‘Now,’ she said, ‘it’s time for us to celebrate why we’re really all here; my beautiful daughter, Emily is not a little girl any more. She’s a woman,’ – as she said this, lines of tension appeared around her eyes – ‘an adult, and we’re all here to embrace that fact, and to wish her a very happy birthday.’ Christine gave a wide, sad smile and reached out a hand towards the entrance to the marquee. ‘Come in, my darling.’
All eyes in the room turned in that direction, so I grabbed a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée from the fridge behind me (more than a hundred pounds’ worth of bubbly) and necked as much of it as I felt I could get away with. And again, while two slender figures appeared in the doorway. And as they walked in, I filled a flute, drained it and refilled it again, for sipping, before taking another swig out of the bottle. It was only when I put it down that I realised one of the waitresses was staring at me open-mouthed. I shrugged at her, told her to have a drink and decided to watch what everyone else was watching.
I can’t quite put into words the effect Emily had on me, physically. It was as if someone had dipped my nuts in warm water; a soft, gentle, pleasant sensation around my balls, resulting in a mild, but eager, erection. No woman has ever made quite such an impression. Her sister, Carmen, was stunning in all the ways I’d expect to be attracted by: if I’d seen her in that dress – in this cold weather – say, on the television, and I was on my own, I’d be tempted to have a wank, she has such a curvaceous, voluptuous figure. But I wasn’t looking at her. My eyes were locked on the birthday girl, with her extraordinary, languid gait; her twisted smudge of a mouth; those statuesque cheekbones and ocean-green eyes.
The daughters embraced their mother, first Carmen then Emily, and then Carmen and Christina stepped aside, to let Emily receive a warm ovation and a quick chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. All the while, Emily’s eyes scanned the circle of faces around her, looking for God only knows what. That’s when I met her gaze for the first time. She caught me necking the last of the Krug out of my bottle. I froze mid-gulp and, inexplicably, winked at her, before dumping the bottle on the table and picking up my glass, raising it along with all the others, to the toast her mother was making. I wouldn’t say she smiled at me, but she tilted her head in my direction. I realised then we were both outsiders.
‘To Emily,’ came the cry, and more of my Champagne disappeared down upper-class throats.
Christine took her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m sure Emily would now like to say a few words, wouldn’t you darling?’ she said into the microphone, and, with a warning glance, she handed it to her daughter.
‘Just one second, Mama. One tick,’ Emily said, waving a finger in front of her face. ‘I’ll be right back. Right back.’ She turned and walked in my direction, and stopped in front of my table.
‘Champagne Man?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would like some Champagne.’
‘Certainly. May I recommend the Perrier Jouët Belle-Epoque?’ I reached for one of the upturned flutes in front of me, suddenly not giving a solitary shit about the guests, who were starting to mutter; some were amused, some baffled, and some, like Christine, looked impatient.
‘A glass will not be necessary, Champers Man. I’m sure you approve.’ She winked at me.
‘One bottle, PJ Belle-Epoque, coming up.’
‘Thanks,’ she said as I handed it to her, and then she leaned in over the table, supported herself with her left hand and whispered, ‘You know, CM, that I have no fucking idea who most of these people are.’ With that she stood up straight, took a gulp from her bottle, blew me a kiss and marched back towards the microphone, snatching it from her wide-eyed mother. Then she started her speech, all the while striding back and forth along the dance floor and gulping Champagne, to Christine’s consternation; but she was too afraid of making a fuss to attempt to remove the bottle from her daughter’s grasp.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, rich and richer, young and old, short and tall, healthy and sick, friends, Romans, countrymen … First of all, I’d like to drink some more Champagne,’ – which she did – ‘second of all, I’d like a cigarette, but I don’t think Mama would let me. Thirdly, I want to thank all my friends for coming. So, Greg, Stuart, Paul, Michael, Carmen – you count I suppose, sis, although you live here anyway half the time – Rachel, and, um … Felicity. Thanks for coming. It’s a very fancy do, and I’m sure you’re enjoying yourselves – although … I can’t see Stuart and Rachel anywhere so we’d better comb the hedges I suppose – and I’d like you to keep enjoying yourselves by eating and drinking as much as you possibly can. There are a lot of hedges, too, if that’s what grabs you. Fourthly, if that’s a word – is that a word?’ she asked her horrified mother, not waiting for an answer, ‘I’d like to thank my father – who’s in New York, don’t you know – for not coming, because, let’s face it, he’s sooo uptight and he’d just ruin everything, and you all know what he’s like, right? Great. But he did pay for all the alcohol, so … Oh, and I’d like to thank the Champagne Man. Him,’ she said, pointing. ‘Who needs glasses, eh?’ She saluted me with the bottle before taking another swig.
‘And finally, I’d like to thank my beautiful Mama for arranging all this stuff’ – applause now from the guests, but Emily didn’t stop for it – ‘although I’d appreciate it greatly if she didn’t, you know, fellate any of the guests this time, because last time it caused such a fuss …’
Silence in the marquee. Mouths dropped open and eyes widened. Emily continued:
‘And the rest of you? Seriously, who the hell are you? I mean, you know, there’s Uncle Thingummy who I haven’t seen for ten years over there with either another trophy wife or the same one after surgery, and, oh, those two, Maud and, what is it, Gerald? Daddy’s friends, both having affairs I gather … And there are people here from school who I fucking loathe …’
At this point, the mike went dead and a record came on, under the direction of Lennox, who took Christine’s younger daughter by the arm and led her past the shocked guests and out of the marquee. Emily let him do it. I’d swear she was laughing.
I fished another bottle out of the fridge. Krug Vintage; the good stuff.
The fall-out from Emily’s speech was less dramatic than I’d expected. It seemed everyone was determined to do the English thing and pretend it never happened. There were mutterings, of course, and tutting, and shakes of the head, but there were also free Champagne and canapés, and the chatting and laughter resumed soon enough. The hostess was distraught but she covered it well. She didn’t leave straight away, but endured a lengthy exchange with some sympathetic friends and relatives before excusing herself and striding from the marquee. Naturally, I followed her. I caught up with her on the lawn and touched her on the shoulder.
‘Christine.’
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Are you ok?’
‘I’m fine. I ought to have expected such a display. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘I suppose you thought now she’s eighteen she should behave like an adult?’
‘I suppose. Anyway …’
‘And she was making all that up, anyway, wasn’t she?’
I hadn’t anticipated the reaction this would bring. She shot me a coruscating look, and hissed, ‘Of course it was made up, and it’s none of your business! The damage is still done, isn’t it? The truth doesn’t matter; they’ll all be talking about this for years. My husband will hear of it. And what on earth were you thinking?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Simon, you. Drinking the Champagne I paid for out of the bottle like a teenager at my party and encouraging my daughter to do the same in front of a room full of people? That’s perfect, just perfect.’
‘I didn’t encourage her, I–’
‘Don’t you dare make excuses! Don’t you dare! I hired you for one thing only, one thing, and that was a disaster. You might as well not have been here for all the good you did.’
‘Now
hang on, you didn’t hire me, you invited me, and if you people weren’t so bloody rude–’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘None of them listened, that’s what it was.’
‘You people?’
‘Those people, then. They didn’t listen. They’ve got no manners at all.’
‘Those people are my friends and family, Mr Cheese.’
‘I was doing you a favour. You didn’t hire me, I’m not getting paid. I came here for you!’
‘You got your sale. What else did you expect?’
I couldn’t help it. There’d never be another chance: ‘I thought … I really thought …’
Recognition swept across her face, as all my dignity drained out of the soles of my shoes. ‘You thought? You didn’t?’
I tried to retrieve the situation. ‘I thought we had a connection. I thought we were friends.’
‘I’ve known you for a week, as a customer.’
‘But on Wednesday?’
‘On Wednesday you came round to go over the details of a sale, and to supply some tasting notes. We got bogged down in some small talk. What on earth did you think? I can’t believe this.’
‘I came here to help you.’
‘And you have. But now you’ve embarrassed me. People are looking at us. So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my daughter. I’ll send Lennox into town next week to return the glasses and whatever wine we don’t drink. Goodbye Simon. I’m sure you can find your own way to your car.’
I had no time to reply. She was gone. I watched her hurry through the French windows and into the house, then kicked the bottom step as hard as I could. I didn’t care who was watching. I hurt my toe.
‘Bollocks!’
I decided to go and find my Champagne. I can’t drive home just yet, I thought, I’m tipsy. I’d better drink myself sober.
Chapter nine
So, here I am. Krug Vintage in one hand (bottle of), Cristal in the other (same), outside a marquee, sitting with my back to a tree and hiding from the butler. The best thing that’s happened to me all evening is finally managing to have the piss I needed since I arrived. In the lake. I think it’s about to rain. I also think it’s time for me to go home. It takes me a couple of goes to get to my feet, using a bottle to support my weight. I turn around and look at the party. The sounds from the marquee have diminished, the band is on the cheek-to-cheek numbers and a trickle of guests is meandering towards the house. I imagine the hard-core drinkers and teenagers will carry on for some hours yet, but there won’t be so many of those, and I will be more conspicuous as a result. I don’t want to join in the ant-trail on the lawn, and I certainly don’t want to bump into either Lennox or Lady Milston, so I follow the lake round the side of the Manor intending to take a route parallel to the drive, before cutting in to retrieve my car. I decide to treat it as a pleasant walk in the country on a gentle winter’s night, and enjoy my surroundings. That’s not so difficult with a magnum’s worth of bubbly in your bloodstream. The insect-noise lights I could do without – they’re unbearable after about five minutes – but there are skeins of mist licking the surface of the lake, and the moon has appeared in a triangle of clear sky, low above the horizon, its hazy reflection dancing to a slow tune in the water. That in itself makes me want to throw a rock at it, and I start hunting for one as I walk. I’m drunk enough now, though, that I can’t do two things at once, especially as I’m walking on a left-to-right slope in slippy shoes, so I have to stop to look. I can’t find one, but I might as well have another drink before I get going again. I throw back my head to pour down yet another mouthful of the world’s most expensive fizz, loving the irreverence of it, and catch a glimpse of a figure at the edge of the lake in front of me, staring over the water. It’s a woman. She’s sitting on the grass, hunched over, both knees drawn up to her chest, high heels digging in the ground, toes pointing in the air. Around her shoulders is a man’s suit jacket, too big for her, and she must be wearing a short dress because I can only see bare legs from the side. One slender arm is around her knees and the other holds a shapeless cigarette. I know who this must be. I walk up to her.
‘I brought you a drink.’
She doesn’t look round. My guess is she saw me coming. ‘Thanks. Take a seat.’ I flop to the grass and pass her the fuller bottle. ‘Want a toke?’ she says, holding up the cigarette.
‘No thanks.’ I’m tempted, but I’ve seen what that stuff does to my wife after a few drinks and she’s had it before. ‘I’m off it at the moment. Find the old memory isn’t what it was.’
‘Fair enough.’ The joint is withdrawn.
‘Great speech.’
She looks round at me now. ‘Hey, thanks. I impressed myself, as it happens. Their faces …’
‘I know. All those stuffed shirts. They didn’t know what to make of it. Do you think they believed you about your mum and so on?’
‘Believed me? Hell, every word was true, that’s what was so funny. I walked in on her when I was thirteen, on her knees, skirt hitched up over her arse, knickers round her ankles, with some Colonel’s cock halfway down her throat. She almost bit it off when she saw me. The best part was that I timed it to perfection. You should have seen it. She pulls away and he comes everywhere, trying to put it away and making a complete fucking mess of everything. His face was the funniest thing I ever saw:’ – she’s laughing now – ‘ecstasy and horror in one glorious picture. And her! She’s looking at me, shaking her head with this “No, no, no,” look on her face as a string of his semen slaps her in the eye. I’ve saved it up until now to use against her in public, but it’s sure as hell done me some favours in the past, let me tell you. Let me tell you …’ She takes the last puff on her joint before throwing it into the lake.
I don’t know how to respond to this. ‘Bloody hell,’ is the best I can do.
‘Yeah, Champers Man. What a bitch. It made my life easier though. You name it, I could get it after that. And then I’d hear Daddy, you know, yelling at her for all the money she spends, and she’d have to tell him it really was her and not me, and that it was her that, you know, put the car in the lake and all that. Magic. Lenny helps her out, but he didn’t know why until tonight. I imagine he’s put two and two together now.’
‘Lenny?’
‘You know, Mr Lennox? The butler?’
‘Oh. That insufferable tit.’
That made her laugh again. ‘I know. Every time he sees me he radiates this disapproval. I can feel his eyes on me all the time. Fuck him.’
‘Right. Fuck him. But you really don’t like your parents?’
‘Daddy’s strict, aloof, unreachable, overprotective and, you know, moody, and Mama’s the most two-faced, devious, slutty, arrogant, loose-legged, gold-digging cunt that God ever laid on this earth. I hate her fucking guts.’
‘Nice.’
‘Thanks. What’s your story?’
‘Good question.’ I explain to her what I’m doing here, but I don’t explain exactly why. I make out that I’m only really here to make sure as much booze gets drunk as possible; I say I chose the Champagne to be as expensive as possible; and I say I’m here to take her mother for every penny I can. This goes down well. In the meantime we finish the Cristal.
‘I like you, Champagne Man. Give me your number. We should go out some time.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Of course. What’s your number?’ She reaches for her bag and takes out her phone, I tell her my number and she calls me so I can store hers. At this point, I reckon it’s time to take my leave. When it’s gone as well as this with a girl I’m only capable of fucking it up from here.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘I’d better be making a move. I’ve still got to drive home.’
‘So soon? Jesus. Best of luck, though. Here,’ she says, reaching out and grabbing my shoulder, ‘give me a fucking kiss.’
And I do. A long, wet, tongue-round-teeth-and-down-the-neck snog. I grab her
tits and her arse, then lean back onto the grass and she falls on me, and before I know it she’s got my cock in her hand and she’s hitching up her skirt. It doesn’t take long, despite how pissed I am, but I think it’s enough for her. She gives me one last kiss and climbs off.
‘Lovely.’ She pats me on the cheek. ‘See you soon, CM.’
She walks with a swagger back towards the house. I watch her all the way. Amazingly, I don’t think anyone saw us. I also don’t think she would care.
I get my key in my car door at the third attempt. It takes me a nine-point turn to get it facing in the right direction. I drive back through the country lanes in second gear. I want to change the radio station, because some bloody youngster is talking shite, really loudly, and playing awful, ear-shattering guff. I look down to do it. Where’s the button? There. My whole body jumps as I leave the road and I’m thrown forward with a crash. A rampant pain gallops across my chest as I’m crushed into my seatbelt. There’s broken glass everywhere. There’s a tree digging into my bonnet and steam rising from the engine. My back hurts. My neck hurts. I manage not to throw up on myself. I have to kick open the passenger door to get out of the car and walk for ten minutes to get reception so I can call my wife to come and pick me up. I’m shivering from the cold when she arrives.
In the morning I report the car stolen. Julia supports the lie, but is less than happy. She’s furious, in fact: I’ve never seen her so angry. Imagine if she knew the rest.
I wait for Emily to call.
Chapter ten
Nearly a fortnight has passed since my evening at Brougham Manor, and it’s the first week of December. I’ve had one text message from Emily (Hols nxt wk. Txt u then xx), I’ve been in the doghouse with my wife and I’ve spent a lot of time with Frankie. He’s been through twenty-two heads, countless internal organs, one roll of tape and two sets of overalls. There’s sawdust everywhere. I’ve abandoned two attempts at making a tool rack and blackened my left thumb with a hammer. That was when the second set of overalls bit the dust: I was so cross I minced my creation with an electric drill and his guts spilled everywhere. I’ve updated my supplies: I now have a logo-free baseball cap and oversized black hoodie which I bought from a discount warehouse near Dartford, an hour’s drive from here; wearing those (and keeping the peak of my cap between my face and the CCTV cameras as much as possible), because I got fed up with sneaking a knife out of the kitchen, I bought a six-inch folding fillet knife and an eight-inch butcher’s knife, in cash, from a specialist shop in that very same cankerous rectum of a town. A bit risky, perhaps, but necessary, I believe. I’ve been doing press-ups on my fists to build up my arms, shoulders and wrists – at first I could only manage four at a time, but I’m already up to fifteen. My plan, as entered in my notebook, has solidified. I’ve got it all figured out. I’m going to give it a go tonight.
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