I try to focus back on the jumpers, but find myself comparing Alistair and Simon. You couldn’t choose two more different people if you tried. Alistair lives in bars and cafés, wears cashmere and denim and thinks going for a walk means going shopping on foot instead of taking a cab. He’s so utterly different from the guys back home—and very good-looking in a chiseled kind of way. Whereas Simon . . . well, he confessed never to have gone to a gig, said the only time he dances these days is at weddings, and he’s utterly clueless about clothes. But he felt so comfortable, like I’d known him for ages.
The thing is, though, I’m not sure I want to feel at home. I want to feel thrilled and excited. It’s just that “thrilling and exciting” isn’t quite as . . . comfortable, if you know what I mean.
I hear the door go and look up—it’s Michael. He’s looking amazing in a stripy shirt and oversized tie with drainpipe black trousers. I try to imagine what Simon would look like in a getup like that and smile at the ridiculous spectacle. No, Simon and trendy just don’t go together.
“Coming out tonight?” Michael asks, hanging round the door rather than actually coming in.
“Alistair and Lucy are coming. Thought we’d go to the Market Bar and maybe wander up to Woody’s. Wanna come?”
“Definitely.” I grin as Julie wanders over.
“Did I hear someone say Woody’s?” she asks.
“Maybe. You interested?”
“Ooh, I might be,” she says. “Jason’s working tonight, and I’m not hanging round bloody Canvas again.”
“No, I can see why you wouldn’t want to do that,” says Michael with a cheeky grin as Julie shoots daggers at him.
“I hear you had a hot date last night,” Michael says, turning to me.
I look at Julie, who tries to look all innocent.
“Was it a secret?” she asks.
“Alistair told me.” Michael grins. “He wants me to find out if you’ve got yourself a rich boyfriend we can all live off.”
“You tell him it’s none of his business,” I retort, and turn back to the jumpers, secretly pleased.
“Suit yourself. Anyway, we’ll be in the bar in about ten minutes. I need a drink.” Michael puts up his hand in a wave.
“Okay, see you soon.”
The Market Bar is heaving by the time Julie and I get there. We had to go via her place because she was desperate to change, and then she couldn’t decide what she wanted to change into. I couldn’t believe the state of Julie’s flat. I have never seen so many clothes heaped on the floor. They were even hanging off the walls like pictures. There were more bags in her flat than in the entire bag department at Selfridges. And the smell . . . perfume mixed with cigarette smoke mixed with sex. Quite a heady concoction. She finally decided on a gold sparkly dress that she dug out from under the wardrobe. As she did up the zip and pinned her white-blond hair into its permanent beehive form, I thought, not for the first time, that she is wasted as a shop assistant. I mean, she really does look like a film star—all perfume, red lipstick, and seamed stockings.
Her flat—or rather, studio apartment—is at the top of a modern building on Pembridge Crescent with a lovely little balcony that looks out over Portobello. But I couldn’t even get out there because of all her records and clothes and piles of rubbish. It’s actually pretty cool—I mean, it just screams, “I’m too busy having an amazing life to worry about keeping things tidy.” But I can just imagine Mum’s reaction if she saw it; she’d have her marigold gloves on in an instant. For a second I get a huge stab of affection for Mum and her passion for cleaning.
“You enjoying London, then?” Julie asked as she rummages around looking for lipstick.
“Oh, definitely,” I said, looking through her record collection.
“I know it can be pretty tough at first,” she continued, pulling a face at the mirror as she expertly applies lip liner. “Moved here from Sussex when I was sixteen myself. Bloody hated the place for the first week; then I started partying and I’ve never really stopped, if you know what I mean.”
Did I know what she means? I’m not sure I do. I thought I was brave moving here at the ripe old age of twenty-six. Will I be like Julie in ten years’ time, I wonder, out every night, always looking for the next party? Do I even want that? I’m not sure that I do. But then, why am I here?
“Right, I’m done,” says Julie, interrupting my thoughts just in time. “Let’s go!”
“Well, aren’t you both looking ravishing tonight,” Alistair greets us with as we walk into the bar, and he puts his arms around us. “We’re drinking cocktails tonight. So what will it be?”
I suddenly can’t think of a single cocktail. Apart from a gin and tonic, and that doesn’t count, does it? I scan my brain for reference points and remember Carrie from Sex in the City just in time.
“Uh, a cosmopolitan please,” I say with a grin.
“Sex on the beach for me,” says Julie with a wink.
“What about a cosmopolitan sex on the beach? I wonder what that would taste like?” says Alistair wickedly. His arms are around my waist and I lean against his shoulder slightly. But I don’t feel anything—no frisson of excitement at all. What’s wrong with me?
“You behave, you rude boy,” says Julie, laughing. “Just get us our drinks, will you? We’ll be with the others, won’t we, Natalie?”
I pull myself away from Alistair and follow Julie to a couple of leather sofas where Michael, Lucy, and a couple of strangers are sitting. One of them is a young girl with bright pink hair, and the other is a skinny guy with messy-looking mousy hair. He looks moody and doesn’t return my smile.
“Hiya!” says Lucy brightly. “Guys, this is my friend Richard and this is Marie from university.”
Marie smiles and when she says hello, I hear a thick French accent. Richard appears to be doing everything he can to avoid all human contact and is staring into the middle distance.
“Do excuse him,” says Lucy. “He’s just pissed off because of a major setback in his career as a catwalk model.”
I shoot Richard a sideways look, and stop giggling immediately. He’s a model? Oh, my God! I have to make sure that the fact I spent an evening with a male model filters back to Pete. I might have to embellish very slightly, turning him into a six-foot-five Adonis, but still.
He shoots Lucy a death look. “Not da catwalk,” he says in the strangest Eastern-European-meets-cockney tones that I have ever heard. Somewhere between Bjork and Michael Caine.
“Is for a campaign. Helmut Lang.”
I find myself wondering what Simon would make of Richard, and giggle to myself.
“Someone saw Richard in the street and wanted him to go to Paris for a photo shoot. But he doesn’t have a passport, so he can’t go,” explains Lucy.
“I’m sure you can get a passport in time,” I say reassuringly. “Once I only realized the day before I was going on holiday that my passport was out of date, but if you’re prepared to queue, you can get one in a couple of hours. Just go to—”
“No, he doesn’t have one. Like, at all,” says Lucy, raising her eyebrows at me.
“But . . .” I’m about to interject, then realize what she means. He isn’t legal. He can’t leave the country.
“I’m sorry. That’s a real bummer,” I say awkwardly, but Richard doesn’t even look up. Still, he’s a model. I’ll forgive him his lack of social niceties.
“So what do you do at university?” I ask, turning to Marie.
“Quoi? Qu’est ce que je fais? Uh, I , I do feelm study,” she manages to say, and smiles vaguely, in a rather bored way.
“That sounds great.”
“Great. Yes.”
“So who are your favorite directors?” I continue, aware that Marie’s body language is not particularly inviting, but preferring to try my chances with her rather than attempting to talk to Richard again.
“Oh, lots,” says Marie. “But you won’t have heard of any of them.”
I can hear Si
mon’s voice in my head, saying, “up their own arses,” but shut it out quickly. So they aren’t particularly friendly, but maybe it’s a language thing.
Still, I’m relieved when Alistair reappears. “One cosmopolitan for our little cosmopolitan lady,” he says with a grin, “and one sex on the beach for . . . well . . .”
“Just give me that, you adolescent,” says Julie, taking her drink out of Alistair’s hand.
“Honestly, I don’t know why we even allow you out with us sometimes.”
“Because of my boyish good looks, I believe,” says Alistair seriously.
“And what’s going to happen when they fade?” asks Julie.
“Well, then I’ll sell my soul to the devil to get them back. So, Natalie,” Alistair says, turning to me, “how have you been getting on? Any nice dates lately?”
“Maybe.” I smile slightly, enjoying the attention.
“Just maybe? So who is this guy? When are we going to meet him? Is he very rich?”
I grin. “You aren’t going to meet him. And I don’t know if he’s very rich.”
“Don’t know? Dearest, you spent an entire evening with him and you don’t know how rich he is? Come on, you can do better than that. Did he have a platinum card? Was he wearing bespoke or off-the-peg? And what do you mean we’re not going to meet him? How rude.”
Alistair pretends to turn away in a huff. I think he’s a bit drunk.
“Maybe I meant he wasn’t going to meet you. You know, until I think he deserves to,” I say, prodding him.
“Ah, I see,” he says, turning back to face me. Alistair’s energy and animation is infectious. Just telling him about Simon makes me feel more excited about the whole thing. Even though I know that I could never introduce them—they inhabit different worlds. And in Simon’s world, I’m called Cressida.
“Well, yes, I can see that you’d want to keep us for your very special boyfriends,” Alistair says, grinning. “But really, there’s no need. If he’s rich, we’ll welcome him with open arms.”
“You’d welcome anyone with open arms,” quips Michael.
“Lucy, I notice you are not exactly springing to my defense,” Alistair says loudly, but Lucy pretends to ignore him. She’s talking animatedly to Julie about something and just gives Alistair a little smile.
“So what’s with all the cocktails?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Ah, well,” says Alistair, “it’s for a pitch I’m doing next week. New chain of cocktail bars that are very big in the States and are opening up over here. I need to immerse myself in cocktail culture so that I can come up with the perfect slogan and advertising concept. Which means that tonight is all on my company expenses, too.”
“You work in advertising?” I say excitedly. “That’s what I used to do. And I did loads of slogan writing. How about ’drinks to mix with’ or ’mixing it up’ or something . . .”
But Alistair has seen someone he knows on the other side of the bar and has jumped up to greet him.
I pick up my cocktail and look around the table. Lucy and Julie are still engrossed in their conversation and Michael has hopped up to join Alistair. That leaves me, Marie, and Richard. I turn reluctantly back to Richard.
“So do you do a lot of modeling?”
He has sunken eyes and thick hair that has obviously been colored, although why someone would actually choose to color their hair a mousy brown is beyond me.
“I done some, yes. I could be da best, but fuckin’ passport means I carn go fuckin’ Paris. Fuckin’ sucks, man.”
I’m not sure what to say. I opt for “Sounds like you need a drink,” but this doesn’t go down well.
“I don’t drink alchohol. Make you fat, you know? Don’t drink, don’t eat, neither. See dis?”
He lifts up his T-shirt to reveal a flat, skinny stomach.
“I ain’t fat.”
I nod in agreement. “No, you’re not fat.”
I’m not sure where to go with this conversation. I’m certainly not showing him my stomach, if that’s what he expects.
“Rich, you’re not showing people your stomach again, are you?” Lucy calls over. “Sorry, Natalie, he’s completely obsessed. Just ignore him. You working tomorrow, by the way?”
I shake my head. I’ve got a whole delicious Sunday to myself.
“Shame. Looks like I’ll be there by myself. Me and lovely Laura. Can’t wait.”
I move up the sofa to take Alistair’s place next to Lucy. Richard is looking at me with disdain as I gulp my cocktail and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. If being a cool male model means being this weird and miserable, maybe it isn’t so cool, after all. Or maybe I’m just so uncool I don’t get it. I’m beginning to wish Simon were here.
“So did you have a good time at the party last night?” I ask Lucy.
“It was all right, I suppose. Not one of the best parties I’ve ever been to, but you know, it passed the time. Too many dopeheads for my liking, and not enough Class As.”
She catches my blank expression. “Class As. You know . . . no dancing,” she explains, looking at me curiously. I nod, trying not to look shocked as I realize she’s talking about drugs. I hate it when people catch me off guard like that. I look around furtively to see if anyone’s looking at me and thinking “How very suburban—she doesn’t even know what Class As are,” but luckily no one seems to have noticed.
“How about you,” Lucy continues. “You were at Momo, weren’t you? Have a good time?”
I immediately get a reassuring feeling as I think of Simon and smile warmly. “Yeah, you know. It was nice.”
“Momo has got a good vibe, hasn’t it? So where d’you go afterwards? There’s some good clubbing round there. You could have hooked up with Julie at Bar Rumba, couldn’t she, Jules?”
Clubbing? It didn’t even occur to me to go clubbing after Momo. Luckily Julie interjects before I’m expected to say anything. “I tell you what,” she says, rolling her eyes, “I’m not going back there on a Friday. Far too busy. I mean, I like to dance close to a man, but it was ridiculous. Sweat coming off the ceiling.”
I listen as Julie describes her evening in intricate detail. She tells stories so brilliantly—you just want to laugh as soon as she starts. And she tells you all the details—like everything. I know more about Jason now than I know about half the men I’ve been out with. Whereas I can’t think of anything to say about last night. Well, that’s not strictly true, but I couldn’t tell it as a funny story. And I don’t think Lucy would understand if I said we didn’t want to go on anywhere. That the dinner and coffee and liqueurs and listening to the hypnotic African music was enough and going on somewhere after that kiss was just impossible. Plus, of course, I don’t know where any clubs are and I can’t really see Simon getting down with Julie at Bar Rumba.
Alistair appears again, this time with jugs of pink liquid. “It’s a new cocktail,” he says, filling our glasses. “I made it up myself. The barmen here are ever so accommodating.”
“I bet they are,” says Lucy, laughing, as she smells the contents of her glass. “Alistair, what the hell is in this? It smells disgusting.”
“Yes, but it’s the taste that matters. Actually, it tastes awful, too, but it does get you deliciously drunk.”
We all take a sip, and Alistair’s right; it is awful, but it is also incredibly strong and sweet. He insists on us all downing our glasses and then fills them up again. Richard looks at him with disdain and does his best to turn his back on all of us.
Alistair wanders back to the bar and reemerges a few minutes later with a skinny guy wearing flamboyant clothes whom he introduces to me as Serge. Serge is apparently opening up a new club in Hoxton and he is very excited about it. He sits down between me and Richard and is soon telling me about the DJs he’s going to book, the flyers he’s been handing out, and the vibe of the place. “It’s gonna be fucking awesome,” he says, in strong private-school-trying-to-sound-cockney tones. “Mellow, you know, but in an up way. N
ot too ambient, though. And none of your trip-hop. Just fucking right-on-the-money mellow, you know?”
I nod in agreement, bemused but flattered that he considers me the sort of person who would know what he’s talking about. Alistair and Lucy are laughing about something, and I try to listen to them, but there’s too much noise and Serge keeps looking at me, so I have to pretend to listen to him. Suddenly I notice that he’s looking at me expectantly, like he’s asked me something and is waiting for a reply.
“So what do you think?” he’s asking me. Damn, he must have asked me a question. But what?
“Well, it’s an interesting question,” I say slowly, trying to buy myself some time. Think, I tell myself. You must have heard the question in your subconscious. What was it?
“Yeah, it is. But what do you think?”
“Think about what?” interjects Michael, to my huge relief.
“White noise and pink noise. Are they fundamentally different, or is it just our perception of them that differs?”
Michael looks perplexed for a moment, then replies, “Yes. Pink noise is definitely more . . . fluffy sounding.” I catch his eye and try not to giggle.
“Right, yeah,” says Serge. “White noise is, like, harsher, isn’t it?”
Suddenly Richard seems to wake up. “I could DJ at your club,” he volunteers, leaning over me to grip Serge by the wrist. “I’m fuckin’ excellent DJ. Da ambient break-beat sound, yeah?”
Serge smiles thinly. “Right, gotta leave now,” he whispers in my ear and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. I turn round reluctantly to talk to Richard, but he’s staring ahead blankly again. This could be a long evening.
It’s gone twelve when we pile out of the Market Bar. Julie is going to Woody’s to meet Jason, and Alistair, Lucy, and Serge are going with her. Michael is going home because he’s working tomorrow. I am of two minds. I wouldn’t mind going to Woody’s, but Serge has seriously latched onto me (mainly, as far as I can tell, because that way he doesn’t have to talk to Richard), and he keeps talking to me about stuff that I don’t know anything about. He’s even threatened to play me some demo tapes of a band he manages. Apparently they make use of a lot of white noise in their music, but he’s wondering if pink noise might be more commercial. I should be enjoying it, I know. I mean, this was what I was dreaming of a couple of weeks ago. But there’s a little voice inside of me that won’t go away, and it’s telling me that I’m bored.
Little White Lies Page 11