Vanity

by Lucy Lord

‘M … M … Mark … Karolina … He’s been fucking some porn-star bitch called Karolina … While I was doing my exams …’ Sam sobbed some more, and Bella gave her a hug – a big, proper, comforting hug, just like the one she’d been longing for from her mum.

  Bella, who remembered all too well the pain and humiliation of being cheated on, turned and raised her eyebrows at Andy, mouthing, ‘Shall we get her out of here?’ Andy nodded. Their planned night out could wait.

  Over Sam’s shoulder, Bella could see Mark inside the bar, looming towards the open door, his features contorted in dismay. She shook her head violently at him, then gave him the finger for good measure.

  God, you dick, Mark, she thought, steering Sam gently away from the door. She had always had a certain tendresse for him, and he’d been very kind to her in the past. But seeing this sweet, pretty, clever girl go to pieces over him was a different matter entirely.

  ‘Listen, Sam. Andy and I only came here for a quick drink anyway. Do you want to come back with us for supper at our place? I was going to make some yummy salad-y stuff and we can all bitch about Mark and his ridiculous slapper to our hearts’ content, if you want …’

  Sam laughed a little maniacally.

  ‘Oooh, yeah, I’d like that.’

  Realizing that Sam was trying to be cool (cooler than Bella had ever been), and was possibly still a little in shock, Bella guided her towards Andy’s car, an old but spacious and very comfortable dark green Renault.

  By the time they’d arrived at Portobello Road, Sam had poured out the whole sorry story, displaying some of the grit and courage that had got her out of Romford in the first place.

  ‘My God, Nikki sounds like an evil bitch,’ said Bella. ‘She has to be soooo jealous of you.’

  ‘Let’s not forget Mark,’ said Andy.

  They climbed the rickety steps to Bella’s flat. Inside, it was welcoming and homely, crammed to the rafters with books, paintings, flowers, cushions, mirrors and rugs – all quite clearly Bella’s style. In one corner, a laptop sat on an old-fashioned writing desk, messy with papers and reference books. Quite clearly, Andy’s workstation.

  Bella lit some lamps and a couple of candles before turning off the overhead light.

  ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ She smiled. ‘Much more cosy. Could you put on some music, darling? I’ll get us some drinks. What would you like, Sam?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Whatever you’re having would be great. Thanks.’

  ‘White wine it is then!’

  Bella padded, barefoot, into her tiny kitchen. She was wearing a halterneck maxidress in the palest of pale pink cotton, with broderie anglaise trim around the neckline and hem. Her long dark hair fell in tousled waves around her smooth brown shoulders and her tanned cleavage looked maternal and inviting. Neither skinny nor plump, Sam thought that Bella looked like some sort of lovely hippy earth mother, radiating happiness. She felt happier herself already, just being around her.

  Andy had put something that sounded like classical Spanish guitar music on the CD player. It suited the hot night air. In fact, it was so hot, even with all the windows open, that he had to unearth an ancient electric fan from a cupboard somewhere. With its intermittent cool wafts, the heat was just about bearable.

  Bella returned with a bottle of white wine and three glasses.

  ‘Better drink it quickly, before it gets too warm,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Don’t you just love her logic?’ Andy said to Sam, laughing too.

  ‘Right, so first things first,’ said Bella, once they were settled on cushions on the floor, with their drinks. It really was a tiny flat. But it was lovely, with the candlelight and paintings and books and flowers. ‘If it’s true – and I’m afraid it does sound like it is – are there any circumstances under which you’d take Mark back?’

  Sam shook her head violently. ‘No. No way. It makes me feel physically sick to think of them together.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that,’ said Andy, and Bella just knew he was thinking about her and Mark together. God, we’re an incestuous bunch.

  ‘OK, so if no amount of fulsome grovelling is going to change your mind, we have to concentrate on making you feel better,’ she said. ‘For what it’s worth, I think Mark is going to be sorrier than he’s ever been to have fucked things up with you. As far as I can see, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ said Andy, smiling at Sam through his rectangular specs.

  They finished the first bottle of wine in no time. After the second, Bella said, ‘Are you ready for the first course yet? I’m absolutely starving!’

  ‘Oooh, that would be lovely – thanks.’

  ‘Belles, surely even you can’t have created something delicious out of nothing yet?’ Andy laughed. ‘You’ve hardly set foot in the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, just a little something I knocked up earlier,’ said Bella airily, rising to her bare feet.

  A minute later, she tottered out of the kitchen, brandishing a huge glass jug of what looked like cold tomato soup in her right hand, while precariously balancing three bowls in the left. Andy jumped up to help her.

  ‘Let me take that, darling. I think I may be a steadier pair of hands.’ He turned and winked at Sam, who stiffened. Bella had always been so kind to her, there was no way she would let herself be chatted up by her boyfriend. But Bella laughed easily, and she realized that she was way off the mark. They were both just being nice, because that was what she needed. Sam’s eyes filled with tears again, and she turned away, unwilling to let them see.

  ‘Oh, Sam, darling, it’s OK, you don’t have to put on a brave face with us,’ said Bella, rushing over to hug her again and nearly tripping over the hem of her maxidress. ‘Just cry it all out for a bit, and we’ll talk it over a bit more in the kitchen as I make the next course. You must have some gazpacho first, though …’

  Andy hid a smile. No woman likes to be told that she’s turning into her mother, but Bella really was getting more and more like Olivia by the day. The easy hospitality, the warmth, the assurance that everything would seem better after a good meal … Well, he wasn’t complaining; Olivia was a lovely woman.

  Bella passed Sam a bowl of the stuff that looked like cold tomato soup, with ice cubes in it. Sam took a tentative spoonful, and relaxed. It was cold tomato soup, and absolutely delicious.

  ‘This is gorgeous,’ she said in her husky voice. ‘How d’you make it?’

  ‘Easiest thing in the world. Just put tomatoes, peppers, garlic and onions into a food processor, whizz it all up with some breadcrumbs, olive oil and water until you’ve got the right consistency, then shove it in the fridge for at least five hours. I should really have made some croutons and little garnishes of chopped tomatoes and peppers but I thought it was better to keep it simple this evening.’

  ‘Such a domestic goddess.’ Andy smiled at her with love and Sam felt tears coming to her eyes again.

  ‘Are you two going to have kids?’ she asked, natural curiosity about two people she genuinely liked taking her out of her own misery for a bit.

  ‘Ooooh, don’t know about that,’ they said in unison. They both laughed. ‘Probably, one day.’ Again it was in unison, and this time all three of them laughed.

  The main course was a salade niçoise.

  ‘Afraid I’m mixing my Mediterranean metaphors a bit,’ said Bella. ‘And I’m sorry I haven’t gone all gastro with fresh tuna, but tinned was all we had in the cupboard. Anyway, it’s far more authentic like this. You hardly ever have it with fresh tuna in the South of France.’

  ‘As Belles seems to have spent her entire childhood frolicking on Mediterranean beaches, I think we’ll have to assume she’s right on this one,’ Andy said to Sam, who laughed.

  They had nearly finished eating when Bella managed to drop an entire forkful of tomato, potato and anchovy into her lap.

  ‘Oh, bollocks.’ She laughed ruefully, watching the oily stain spreading across the pink
cotton. ‘Why does this always happen when I’m wearing something new and pale?’

  ‘At least it wasn’t the gazpacho,’ said Sam, remembering how to pronounce it after only having heard it once.

  ‘That’s true. Always look on the bright side! Well, I’d better go and soak it. Back in a mo.’

  Andy took a pack of Gauloises out of his jeans pocket.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked Sam.

  ‘Course not! It’s your flat.’ Sam took a sip of her wine and cast around for something to say. ‘How’s your work going? I remember at Poppy’s wedding you were telling us all about some big story you’re working on – was it Russian people traffickers?’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory.’ Andy smiled at her through the cigarette smoke. ‘Yes, though it turns out it’s a much bigger deal than I realized at first. The big boss – who endorses more repulsive cruelty to young girls than I want to burden you with – has been going for nearly thirty years and we think he may be somebody quite high profile.’

  Bella walked back into the room with a sarong wrapped around her body. ‘Sorry about the lack of proper clothes, Sam, but this heat is almost unbearable.’

  ‘Make the most of it while you can.’ Andy laughed. ‘You were complaining about the rain last week.’

  ‘So I was. And I wasn’t complaining about this weather, not really. Long may it last!’

  Sam woke up late, in her small bed in the halls of residence, feeling quite happy, as she’d had a lovely dream, which involved Bella and Andy being her parents, and Dan from the band telling her she was the most gorgeous girl he’d ever met. Then she remembered the Mark situation and started crying.

  Masochistically, she reached out for her phone and looked at the pictures of Karolina Kristova. They hardened her resolve. No. She wouldn’t allow him to do this to her.

  ‘Fucking wanker!’ she shouted at the bare walls. But, with her in-built pedantry, she realized that ‘wanker’ wasn’t quite the right description. ‘Fucker’ would have been more accurate. She laughed briefly to herself, glad that her own mind kept her entertained, at least.

  She squinted to see the time on her phone – it had been a late night, and they’d all got quite drunk. Bella had offered her cushions on the floor for the night, but Sam had said thanks but no thanks, not wanting to encroach on their hospitality any more. Bloody hell, it was 12.30. Hardworking Sam never normally rose later than eight, even as a student.

  As she looked at her phone, it started ringing, making her jump. It was Dan.

  ‘Hey, Sambo,’ he said in his sexy Northern accent. ‘We’re having a Leo at the Hawley. Fancy joining us?’

  ‘What’s a Leo?’

  ‘Leo Sayer, all-dayer!’

  ‘OK, sounds cool. I’ll be there soon.’

  Sod the hangover; an all-day drinking session with some cool boys in a band was just what she needed to take her mind off Mark.

  Standing at the bar, Sam downed another shot of tequila. Dan, Mikey and Olly were there, in their trilbies and skinny jeans, and loads of girls with radical haircuts were hovering on the sidelines, wanting to be associated with them, but trying to pretend they weren’t bothered in the slightest. Ross, the bassist, was out looking at flats with his girlfriend, Katie. They had become inseparable and he was planning to move out of the house the boys all shared in Dalston as soon as he could.

  They’d been drinking solidly for about six hours now and Sam was feeling pleasantly dissociated from emotion. It was there, lurking somewhere on the outskirts of her psyche, but not quite able to penetrate the fug of booze.

  Mikey’s phone beeped.

  ‘Oooh, look, text from Scotty.’ He opened it and started laughing. ‘She really likes to slum it, doesn’t she, our Scotty?’ He passed the phone to Sam, who laughed too. Sienna had sent Mikey a photo of herself, reclining next to a vast, mosaic-tiled pool. She was wearing a tiny bikini but protecting her face from the sun with her lace parasol. In the background was the cypress-flanked fourteenth-century palazzo, all marble statues and fountains, and in the distance you could just make out rolling hills, olive trees and vineyards.

  ‘Lucky bugger,’ said Sam without rancour. She missed Sienna like mad and could really have done with her company since finding out about Mark and Karolina.

  ‘Let’s call her,’ said Mikey, in that way that pissed people do.

  ‘Oooh, yeah, great idea!’

  After five minutes or so of shouting a mixture of filth, sentimentality and gibberish down the phone, Mikey passed it to Sam.

  ‘Hey, Sienna.’

  ‘Hello, darling. Been drinking all day then?’

  ‘How’d you guess?’ Sam laughed. ‘Don’t think I’m quite as drunk as Mikey, but I’m getting there. How are you? That photo you sent was gorgeous.’

  ‘It’s heavenly here, but my bloody parents are driving me mad. And Jazz is being a nightmare. She is such a spoilt brat.’

  Sam bit her lip to stop laughing at Sienna’s reference to her younger sister.

  ‘Also, I feel a total philistine every time I see signs to Siena and realize yet again how appallingly educated my parents were when they gave me the extra “n”.’ Sam did laugh at this. ‘So how are you anyway? Is London terribly dreary without me?’

  ‘I’ve got lots of stuff to tell you, but not here.’ Sam’s eyes darted furtively over to the boys.

  They chatted for a bit, then Sam handed Mikey back his phone.

  ‘Fancy a fag upstairs?’ asked Dan, who was looking incredibly cool in his usual skinny black jeans, blue-and-black-checked lumberjack shirt and a black leather biker’s jacket. The brushed-forward dark brown fringe emphasized his high cheekbones and narrowed, watchful eyes. The (almost certainly calculated) air he gave off was one of insolence, arrogance, even menace, thought Sam. Until he looked at you and smiled, that was, making you feel as though you were the only person in the room.

  Loyal to Mark, she had purposefully ignored Dan’s undisputed hotness, determined to think of him only as a friend. Now she followed him up to the roof terrace, taking in the length of his legs, narrowness of his hips and breadth of his shoulders.

  As it was a sunny London Sunday, the roof terrace was rammed with self-consciously trendy locals, which was partly why the boys had chosen to stay inside. It suited their grungy image to be holed up in a dark, grimy pub while the rest of London eagerly lapped up the sunshine. Sam personally would also have chosen to lap up the sunshine but, given the choice of sunshine on her own or the boys’ company inside, the boys’ company inside won by a long chalk.

  There was nowhere to sit, so Sam and Dan went to stand at the edge of the terrace, looking out onto the road and breathing in the traffic fumes. Dan, who had rolled a couple of fags downstairs at the bar, handed one to Sam and lit it for her.

  ‘So, Sambo, you’re not looking your usual self today. What’s up, love?’

  The undivided attention and sympathy were enough to break through the fug of alcohol and open the floodgates. Sam felt the tears she had managed to keep at bay all day start to well up again.

  ‘I … I … I’ve split up with Mark. He’s been shagging some bloody p-p-porn star. He …’

  Her bottom lip was quivering, and Dan watched as she instinctively crossed her arms in front of her chest, in the automatic defensive gesture she’d adopted since puberty. She looked very young and very vulnerable, standing there in her miniskirt and flip-flops, and he realized how much of a brave face she must have been putting on all day.

  ‘Oh, Sam, love, that’s just a piece of shite.’ He put his arms around her. Slowly, Sam unfolded hers and wound them tentatively around his waist. ‘How could anybody cheat on you? You’re lovely …’

  ‘I’m not good enough for him, Dan.’ The words were muffled as she tried not to sniffle onto his shoulder. ‘I know I’m not. He travels the world, seeing the most gorgeous women everywhere, and I’m just not good enough …’

  ‘Now you’re being daft,’ said Dan, taki
ng her by the shoulders and standing back so he could look straight into her eyes. ‘Nobody is more gorgeous than you, and he’s the one who’s just not good enough.’ The way he used her own words, slightly mockingly, was enough to make Sam laugh through her tears.

  ‘Thanks, but that’s bollocks really, innit?’ she said. ‘Can I show you the cow he was shagging on the boat?’ And before Dan had time to answer, she had taken her phone out of her handbag and started scrolling through the pictures of Karolina Kristova.

  Dan glanced at them briefly, then looked back to her. ‘Looks a right old slag, if you ask me.’ His tone was dismissive.

  ‘But so am I, Dan. I take my clothes off for the cameras, just like she does.’

  ‘Stop being such a fucking idiot, Sambo. You’re a great kid, and you’re not a slag. You’re beautiful, and clever, and I really, really like you.’

  He was still looking into her eyes, and she hastily wiped them, cursing the tears that had smudged her mascara. His charisma, up close, was hypnotic.

  They gazed at one another for a few seconds, hearts beating fast as they stood together on the smoky urban roof terrace. Then Dan bent his head to kiss her and Sam was lost, winding her arms around his neck and responding with delicious abandonment.

  ‘I bet some of these people think we should get a room,’ Dan whispered against her hair after a bit, always aware of having to maintain his cool image. ‘Fancy coming back to mine?’

  They snogged all the way to Dalston in the back of the cab, all Sam’s pent-up emotion and longing causing her to kiss Dan back with an urgency that surprised and delighted him. When he put his hand inside her knickers and found her wet already, he groaned, ‘Oh, fuck.’

  Still snogging, they stumbled into the house he shared with the rest of the band. It was pretty grotty, with no curtains and the bare minimum of furniture. Empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays littered the floor. But it managed to retain an air of cool. The floorboards were bare, the fridge in the open-plan living area enormous, and musical equipment was strewn casually throughout: a guitar propped up against a wall here, a vast set of headphones chucked onto a shabby old armchair there, a drum kit in the corner over there. The walls were lined with posters advertising Flaming Geysers gigs throughout the country.