise. She’d been trying to boost his confidence, telling him how clever he was, that it was only a matter of time. But to no avail, it seemed.
‘Not so fast, beautiful,’ said Sandra. ‘I brought someone with me, hope ya don’t mind? I’m an old friend of his fami
ly, y’might say. I was very close to his dad.’ She gave an extravagant wink.
‘No, of course not, more the merrier,’ Poppy started, then tried not to gasp at the man who stepped out of the shadows. Jack Meadows was the hottest actor of the moment, combining the indie-cool kudos of your Gyllenhaals and Cusacks with the big box-office draw of your Pitts and Clooneys. The son of a legendary hell-raising bass guitarist, his rock’n’roll pedigree and ludicrously good looks had given him an enormous advantage pretty much from the day he was born. The fact that he was a genuinely talented actor, with a knack for choosing quirky, clever scripts, had guaranteed worldwide, knockout success.
And he was standing here, in her kitchen, looking just as gorgeous as he did on screen. At least six foot three, taller than most film stars by about half a foot, his mop of curly black hair framed a boyishly handsome face that was lit up by a genuinely sweet smile as he held out his hand.
‘Hi. Good of you to have me.’ The accent was cultured, educated NY. ‘I’m Jack.’
‘I know.’ Poppy laughed, quickly pulling herself together and marvelling at her own sang-froid. ‘I’m Poppy. And these are Marco, Chase and Fabrice.’ She gestured at the gay triumvirate, all of whom seemed, for once, lost for words. Chase looked as if he was about to offer Jack Meadows the poppers, but Marco grabbed the bottle and put the lid on it, hiding it in his back pocket.
‘Hi, Marco, Chase and Fabrice,’ said Jack, remembering all three names and shaking each of their hands in turn.
‘Hi, Jack,’ they chorused, wide-eyed.
‘Hey, let me getcha a drink,’ said Sandra, taking control of the situation, and Poppy flashed her a grateful smile, wondering what to do next. When somebody who is bona fide internationally famous turns up at your downtown apartment, do you parade them around as the guest of honour, or just casually leave them in the kitchen with your gay mates? She guessed the latter, but wanted to introduce him to Damian. Perhaps this would snap him out of his mood?
Jack leant down towards her, smiling that sweet smile again.
‘I’m a big fan of your show.’
‘Really?’ It came out as a squawk. ‘Gosh, thanks. Can I introduce you to my husband? He’s next door somewhere, but maybe you want to stay here in the kitchen for a bit …’
‘No, that’s cool, I’ll come with you. He’s a lucky man.’ He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary.
‘And I’m a lucky woman.’ Poppy tried to ignore the heart-thudding excitement that she was being chatted up by a totally gorgeous film star. I must find Damian.
Damian was telling Eleanor about his screenplay and for the first time all evening felt that somebody was paying him a gratifying bit of attention. In fact, Ellie seemed to think his idea was brilliant, and was just on the verge of giving him the name of a friend of hers in the film business that he just must contact, when—
‘Jack, let me introduce you to my husband, Damian. Damian, I don’t think Jack needs any introduction, do you?’ Poppy was smiling and this bloody lanky bushy-haired twat was holding out his hand to him.
Jack Meadows? For fuck’s sake. He hated rock progeny, with their automatic sense of entitlement, their easy access into worlds utterly out of the reach of anybody born to less famous stock. And what the fuck was he doing here? In his and Poppy’s flat? The fact that Ellie was swooning, all interest in his screenplay lost, helped not a jot.
‘You’re a very lucky man,’ said the twat, smiling at Poppy.
‘So everybody keeps telling me,’ said Damian, unsmiling.
‘Damian,’ hissed Poppy.
‘I’ve got to get another drink. I’m sure you’ll find enough people to talk to you.’
Damian walked away, this time being blatantly rude, and Lars, who had overheard the exchange, said, ‘You mushn’t mind my friend, thish ish hish British sensh of humour. I’m Larsh!’ The six foot four Viking in a gold lamé dress held out his gloved hand, and Jack accepted it with something that looked like relief.
‘Wow, Jack Meadows,’ said Ellie, sweetly. ‘I just love your stuff …’ As she twittered on, Lars said to Poppy, ‘I shall go to Damian.’
‘You do that, I’m almost beyond caring,’ said Poppy, close to tears now. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I bother.’
Lars took her to one side and held her firmly by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. The platinum wig and heavy make-up made it more than a little disconcerting.
‘Your hushband ish a good man. But it is not good for ush men to feel like failuresh. I know for myshelf.’ He looked sad, and Poppy impulsively leant up to give him a hug, covering herself in his lipstick and rouge in the process.
‘Oh, you dear thing, but neither of you are failures, you must see that? It’s just this horrid recession, and as I’m earning silly money now, I don’t see why he can’t just relax and enjoy it until something comes up for him. Damian’s brilliant, he’s not going to be unemployed forever, and his screenplay idea is soooo cool.’
‘You are a clever girl, but you do not undershtand men. I shall go to him.’
‘Thanks so much. I’m getting myself another drink. Tonight was meant to be fun.’
Poppy helped herself to a teacup of strong hooch, where she was waylaid for some time by one of the runners on her show, eager to talk shop. As soon as she could escape, she went back to the kitchen for more champagne – she really wasn’t keen on whatever it was that Damian had elected to put in the cocktails.
On entering the kitchen she was confronted by the perturbing sight of Sandra on her knees, sucking Fabrice’s enormous black cock. Chase and Marco were still sniffing poppers and roaring with laughter.
‘What? I thought you were gay?’
‘I am, babe, I am, but man, she’s good,’ said Fabrice, taking a hearty sniff from the poppers bottle. ‘Man, just like that is gooooooood.’
‘Still the best groupie, still got it,’ said Sandra. ‘I always give the best head.’
Poppy backed off, feeling, for the first time in her life, totally out of her depth. What was her party turning into? And why was Damian being such a dickhead?
As she stumbled away from the kitchen, Jack appeared through the crowds of people in her flat, most of whom she didn’t know. He smiled his sweet smile at her.
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, fine, thanks.’ Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. ‘Sorry about my husband.’
‘No worries. Would some charlie make you feel better?’
‘God, yeah. Thanks.’ Poppy really did feel like crying. It was all too fucking weird, and she thought she could handle weird. ‘I s’pose my bedroom is the best place, if we want a bit of privacy …’
But when they opened the bedroom door, they saw Marty and Ellie shagging each other’s brains out on the floor the other side of Poppy and Damian’s bed.
‘Oh, Martypoos, fill me up!’
‘Oh, Elliekins, I wanna feel your sweet pussy all around me …’
Poppy shut the door quickly, bending over as she was laughing so much that she could hardly breathe. It seemed that the reintroduction to Lars had perked up Marty and Ellie’s sex life so much that they couldn’t even wait to get home any more. When she looked up, Jack was laughing fit to bust too.
‘OK, plan B. Come to the loo with me.’
‘Loo? I love your accent. OK, cool Brit girl, I’ll follow you to the loooooo.’
They had a line each on top of the cistern, then sat down on the floor.
‘You really are the prettiest and coolest girl I’ve met in a long time,’ said Jack, bending his curly head to kiss her.
Is this really happening? Poppy thought. Then she came to her senses and backed away.
‘Thank you so much, I’m really, really flattered, but I’ve only been married to Damian for a few months and I do love him, you know. He’s just going through a bad time with work and stuff.’
Jack Meadows, man of a million women’s fantasies, stared at her for nearly a minute, then started laughing.
/> ‘You know, I think that’s the first time anybody’s said no to me in years. I’m sorry, I don’t want to come between man and wife. But he has been an asshole tonight. Friends?’ He held out his hand and Poppy shook it. Then, as was her wont, she gave him a hug.
‘Thanks for being one of the nicest men here tonight, groovy film star or not …’
‘Groovy?’ Jack laughed. ‘They still say that in the UK?’
The door swung open.
‘WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING WITH MY WIFE?’ Damian’s aggressive fist was restrained by Lars, who was standing right behind him. The rest of the party was looking on, agog.
Poppy got up and said, ‘He’s being a lot nicer to me than you have all night. Thanks, Lars.’
Jack also got to his feet.
‘I’ll say it again,’ he said to Damian. ‘You’re a very lucky man. And, whatever she says, I doubt that you deserve her.’ And he walked out of their apartment, off into the hot New York night.
The rest of the guests dissipated pretty quickly after that.
‘So what the fuck was going on in there? I don’t believe you, Poppy, falling for his lines. Fucking gobshite son-of-a-rock-star twat. We haven’t even been married three months …’
‘What do you think, Othello? We were having a line, he tried to snog me and I said no.’
‘He tried to snog you?’ Damian shouted, conveniently choosing to ignore the ‘saying no’ bit.
‘Oh, just fuck off, you arse,’ said Poppy wearily as she set about tidying up. ‘You were being a cunt all night. Go and stay with Lars if he’ll have you.’
Damian looked at her once more, then walked angrily out of the door, slamming it behind him so loudly she thought it might fall off its hinges.
Poppy stared at the door for a minute or so, before sitting down with a thud on the floor. Resting her head on her knees, she finally allowed the tears to come.
‘Desde-fucking-mona,’ she said to her perfectly pedicured feet.
Chapter 9
‘I am not drinking that goddamn French crap!’ screamed Amy Lascelles, America’s latest sweetheart, throwing a bottle of Badoit at the floor manager, who ducked. ‘It tastes like piss! I only drink Evian.’ She pronounced it Ay-vee-orn.