by India Knight
‘You look very, er… very, um… nice.’ Dunphy grins.
‘A compliment!’ I cry. ‘From you. Who’d have thought?’
‘Not you,’ he smiles. ‘About dinner…’
‘I thought that was a mistake,’ I say, suddenly feeling entirely sober.
‘What, you can’t come? That’s a shame.’
‘You actually asked me? What on earth for?’
‘I thought it might be nice,’ says Dunphy.
‘Nice?’ I echo stupidly. ‘Nice? How?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye. Blue, blue, blue. His eyes are very blue. ‘But you can’t come?’
I want to go. Suddenly, and I don’t quite know why (no, really, I don’t, I categorically don’t), I want nothing more than to go to Dunphy’s dinner.
‘I might be able to,’ I say. ‘It’s just that I thought it was a mistake.’
‘Try,’ he says, very quietly, and it strikes me that, really, Dunphy would be quite good on the radio. He sounds like honey, but very male honey, if you know what I mean: honey made by he-bees. If I were a housewife listening to him, I’d probably come over all funny.
Actually, I am a housewife listening to him.
‘Try,’ he says again.
‘I will,’ I say, making a concerted effort not to blink rapidly.
‘Good,’ he says, just as the blonde from earlier arrives.
‘Sam! There you are,’ she says, kissing his cheek. ‘Come and talk to me, baby.’ She takes Dunphy by the hand and leads him off into the crowd.
I stand and stare at my glass. Of course, Irish accents are sexy per se. It has nothing to do with the person speaking; it’s just the accent. Irish people can’t help sounding sexy, except for Ian Paisley. It’s a simple fact of life. I try it myself: ‘Begorrah,’ I husk. ‘Jaysus.’ Yes, very sexy. It’s just the accent, you see.
The accent.
I really must find Robert, and some water, though not necessarily in that order.
Robert walks me round and round Hoxton Square, instructing me in breathing. ‘Deep breaths, Clara, through your mouth,’ he says helpfully. ‘Here, I’ve got some Evian. How come you’re so drunk?’
‘I am not drunk, Robert,’ I say sternly. ‘I just feel a bit dizzy.’
‘Because you’re drunk,’ says Robert, but he says it kindly, and strokes my hair.
‘I’m supposed to go to this dinner now, Robert. What shall I do?’
‘What dinner?’
‘Oh, God. I had the feeling I hadn’t told you. A dinner at the Groucho for Dunphy. For Sam Dunphy.’
‘Here, have some more water. Do you want to go?’
‘Who was it who said, “Never drink water; fish fuck in it”? The dinner – I don’t know. I did want to go, but now I’m not sure. It depends who I’m sitting next to. If it’s that man Gusset, then no.’
‘It might be fun,’ says Robert. ‘What a revolting thought, about the water.’
‘Isn’t it just? Would you rather I stayed with you?’
‘It’s up to you, Clara. We could go and have dinner somewhere, or I could go home and rescue Flo.’
‘Would you like us to have dinner together? Would you love it?’
‘Of course,’ says Robert. We sit down on a bench and I snuggle my head against his shoulder. ‘But we have lots of dinners together and you might have a good time. I think you should go.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m knackered, anyway.’
‘Okay, I’ll go. How am I looking?’
‘Your nose is a bit shiny, but otherwise you look great.’
‘It’s because my make-up is industrial strength and applied with professional tools,’ I say, and we both laugh.
Robert leads me on a final tour of the square, holding my hand. ‘I’ll drive you there,’ he says, and does. When we get there, he kisses me good-night. Properly, if you know what I mean.
20
I haven’t been to the Groucho for years. Nothing’s changed: all heads still crane every time someone new comes into the room; there are still too many balding middle-aged men with shirts open to their navels, escorting much younger, pert-breasted women; there are still celebs; there is still cocaine. I wind my way – fairly unsteadily, but it’s not the kind of place where anyone would notice – through the downstairs bar and up the stairs to the private dining room. Someone wolf-whistles, which is nice – why do some women have a problem with whistles? They make my life – until I realize that the ghastly Gus is behind me.
I’m a bit annoyed by this, especially as, when we walk into the dining room – the dozen or so other guests are already seated – we give the impression of doing so as a couple.
‘You made up, then,’ says Dunphy, apparently finding this intensely comical. He points to an empty seat and I notice he has nice hands. ‘And you made it. You’re over there,’ he says. ‘Next to Christian.’
Christian, it turns out, to my joy and delight, is the impeccably groomed man in the raspberry-coloured shawl – which, on closer inspection, turns out to be a heavily beaded and embroidered sari. He has very prettily plucked eyebrows.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘You’re the interviewer.’ He lets out a little bark of laughter. ‘I thought I was going to be sick with laughter when Sam told me,’ he adds. ‘Funniest thing I ever heard.’ He talks incredibly fast.
‘It was awful,’ I say, blushing. ‘And I gave him nits.’
‘Ha!’ screams Christian, still laughing. ‘Darling, don’t worry about it. It made my week. And his – he’s dined out on it a few times.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say. I feel a touch put out, but can’t help thinking that yes, giving Dunphy nits is actually on the comical side, and that it’s quite nice of him – Dunphy – to see the joke.
‘Just remembering makes me hysterical,’ says Christian, lighting a filterless oval, Turkish cigarette from an embossed, turquoise cardboard box. ‘Especially thinking he was a nancy.’ He lets out a snort of laughter. ‘Now, where’s hubby?’ he asks, more composed.
‘At home.’
‘And you have children, I gather? I’m terribly nosy.’
‘Yes, two. Whom do you gather from?’
‘Your fan,’ Christian says, rather sarcastically. ‘Sex?’
‘Sometimes,’ I quip.
‘My sister has children,’ Christian muses, exhaling. ‘I’m always telling her to mind her pelvic floor.’
‘Really?’
‘Mm. Women are so lucky having pelvic floors. Means anyone at all can become a terrific fuck. Unless you’ve had six children, when I gather it’s rather like chucking a welly down the Finchley Road.’
‘Christian!’ I say, half appalled and half wanting to scream with laughter. For some reason, he rather reminds me of Kate. This is exactly what she’d be like if she were the type of gay man who liked Baudelaire. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say. And it isn’t true.’
‘How would you know, Missy?’
‘Well, I have two children, and I like to think it’s not like chucking anything down anything.’
‘Caesarians?’ asks Christian, looking knowing.
‘Well, yes, as it happens, but I really don’t think…’
‘Your passage is HONEYMOON FRESH,’ Christian says, extraordinarily loudly, startling the woman opposite me somewhat. ‘Be grateful and stop being a ghastly feminist. Especially not in that dress. No one’ll believe you. Now, champagne cocktail?’
‘Yummy. But everyone is drinking white wine.’
‘Fools!’ he sighs, hailing a waiter with a languid wave of the hand and ordering us two cocktails each (‘to save precious time’).
It turns out, rather improbably, that Christian is Dunphy’s best and oldest friend – or so he tells me – their friendship dating back to junior ballet school. Christian tells me he showed great promise himself – I’m inclined to believe him: he seems like the kind of man who gets what he wants – but eventually
decided that dancing wasn’t for him.
‘Now,’ Christian says. ‘Eat your oysters like a good girl, and excuse me for a second.’ He turns to the woman on his left, a faintly mustachioed sort of the type mentioned earlier. ‘I’m Christian,’ he says. ‘Don’t you always think oysters look exactly like ashtrays on which one has sneezed?’
I do as I’m told and eat up, in between making chit-chat with the man on my right, who is the dance critic for an Irish newspaper. I speak very slowly, not wanting to mimic his accent by mistake. In between talking and listening to him telling me all about Dunphy’s talent, I glance over at our host. The girl, the blonde, is on his right, giggling and wriggling and showing too much cleavage. Every now and then, she turns her entire body to him and… well, you don’t have to be an expert in body language to read the signs.
I feel a bit depressed, suddenly. I think I’m getting a mini-hangover from earlier.
‘I’m back,’ hisses Christian, just as I am wondering whether I should go home to Robert. ‘Did you miss me? I’ve absolutely given up with the creature on my left. I’m not designed to talk to people whose idea of style is a pair of outside wooden parrot earrings.’ He says the last words much as one might say ‘faces smeared with excrement’, and sniffs archly when I laugh – I really must introduce him to Kate. ‘So, I’m all yours again. Aren’t you glad?’
‘Very.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Do you think your friend Sam’s enjoying his evening? He looks happy.’
We look at Dunphy, who is laughing at something the blonde girl has said.
‘Delirious,’ says Christian. ‘Wouldn’t you be? Have you seen the papers?’
‘The early editions? No.’-
‘Unanimous. They love him,’ says Christian. ‘And so they should.’
‘Good,’ I say, meaning it.
‘And of course he’s got his friend keeping him company,’ Christian says.
‘That’s the main thing,’ I say, feeling gloomy and piling my oyster shells into a little tower. ‘That he should be happy. Not that I particularly care, obviously, barely knowing him. I’m talking more generally, really. About human beings. The greater good. One wishes for them to be happy. For mankind. It’s the main thing.’
‘You have very green eyes,’ says Christian.
‘Are we being metaphorical, by any chance?’ I ask, amused.
‘We might be. Do you know who his friend is?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ I say. ‘Why should I care?’
‘Why indeed?’ says Christian. ‘But I’ll tell you anyway. It’s Caitlin O’Riordan, now known as Fabergé.’ Another laughter snort. ‘And her brother, whom I gather you met, is called Feargus, now reinvented as Gus.’
I stare blankly at Christian.
‘Darling,’ he says. ‘It’s too funny. Do see the joke. The dear O’Riordans are the children of Sam’s mammy’s neighbour back in Ireland. Sam’s known them all his life. And Feargus, who has a nose for a wheeze, decided it was time he and his kid sister made it in London. He’s been seeing the films and reading the books.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ I say.
‘Gus, as we must call him, decided that since it was so sexy to be Irish, he could do worse things than come over here and, well, score, really.’ Christian is grinning. ‘Make some money. Have a laugh. Be featured in Tatler. He’s masterminded the whole thing. Although I do think Fabergé’s a bit much as a name,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I advised “Emerald”, as in Cunard and Isle.’
‘I see,’ I say. ‘Good for them. I bet they make it. She’s certainly got the looks, though I’m not sure about him…’
‘Oh, she was signed up by Models One in her second week here,’ says Christian. ‘My idea.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Arid Sam’s been such an angel to them,’ Christian says. ‘An angel of patience, considering they drive him mad. He’s looked after them and made sure they weren’t starving. He’s found them a flat. He’s asked them tonight… He’s far too kind-hearted for one so handsome. Of course,’ he adds, taking a drag of his cigarette, ‘he thinks it’s the best scam ever.’
‘They make a very pretty couple,’ I say.
‘Darling! Gus is a horror!’ says Christian.
‘No, I meant, um, Fabergé and Dunphy.’
‘My dear girl,’ says Christian. ‘They’re not a couple. Whatever gave you that idea?’
I can’t think of what to say. I can’t think at all.
‘Of course, she fancies him madly. Who wouldn’t?’ says Christian, giving me a sly look that ends in a wink. ‘But Clara, she’s fifteen! She’s like his niece. No, he’s looking after her as a favour to his mammy, that’s all.’
‘Christian,’ I say. ‘Would you like some more champagne?’
‘Yes,’ says Christian. ‘I think we’re going to be friends.’
Later, when we’re having a nightcap in the bar before – Christian’s idea – going dancing, he says, ‘Tell me about your husband. Is he the swoonsome hunk who took you outside at the party, when you got too rat-arsed?’
‘Yes,’ I say, beaming from the compliment. ‘His name’s Robert.’
‘And?’
I am always tempted to lie when people – strangers – ask me about Robert. Well, not lie outright, so much as embellish. He does this, I say, and this, and he looks like this, and we’re so happy we’re practically delirious. I’ve never got the hang of the English method when it comes to describing one’s partner or children: it seems absolute belittling is de rigueur. ‘My poor son, terribly plain, utterly friendless, and so spastically malcoordinated, bless him,’ is the way one would describe an absurdly popular Adonis who happens to captain the first XI. ‘My baby looks just like Winston Churchill – vast head, poor thing. Snorts like a pig and never sleeps. Awfully small for his age; autistic, I expect,’ would be the correct way to talk about a perfect, angelic, beloved new-born. Similarly, I’ve noticed happily married women are keen to tell the world about ‘poor old George, so fat, terrible gout in fact, frightful bore, no sex life to speak of,’ with a proud gleam in their eye. As I say, I’ve never got the hang of it.
I’ve only known Christian for a couple of hours, but I have the feeling those sharp, dark eyes would see through any gilding of what is, after all, a perfectly reasonable lily. ‘He edits a magazine,’ I say. ‘We have two children. We live in east London. I write, part-time. That’s it, really.’
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ says Christian. ‘Don’t be a tease. Spill. I demand full beanage.’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘Dozens,’ Christian says with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Carry on.’
‘I get bored sometimes,’ I blurt.
‘We all get bored, darling. I, for instance, get so bored sometimes that I can barely breathe. Have another drink. Martini?’
‘Please.’ I nod. ‘Very dry. It’s not that kind of boredom, really,’ I say guiltily, wondering why on earth I’m telling a stranger this.
‘Ennui?’
‘In a way, I suppose. I just have this funny notion that… well, that we ought to excite each other.’
‘The sauce! Do you mean physically?’
‘Partly. But also in general. You know – knots in the stomach, lying on the sofa having daydreams about kissing, looking forward to dates so much you get ready six hours ahead of time…’
‘That’s a crush, darling, not a marriage.’
‘I know,’ I sigh, feeling, unaccountably, utterly depressed. ‘But that’s what I want. I want to have a crush all the time.’
‘It does exist, of course,’ says Christian thoughtfully, patting my hand. ‘But rarely.’
‘I don’t think it exists in real life,’ I say. ‘It always goes wrong. It always ends in… companionship. Comfort. Ease. I… I sometimes feel I’m living with my brother.’
‘Yick, incest!’ yells Christian. ‘Or are we talking no hide-the-sausage?’
‘No, no. The, er, sausage ge
ts hidden. But most of the time – the un-sausagey hours, as it were – it feels fraternal.’
‘Darling, most people would kill for fraternal. Do you fight?’
‘Hardly ever.’
‘Do you have affairs?’ asks Christian, examining his fingernails. He says this during a longueur in the room’s conversation, so that there is pin-drop silence and everyone hears.
‘No,’ I say, more crossly than I mean to. ‘I don’t. Now, when are we dancing?’
‘Now would be good,’ says Sam Dunphy, who has emerged from nowhere.
21
My head. My head. My brain has come loose and is crashing about like a mass of ball-bearings; it tilts every time I move it. Oh, my head. And my mouth. My mouth is lined with fur and guano. My throat has constricted, and I can’t swallow, and feel sick when I do. Why did I smoke so much? My toes hurt from those bloody shoes, which were not dancing shoes, being a good size too small and having vertiginous heels.
It’s 7.30. I got home at 3. Robert is still sleeping. He would not cha-cha-cha with me when I came in; he told me to be quiet and go to sleep. He said ‘Shush’ when I sang ‘La Cucaracha’. He has stopped loving me, I think.
The boys are going to wake up any minute now. Why is there mud on my legs? Perhaps I fell over. Oh, God. Oh, God. I feel so sick. What am I going to do? We’re going to Paris this evening. On the six o’clock flight. We’ll get in in time for dinner. And drinks. Which I will sick up, because I am never going to drink alcohol again.
I wriggle down under the duvet. It’s not all bad. At least I have a new best friend in Christian. Also, I think horrid Dunphy isn’t horrid any more. I think he likes me a bit more now. And I’ve forgiven him. Yes, I have. He danced with me and Christian. He danced very well. As you would expect.
The rest is rather blurred. What happened then? Taxis, obviously. I don’t remember saying goodbye to anyone. Do I? Thinking hurts my head. I am sick, sick, sick with guilt. Dunphy danced with me.
‘Mummy is sick,’ I croak at the boys as they come bounding in like a pair of mad, squealing Tiggers.
‘I was sick one day,’ says Jack. ‘I cried. Bob the Builder had the sick on his hat.’