Chapter 7
I’m so excited about Project Henry, I was almost tempted to bring proceedings forward and rearrange my date with Jake tonight.
But Dominique’s out anyway, with a wealthy older man she’s been seeing recently, and Erin and her boyfriend Gary have gone to the cinema. Besides, we couldn’t have done it properly on a Friday night. Instead, we have the whole of tomorrow in which to hit the shops and begin Henry’s reinvention.
Consequently, I have stuck to Plan A and arrived at the shabby-but-trendy bar where Jake and I arranged to meet. Judging by how sexy he looks when he walks in, it was a sound decision.
‘Lucy, how are you?’ He smiles as he approaches me at the bar.
Jake is a lecturer in Theatrical Studies, so as well as having a bum I could keep under observation all day, he’s a renaissance man too. He’s wearing slouchy jeans, vintage trainers and a T-shirt showing off biceps that could have been inflated with a tyre pump.
I’ve dressed in what could be the first thing to fall out of my wardrobe – skinny jeans with an Indian cotton shirt and biker boots. Could be because I spent three lunchtimes scouring every retail outlet in the city for them – not that he needs to know that.
We met last week while I was handling the media for the Circle Theatre’s new play. He was on a field trip with his students. And I am so glad.
‘My tutorial group enjoyed the play the other night,’ he tells me, taking a sip of red wine. ‘I thought it had hidden depths. Despite the garish disco theme. Perhaps because of it.’
Personally, I wasn’t a fan of the play. If I’m honest I have no idea what it’s supposed to be about, even though I’ve sat through it three times.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I tell him, trying to recall one of my press-release quotes. ‘I think the writer aimed to describe the “new reality” in which he’s living. Where all communication with the outside is through the telephone or the internet.’
I sit back and scrutinize his expression. Okay, so my artistic impression is entirely off the shelf, but I’m quietly pleased with myself. And he looks impressed.
‘You are so right,’ he nods. ‘That really came across. That and the boundless tragedy of human disconnection and how that has somehow mutated into the twenty-four-hour world.’
‘Hmmm,’ I say earnestly.
‘Of course, the whole thing was so kitsch,’ he laughs. ‘You couldn’t fail to walk away with a grim sense of the inexorable, phony electro-fun you get in places where all the joy has to be imported. This was electronic masturbation for the soul – in its most glorious, disgusting configuration. Don’t you think?’
‘Definitely,’ I add, hoping he’ll change the subject.
‘That isn’t to say the kaleidoscopic nature of the play wasn’t one of the most moving elements of it. Even the most hardened of nay-sayers couldn’t dispute that.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about them. Excuse me – I’m just going to the loo.’
After a touch-up of mascara, I return to the table, where Jake’s on his mobile.
‘No, I . . . I can’t have this conversation now. Honestly, Mother, I’ve got to go.’ He puts his mobile on the table and looks at me sheepishly. ‘That was my mum.’
‘Oh, right. Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘Everything’s fine. She’s a little clingy sometimes. You know how mums are.’
In fact, my mum couldn’t be less clingy if she was made of Teflon but I nod for the sake of politeness.
‘Where were we?’ he continues. ‘Oh, yeah, the kaleidoscope effect of the writer’s—’
But he’s cut off when his phone rings again. ‘Sorry about this. It’s easier if I take it now.’
‘Of course. Go ahead.’
He answers the phone and begins the conversation at the table, but when the voice at the other end becomes more agitated, stands up and gestures that he’s taking it outside. I sit at the window, nursing my glass of wine and watching Jake pace up and down, waving his arms so much it looks as if he’s trying to take flight.
After six or seven minutes, he ends the conversation, takes a deep breath and returns inside. ‘So sorry about that.’
‘Really, it’s not a problem,’ I smile.
‘Did I hear you saying you were a fan of avant-garde theatre the other night?’
Shit. Did I say that? I think I might have. ‘Oh, I like it as much as the next person.’
He looks disappointed.
‘At least, the next person who’s seen every one of Samuel Becket’s plays five times over,’ I chuckle.
He brightens up. ‘Wow. You and I have so much in common.’
‘Haven’t we?’ I lean forward and hold his gaze.
‘You’re an amazing woman, Lucy,’ he says dreamily.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I reply modestly.
‘I’ve never met anyone else with such a passion for theatre. Britain would be a better place if everyone was like you. We wouldn’t need Arts Council subsidies and the independent theatres would be thriving.’
I smile at him in wonder at how well this is going. Okay, I might have to swot up between now and our second date, but that’s no big deal. I managed to cram into my head everything there is to know about John Donne the week before English Lit A-level – so I’m sure I can manage this.
‘You know, there’s a play on in Manchester in a couple of weeks called Translations into Spirituality – oh, excuse me . . .’
His phone is ringing again. Shaking his head apologetically, he answers with a resigned look.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he says despondently, listening as she talks. And talks. And keeps on talking.
Eventually, he pauses and sighs. ‘Okay, Mum, okay. Hang on a sec.’
He puts his hand over the phone and looks into my eyes. ‘Um, Lucy . . . sorry about this. I won’t be long, promise.’
Two hours later, Jake’s mum has phoned eight more times and, with no one to talk to, I’ve taken solace in alcohol. I am now pissed out of my head. This would be bad enough, except it’s made Jake’s already challenging conversational manner near incomprehensible. He’s banging on about some play he went to see in Barcelona now. It’s like listening to the incessant crackle of a broken radio.
‘The thing I love about Covas is his unique ability to assimilate so many layers of the physical versus the fantasy. It’s not half as coy as it sounds, Lucy, believe me.’
A trickle of red wine escapes from the side of my mouth. ‘It doesn’t sound coy, Jake.’
‘Good,’ he grins. ‘Because the collaborative effect of synthetically-generated visual and aural materials can be joyous beyond imagination – like the inhalation and exhalation of a revelatory journey.’
‘Jake,’ I whisper.
‘The easeful death of the characters in that play, Lucy – well, what can I say? It represented a noisy montage of repetition and sensuality, a—’
‘Jake,’ I repeat.
‘– harrowing version of childlessness that writhed in and out of focus. A diagonal representation of terror and—
‘JAKE!’ I slam down my glass.
He looks stunned. Suddenly I don’t know what to say. So I stand up.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.
I down my drink, grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
‘I’m terribly sorry about this,’ I slur, ‘but I’ve got to go.’
He frowns. ‘Go?’
I nod. ‘It’s been lovely, Jake, but unfortunately, I’m feeling a bit . . .’ I can’t think of anything appropriate.
‘Ill?’ he suggests.
I click my fingers and point at him. ‘Ill. That’s it. Ill. That’s exssactly what I am.’
He stands to pull out my chair and the wounded look on his face makes me feel a surge of guilt. I am about to apologize and try to start again, when his phone rings.
He lets go of the chair and turns his back to me as he answers. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he says, and I head for the door
with firm conviction but distinctly wobbly legs.
Chapter 8
Dominique looks as if she’s bitten a jellyfish and washed it down with lighter fluid. ‘That’s beyond weird.’
She, Erin and I have hit the shops with Henry to begin his reinvention.
‘I mean it,’ continues Dominique, frenziedly rifling through a rail of sweaters. ‘One phone call from his mother would have been suspicious. You deserve a medal to have lasted as long as you did.’
I shrug. ‘I won’t be seeing him again, that’s for sure.’
‘It seems so unfair,’ sighs Erin.
‘It wasn’t just the thing with his mother,’ I complain. ‘I couldn’t understand a bloody word he was saying. And that was when he was talking about the plays I’ve seen. When he got onto Roger Vitrac and Power to the Children he could have been speaking Cantonese.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Erin, concerned. ‘Don’t worry, Lucy. I’m sure you’ve just been unlucky.’
This is what she says after all my dates, but I don’t point it out. Besides, unfettered optimism must come easily when you’ve got a love-life like Erin’s. She and The Lovely Gary have been together for eight months and they’re so smitten that she can’t ask him to pass the milk without sounding like a Valentine card verse.
The Lovely Gary has been referred to as such since the evening Dom and I met him at a new bar opening, shortly after he and Erin got together. Erin had spent three weeks repeating how ‘lovely’ he was, until Dominique attempted to bring her back to earth, saying: ‘Erin, sweetheart – no one’s that lovely.’
Then he carried Dom into a taxi after an incident involving a snapped high heel and one too many Jackhammers, and she was forced to concede the point. Ever since, it hasn’t sounded right calling him just ‘Gary’.
There is no doubt The Lovely Gary has been good for Erin; you only have to look at her to see that. Today, with her beaming smile and glossy strawberry-blonde waves, she looks stunning. Her clothes are gorgeous too: Erin dresses in a way that’s bohemian and fashionable at the same time – a look I’ve never been able to master. When I try to do bohemian I look as if I’ve slept rough.
‘Oh well, there are plenty more fish in the sea.’ I smile unconvincingly.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Erin. ‘You’ll find someone soon, Lucy, I’ve no doubt.’
‘I’m not desperate or anything,’ I say for the record.
‘Of course not!’ replies Erin.
‘Onwards and upwards.’ I wonder if it’s obvious that I’m hiding my lack of conviction with a string of clichés. The truth is that I am getting a bit depressed about my love-life. Dating has been fun, but . . . what am I talking about? It hasn’t been remotely fun. I’ve enjoyed the anticipation of going out with new people, but am sick to death of it inevitably ending in disaster.
It’s not that I’m not over my ex, Tom. But I’ll admit that I miss the intimacy. I miss curling up together on a rainy Sunday afternoon and talking about nothing and everything, between kisses. I miss fingers winding round mine as we snuggle up at the cinema. And I’ll admit this too: I miss sex.
I haven’t had anything approaching amorous relations for months. Well, amorous relations with a human being. Dominique bought me a vibrator for my birthday and while it is undoubtedly effective it’s also rather mechanical for my tastes; lacking in personality. There’s no flirting with that bugger – no eye-contact or first kiss. Just a lot of vibrating. Still, it’s got three settings, which makes it better-rounded than some of the blokes I’ve been out with. Oh God, I’ve become a cynic as well.
‘Where’s our hunk-to-be?’ asks Dominique. ‘It feels like hours since he went into that changing room.’
Henry wasn’t bursting with enthusiasm when we arrived. In fact, while we scoured the shop, he hovered about looking so uncomfortable you’d think his underpants were a size too small. Unperturbed, we picked out an array of super-stylish ensembles and dispatched him to the changing room while we waited for him to emerge, transformed and triumphant. Except he’s taking a very long time.
‘Er, Henry,’ I call, feeling awkward loitering next to the men’s changing rooms. ‘Are you nearly ready?’
When there’s no answer, Dominique whips back the curtain. ‘Henry, I’m coming in.’
‘No.’ He pokes his head round the door of his cubicle as semi-naked men run for cover.
‘Hurry up then,’ she replies. ‘Your hair appointment’s in a couple of hours and we haven’t achieved anything.’ Then she joins us on the sofa, crossing her legs and leaning on the arm.
‘You’re not the only one who didn’t have a great night last night,’ she tells us. ‘I finished with Robert.’
‘Is he your older man?’ asks Erin, wide-eyed. ‘The one with the Porsche?’
‘Was my older man. He’s a nice guy, but I started to become obsessed with his bingo wings. Does that make me shallow?’
‘Probably,’ I say.
‘Oh well, never mind. Besides, I’m starting to wonder if it might be time to settle down.’
‘What?’ Erin and I reply in unison.
Dominique looks indignant. ‘Why is that so surprising? I’m not a complete freak, am I?’
‘Not a freak,’ I reply, ‘but if you’d said you were joining the next Hubble space mission I’d have been less shocked. No offence, Dominique, but you’ve never shown the slightest interest in settling down.’
‘I know,’ she muses, ‘but I’m starting to think I should.’
‘Why?’ asks Erin, agog.
She pauses. ‘My Cousin Angie got engaged last week. She’s so miserable normally. Honestly, she’s spent most of her adult life in a sulk. Except last week she had a smile on her face. It was incredible. And it made me think that maybe I should give commitment a go. I’ve tried everything else.’
There is a rustle of the curtain and Henry pops his head out of the changing room. ‘I’m not sure this is me.’
‘Doctor Henry,’ says Dominique, ‘of course it’s you. The clothes are gorgeous and you’re going to look like dynamite. Now let me see. Come on!’
Dominique is relishing her self-appointed role as Henry’s chief stylist and her approach is somewhere between Trinny and Susannah and a Soviet interrogator. Henry reluctantly drops the curtain and steps forward. The three of us are stunned into silence.
‘What do you think?’
Until now, we were under the impression that we couldn’t go wrong with these outfits. But this one has gone wrong. Very wrong.
‘How did he do that?’ mutters Dominique.
‘What?’ I whisper.
‘Make those beautiful clothes look like . . . that.’
After ten minutes of close inspection, a number of problems become clear. First, a phone call to his mum confirms that the sizes he gave us were completely wrong, which explains why his trousers make him look like a nineteenth-century chimney sweep.
Secondly, despite the simplest of instructions, Henry managed to mix up the outfits, pairing the posh evening shirt with stone trousers meant for casual daywear. For someone so bright, he can be very dim sometimes.
Thirdly, Henry had attempted to accessorize his new gear with his old gear, and I’m afraid Giorgio Armani himself couldn’t have worked with that tank top.
Henry is marched back to the changing rooms with a new set of correctly-proportioned items and strict instructions.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, as Dominique stuffs something into her bag.
‘Henry’s tank top,’ she replies.
I flash her a look. ‘He really likes that thing, Dom.’
‘I know,’ she replies. ‘Which is why, for his sake, I’m going to take it home and burn it.’
‘I’m getting into the swing of this,’ says Henry, picking up the most hideous shirt I’ve ever set eyes on. We’re in the same shop, hunting for clothes, before we send Henry back into that changing room in the hope of more success.
‘Good,’ I reply, gently removing it fr
om his hand and placing it back on the rail.
He looks at me quizzically. ‘What? No good?’
I shake my head.
‘It is a bit bright,’ he concedes. ‘If I joined the mountain rescue service and had to stand out in zero visibility conditions it’d be ideal.’
‘But for becoming irresistible to the opposite sex, I’d recommend this instead.’ I hold up a stripy Paul Smith shirt, the sort I’d buy for a boyfriend, if I ever managed to get one.
‘Isn’t it a bit dull? I thought the idea was to give my wardrobe lots of pizzazz,’ he smirks.
‘Are you taking the pissazz, Henry?’ I ask sternly.
Dominique appears with an armful of clothes. ‘Here’s another selection to try – and this time I’m coming with you. There’s a private cubicle over there.’
‘Christ,’ mutters Henry.
‘There’s no need for that,’ she replies authoritatively, leading the way. ‘You can keep your underwear on.’
‘That’s very decent of you, Dominique,’ he says.
‘This is for your own good, Henry,’ she fires back. ‘I’m only coming in because I need to ascertain your body shape.’
‘My body shape is relevant because . . .?’
Dominique looks exasperated. ‘Let me hand you over to my friend, the former personal shopper.’
Erin smiles sympathetically. ‘The thing is, Henry, body shape is as crucial to helping men dress their best as it is for women. Men with short legs, for example, should wear one colour to elongate their body.’
‘I don’t think that applies,’ I say. Henry towers over most of the men in the room.
‘Of course,’ agrees Erin. ‘It’s different for everyone, that’s the point. Another example is men who are, you know, heavy on top.’
‘Fat,’ says Dominique, in case it wasn’t clear.
‘Yes. Such men,’ continues Erin, ‘should avoid double-breasted jackets or a lighter top than bottom.’
My Single Friend Page 4