Back Trouble

by Matt Kinnaird

  –I shared a ’2008 Margaux with the vicar of Hampstead two weeks ago. The structure of it! Indescribable, wouldn’t you say?

  Fuck knows, mate, I’ve never even seen a ’2008 Margaux, but my guess is you’ve drunk it too early.

  –We visited a charming little vineyard just outside Avignon last summer. Rather a hidden gem, and so traditional …

  Snob.

  –I do enjoy Champagne, but I’d still rather a well-aged Mersault. At home I rarely drink anything else.

  Narrow-minded snob.

  –Would you care to dance?

  Christine. I can’t believe my luck. She’s giving me that look again, the one she gave me the first day when she was panicking and I said I’d help her. Her eyes are dancing already, through … what? Gratitude? Admiration? Desire? I take the hand she offers and let her lead me among the gyrating youngsters, only slightly ruing the fact I’d got as close as three feet from the coveted buffet before she intercepted me.

  Normally, in fact in any situation at all apart from this one, I abhor dancing. I have the rhythmical grace of a three-legged natterjack toad and I’m convinced everyone else in the room is aware of it, which leads to paralysis. As a teenager I would watch my school friends dancing at parties or in clubs and drink to build up my courage, never far from the safety of the bar; I’d see them move with fluidity, timing and confidence, which would depress me so I would drink to cheer myself up; I’d see girls, attracted by my peers’ assurance and poise, gravitating towards them, so I would drink to douse my envy, hoping beyond hope that some luminous, beautiful, curvaceous creature might catch a glimpse of me, a silent, mysterious stranger, and be fascinated by me. And when Julia and I went out together, which happened more and more as the sixth-form progressed and she grew in popularity, I’d watch her (who was supposed to be on my side) get up and dance with the rest. I, not being a dancer, would be struck half-blind by jealousy (That’s my girlfriend! My hand should be there!), and we’d end up having an enormous fight.

  So dancing and I have never got on, until tonight. I can only think that I was inspired by Christine’s attention, or buoyed by my performance in the tasting; maybe it was fate, but tonight I danced like a prince. We glided and twirled, described perfect circles and figure-eights on the dance-floor, my arm on her waist, hers on my shoulder, cheek to cheek, thigh to thigh, magical. The rest of the marquee faded away, and the roof soared above us. The babble of chatter and the thumping bass noise and the guests and the tables and the chairs and the lights melted into a soft, swirling blur, no more substantial than wisps of the highest cloud on a summer day, until there was only me, and a melody, and Christine, her eyes, her lips and her breathless whisper:

  ‘Excuse yourself. Take the main stairs from the hall, turn right at the top, second door. Let yourself in. I’ll get there when I can.’

  I squeezed her waist, and said ‘yes’ with my eyes, and then the song was finished and the enchantment was over. Discreetly, I took her leave, and, anxious to avoid the other guests’ gaze in case my intentions were written on my face, headed once more for the buffet table. But when I got there, I was no longer hungry.

  My heart was beating a tattoo in my chest as I snuck into the house. I didn’t want anyone to see me, because I felt as transparent as a bubble, yet more than that I was suffused with joy: excited, irrepressible, nervous, mysterious joy. I can only compare it to Christmas morning as a child: that can’t sleep can’t relax can’t wait any more must wake mum and dad brilliant happy boundless feeling when your own body feels too small to contain you and time slows right down because you just can’t wait and when oh when will it be time?

  I knew I had to wait, hours perhaps, because there’s no way Christine, my beautiful Christine, could just disappear from the party right behind me, but I knew she wouldn’t forget. Anyhow, I’d helped myself to a bottle of DP when I left the tent, in case I had a long one on my hands. Nobody seemed to mind. The stone flags in the hallway kicked the sound of my footsteps up to the ceiling and right around the room, but there was no sign of Lennox and all the guests were inside the tent by now, so I was safe. I climbed the stairs, swigging Champagne as I went, giddy from emotion. I swayed a little halfway up, so I took the balustrade with my right hand and lifted the bottle to my lips with my left. And that’s when I saw her, on the right-hand balcony, challenging me with a derisory glare, in a short claret dress, shell-necklace, skyscraper heels, with twiggy legs and that sculpted face. It was Emily. I kept my cool.

  ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How old is that?’

  ‘Eighteen. How old are you?’

  I resumed my ascent, trying to keep my eyes from following the line of her legs up her dress and not succeeding. ‘Too old, I’m afraid.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For you.’

  She looked me up and down as I approached her and rounded the top of the stairs. She took her time with her reply. ‘Shame,’ she said.

  I was eye to eye with her now. ‘It is, isn’t it? Have a drink.’

  She took the bottle and drank. ‘Thanks. Here.’ She passed it back. ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘Me? I’m–’

  I’m James Bond, I’m Don Juan, I’m Philip Marlowe, I’m Cary Grant, I’m Gene Kelly, I’m The Man With No Name, I’m fucking Hercules; I’m Brando in On the Waterfront; I’m McQueen in The Great Escape; I’m all of those men and more. And I’m daydreaming.

  Of course it didn’t happen that way.

  Chapter eight

  That was how I saw it, how I’d pictured it as I drove here tonight – except for the details, like the lights in the trees and the faces and the clothes, and the layout of the tables, that sort of thing. Those I seem to have retrospectively included in the fantasy, given the benefit of experience. In fact, having been here for more than two hours I can no longer recollect my fantasy in its original form. It’s been replaced now, just as the image on a photograph can replace a memory. And although there’s no chance now of it coming true, I return to it now and then as a source of comfort – to combat my twin enemies, boredom and debilitating social embarrassment.

  It did look magical from the top of the valley, and seeing the warmth of the marquee and the flickering lights in the trees filled me with optimism about the course of the evening. I was early (Christine expected me at eight, after dinner), so I carried on past the gates and drove up to the other side of the valley. I parked in a passing spot in the twisty single-track lane, wound down my window and gazed through the trees at the party that I, Simon Cheese, was about to attend. It’s a warm night for this time of year – the cold weather seems to have abated for the time being – and the evening air at the top of the valley, though musty and damp, held a hint of the future. A breeze was drifting up the hill towards me, carrying with it the rumble of distant conversation and laughter. I stayed in that spot, lost in reverie, for ten minutes before I checked my watch, started my car and turned it around.

  My trouble started when I turned into the drive. All of a sudden, I became self-conscious about the state, the fucking state, of my car. My confidence ebbed with every over-designed, flashy, Dinky Toy roadster, supercar or executive hump-wagon that was parked either side of me. Every one put my filthy Saab with its blowy exhaust and irregular habits to shame. I couldn’t bear to be seen getting out of it, so I parked as far away from the front door as I felt I could put up with walking. Once stationary, I felt paralysed and needed the toilet. I smoothed down my hair in the rear-view mirror, adjusted my bow tie, flattened the wrinkles in my shirt front, smoothed down my hair, sprayed my armpits with the can of deodorant I’d stashed in the glove compartment, tucked my shirt back in, checked my fly, flattened the wrinkles, adjusted my tie, smoothed down my hair, took a deep breath – and coughed because of the deodorant fumes, which gave me more than enough incentive to get out of the car.

  It was under a heavy sky that I marched up the drive with as much dignity as I cou
ld muster. The first guests, youngsters, were congregated on the semicircular gravel drive and on the front steps to the house. The girls, aged between about sixteen and twenty, all looked immaculate in that way posh people always seem to at dos like this: each one of them – by a combination of an alluring dress, bolstered cleavage, high heels to shape the calves, a fussy haircut and at least one accessory, usually a distracting necklace – managed to come across as nothing short of achingly attractive. How can this be?, I wondered. Surely some of them are ugly? It’s the law of averages.

  I suppose on the whole the rich get the pick of the attractive genes, so it’s self-perpetuating, but it’s also more than that; it’s the money itself. We may not always realise it, but our level of attraction for another human being is not only shaped by physical beauty but other factors, personality being the most obvious. And when I see wealth dripping from an average-looking young lady, I’m partly fooled by the disguise of it all, and the make-up draws me to only her best features and her hair covers her unsightly ears, and her legs and bum look better because of those shoes, and her necklace is pointing right between her tits, which helps, but there’s also a subsidiary force at work telling me this woman has money, and in itself that makes her more beautiful to me, in the same way a sense of humour might do for some, or a kind nature for others. We tend to go not for the best-looking person we can find, but the most attractive, and on that driveway I was beside myself. Until I looked at the boys, and realised my mistake.

  Lennox raised an eyebrow when he opened the door. Not enough to be openly cheeky, but enough to let me know. He may as well have burst out laughing. What was I thinking? I still can’t work out why I didn’t check, although now everyone’s too drunk to care and they all see me as a glorified waiter anyway. I should have kept a change of clothes in the car, but for some reason I got so wrapped up in my fantasy, my James Bond entrance, that it never crossed my mind that this party wouldn’t be black tie. Smart, yes; black tie, no, and I turned up on the doorstep looking like the help. As I walked through the Manor to the back steps in my cheap tux people kept trying to hand me glasses, and I swear someone called, ‘Some more Buck’s fizz over here, would you?’ in my direction, but I ignored the rich bastard. Get it yourself, fuckhead. It also didn’t occur to me until later that, to all intents and purposes, I was the help. It was Christine, of all people, who made that clear.

  I found her on the back steps, arm in arm with some tanned business sort, greying at the temples but with youthful zeal in his eyes. She was surveying the party and jabbering, sloshing her glass of wine around at eye level. Every now and then they would laugh, and squeeze each other’s arms, which had three effects on me: jealousy (hands off her, you); fantasy (they’re not, are they?); discouragement, on two fronts (he’s richer and better looking than me; she’s tactile with everybody, not just me), all of which came as a shock in the space of a couple of seconds. Jealousy in particular was a surprise. I rarely feel it where Julia’s concerned. That’s the thing about marrying your childhood sweetheart; you’ve got your claws into them so deep you assume they won’t go off with someone else, and with every year I grow more confident that nobody’s going to want to go off with her, even though she does look good for her age. That BBC producer’s a bit of a worry, but I wouldn’t say I’m jealous. I just hate the smarmy git.

  I didn’t want to interrupt Christine mid-conversation, so I stood behind her in the house and waited for a pause. In the meantime, a short, fat man, sporting a circular bald patch, dotted by reflections from the lights of the chandelier, thrust a plate in my direction, barely even glancing at me. I didn’t move, so he repeated the gesture.

  ‘Take that, would you?’

  ‘No.’

  Now he looked at me. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said no. What do you expect me to do with it?’

  ‘I expect you to put it away,’ he said, while I found myself imagining a circular hammer dent on his circular bald patch, and couldn’t help smiling. ‘And wipe that smirk off your face. You’ll do as you’re asked.’

  I was in no mood for this, and I wasn’t going to be treated like a lackey. At the same time, my belligerent streak (that’s what Julia calls it) didn’t want to let him get away with this, so I rejected the option of explaining the misunderstanding and decided to play dumb.

  ‘I wasn’t asked, I was told, for one thing. Why don’t you put it away?’

  I was enjoying the dramatic changes in his complexion as he struggled with trying not to make a scene in front of his hostess, who he’d just glanced at through the open back doors, incredulous, over his shoulder. ‘I am a guest here, that’s why.’

  ‘Oh. So why are you giving it to me?’

  He sputtered in anger and looked around again, over both shoulders, perhaps wondering whether it was worth pursuing this conversation. His pride won. He hissed through clenched teeth, ‘Because that’s what you people are for, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘It’s not what I’m for.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘You impertinent, insolent, smug little wretch–’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re calling little, short-arse.’

  ‘How … how dare … I’ll …’ He looked at Christine again. ‘Lady Milston, may I have a word.’

  Christine turned, recognised me and smiled. She untangled herself from her companion and sauntered over. ‘I’m glad you two have met,’ she said, then registered the ire on the fat man’s face. ‘What is it, Joel darling?’

  ‘This waiter, this–’

  Christine held up a hand. ‘Simon’s not a waiter.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He’s here to do the Champagne. Simon, darling, what on earth are you wearing?’

  ‘I thought it would seem a little more professional, you know? We often run Champagne tastings in black tie; it lends an air of distinction which isn’t really required for still wine.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, you look very smart.’ She gestured to the fat man next to me. ‘This is Joel Gordon-Brown. He imports wine from France, you see. Joel, this is Simon Cheese, who runs a wine shop. I was going to introduce you.’

  I held out a hand, and he took it with a steely glare. We then locked horns and squeezed as hard as we could without looking like we were trying, and let go. Christine was still talking.

  ‘Anyway, it’s all set up in the marquee. Very prompt, aren’t you? We’ll get going in a few minutes I’m sure, so I’ll have to round up the guests and, oh, Lennox will show you where to go; you’ll find him by the door. Now I must go and dredge up those daughters of mine; do excuse me both of you.’ She kissed each of us on the cheek and disappeared out of the doors, down the steps and into the melee in the gardens. Joel Gordon-Brown was still fixing me with his glare.

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ he said.

  ‘Why didn’t you check?’

  ‘All the waiters at this party have bow-ties on, Mr Cheese.’

  ‘But with waistcoats, not jackets.’

  ‘No, not jackets. It was less than a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Fine. Do you want me to take that plate for you?’

  Another thing I discovered about posh people, something I’d always suspected but now know for certain, is that they’re rude. Joel Gordon-Brown was the appetiser, the tasting was the main course. Of course, I forgot my notes which didn’t help (I know where they are, and I put them there so I wouldn’t forget them), so I did falter at times, but I know my Champagne and I know what I’m talking about. But when my waitresses passed around the glasses of each for the guests to taste, and when it was my turn to talk them through the flavours, they didn’t listen. They were more interested in throwing the stuff down their necks as fast as they were able and either carrying on with their own conversations, staring dull-eyed into their phones, posing for selfies or discussing the wine amongst themselves. I didn’t have a microphone, so I
had to nearly shout to make myself heard over the kind of clamour you only find at places like this: the deep baritone laugh of the portly, red-faced, middle-aged Jaguar driver is a unique one, and impossible to subdue with any amount of wit or verbal dexterity. But I pressed on, and those that did listen learned something. I consoled myself with the knowledge that for every quaffed-down bottle of expensive fizz, the Sale or Return option was being diminished, so I would hit my bonus with ease. Of course, there’s no chance now of making it next year, unless we get another massive order, because next year’s targets are set by this year’s sales, but I’ll worry about that later. In any case, the wine was flowing faster – by God these people have appetites – and there was little sign of anyone sticking to the orange juice, despite the millions of pounds’ worth of automobiles lined up out front. That’s typical, as well. The hard-drinking, irresponsible youth of today are the enemy according to this bunch of respectable, upright citizens, who are still happy to uphold the great English countryside tradition of getting plastered then driving home. And by the time the tasting was over I was so discouraged by the lack of real interest I needed a drink myself. When in Rome …

  I was greeted at the end, after a feeble, ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening,’ by a ripple of applause from the tables nearest to me, which spread to the back despite the fact most of those clapping had no idea why they were doing so. At this point, Christine, whom I hadn’t laid eyes on during the tasting, took up a microphone next to the DJ, where what looked like a jazz band had been noisily setting up for the last ten minutes, and thanked me for ‘an enlightening talk’, which prompted, in turn, a proper round of applause.