by Jenny Colgan
‘Saving up for a deposit on a flat,’ said James. ‘Saved me a fortune dossing here.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘I want a flat,’ said Eck.
‘You want to be a creative genius lauded throughout the world,’ said Cal.
‘I’d like a new cooker,’ said Eck, looking unhappy.
Cal looked over at me. ‘You’ve done this,’ he said, pointing his knife at me.
‘Me?’ I said, stung by the unfairness. ‘How come it was me?’
‘You’ve given him lots of dreams of being able to buy you nice things and stuff.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘That’s why I keep dragging him down Bond Street and standing, sighing in front of Asprey. Shut up, Cal.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Eck. ‘Although it would be nice to have a girlfriend I could take out once in a while.’
‘See,’ said Cal.
After supper, when Eck had headed upstairs and I was following him, Cal waylaid me.
‘I mean it,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Take your hands off me, please.’
‘Don’t fuck Eck up. Please.’
‘I’ve got no intentions of fucking anyone up, thank you. Eck is a great guy.’
‘He is,’ said Cal. ‘That’s why I don’t want you to fuck him up.’
I glared at him and shook his arm off. ‘I don’t fuck anyone up, you idiot. That’s you.’
I wasn’t quite sure why I said that. So tired, I suppose, of his troupe of lovesick honeys mooning about at all hours, and still, I suppose, upset that he’d discarded me in the same cavalier fashion.
Cal stood back, as if I’d slapped him.
‘I didn’t . . .’ then he got himself together and shook his head.
‘Well, just . . . Make sure you mean it this time,’ he said, heading off to the kitchen.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ I said.
He didn’t answer.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just another sarcastic remark from our great, bitter artist who thinks anyone not from exactly the same background as he is, is completely worthless and pointless, who believes in the nobility of man but treats women like complete shit. Thanks for the advice, Cal. Thanks.’
Later, I lay in Eck’s bed, still thinking about what Cal had said. It was so unfair! What, I didn’t deserve a nice guy? Because of my class?
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Eck.
I hadn’t even realised he was awake.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘You know, the guys who repossessed all the stuff from your house?’
‘Uh-huh . . .’
‘Well, they shouldn’t have taken your diamonds.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That was obviously not your dad’s, was it? It was obviously gifted to you. They’ve stolen your property. I’m sure of it.’
‘Oh, Eck,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘I’m sure they did everything exactly right.’
‘Shouldn’t you at least talk to a lawyer again?’
‘You really are sounding like an accountant now,’ I said, smiling.
Eck was sounding quite awake now. He’d obviously been thinking about this.
‘I mean, it would be worth asking, surely. There would be enough if you sold them for, I don’t know. A deposit on a flat.’ He tickled me. ‘Big enough for two?’
I tickled him back, but didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I could face tackling it all again.
‘Maybe if I sold any pieces at my degree show we could hire a lawyer.’
‘Maybe if you finished them,’ I said. I did feel a bit guilty about that, Eck was always rushing home to make supper for me rather than staying late at the studio, like Cal was doing.
‘Actually, I have a lawyer,’ I said, thinking about Leonard. He had offered to help in any way he could. ‘I suppose I could ask him again. Just for advice. But I’m sure if there was any way at all he could have helped . . .’
He took my face in his hands.
‘Brilliant! Sorry for pushing so much about the future. It’s just, sometimes, when I see you . . . well, I just think you’re so amazing. I get carried away. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘But you know . . . if I got my diamonds back. I’d keep them. They were gifts. From Daddy. They’d be all I have left of him. At the moment I don’t have anything at all. Apart from my camera.’
‘Of course,’ said Eck, stroking my shoulder. ‘Of course you would.’
We settled down to sleep.
‘We should definitely go and see your lawyer though, don’t you think? He might even know what’s happened to your diamonds. ’
‘Of course,’ I said, thinking of the 15-carat pendant with the blue-tinged teardrop he’d fastened round my neck on my twenty-first birthday. I remember at the time being slightly peeved because I’d wanted the rose cut. God.
‘Everything is going to work out all right,’ said Eck solemnly, taking my head in both his hands and planting a kiss on my forehead. ‘I promise.’
‘I know,’ I said.
Chapter Sixteen
It felt like it had been raining for about six thousand years but finally it cleared up. Spring was now definitely in the air. I could probably take off the hideous fleece I’d borrowed from Eck about a month ago and which he’d now said I could keep. I threw on a couple of vest tops, sniffing them suspiciously. Sometimes the washing got mixed up, and the boys liked to dry out their clothes by leaving them soaking in the wet tub as long as possible. Thing was, I wasn’t exactly a laundry expert either. I was improving, but things were, on the whole, pinkish and occasionally a little musty.
The wedding was taking place at the Dorchester the following day. Only Carena could book the Dorchester with less than a hundred year’s notice. I wondered what to wear. I didn’t want to look like a guest, or like I wanted to be a guest. On the other hand I didn’t want to look like I was making a massive point by wearing jeans and boots. They were having a separate, more traditional photographer for the church. Only Carena would book two sets of photographers.
‘What should I wear?’ I’d asked Eck. ‘Come on, you’re artistic.’
‘You look gorgeous in anything,’ he said, not helpfully. I’d called Delilah.
‘Hello, Fairy Godmother,’ I said, answering the door.
‘Bleeding ’ell,’ she said, taking one glance at my hair. ‘Look at your roots.’
‘These aren’t roots,’ I said carelessly, as if nothing could be of less interest to me than my hair. ‘It’s directional.’
‘It’s a freaking liberty,’ she said, dumping her huge beauty suitcase on the bed. ‘Right, let me see.’
‘You have bleach in there?’
‘Yeah . . . you never know.’
I was too frightened to watch and couldn’t have seen in our tiny mirror anyway as she set about me with a small paintbrush. I just concentrated on psychically beaming pictures of Gwyneth Paltrow into her head.
Unsuccessfully, obviously. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I missed a hairdresser. The first thing I was going to do with my wages was go to the hairdresser. The FIRST thing. When I had a chance to examine it in full daylight, my head was the colour of Big Bird from Sesame Street. A huge, Day-Glo yellow sheet.
‘Boy,’ Eck said.
‘You look like a golden retriever,’ said Cal.
‘What Cal said,’ said James.
‘Shut up everyone,’ I said. ‘I did this on purpose.’
‘On purpose for what?’ said Cal. ‘To attract passing shipping? ’
‘So where are you off to again?’ said James, shaking his Daily Telegraph.
‘The Dorchester,’ I said. ‘It’s a five-star hotel in the West End—’
‘We know what it is,’ said Cal, interrupting me. ‘Shall we crash it?’
‘No!’ I said.
‘Ooh, yes,’ said James. ‘Just think of all the totty! Girls always get mental at weddings and start panicking about their ovaries and things
. What are ovaries anyway?’
‘They’re like womb monsters,’ I said. ‘You have to stand well clear or they start popping at you. Don’t come, please.’
‘It’ll be easy to find,’ said Cal. ‘Just follow the glowing Belisha beacon.’
Shut up boys!
I woke with a start. Today was the day. It was hard to get the Belisha beacon comment out of my mind while I got dressed, Eck still snoring loudly in the bed. I had thought about sleeping in my own bed, mostly as a way of keeping Wolverine out of the room or, worse, to stop Eck renting it out to someone else. I was terrified he was going to suggest something like that. Also, weirdly, I’d kind of wanted to spend the night in my own bed. It wasn’t because I didn’t think Eck was amazing or anything, I just wanted a little space. The problem - which I’d never had before - of starting a new relationship with someone who lived in the same house was that you jumped over the dating stage and straight into living together before you’d got to know each other’s freckles. It was a little peculiar.
All black? No. I’d look like I was in mourning for Rufus. Red? A harlot from the past. Finally, sighing, I settled on a grey chiffon top over skinny jeans, which toned down my hair a tiny bit, and made me look professional without being too scruffy.
It was the most gorgeously sunny morning. Julius was travelling separately, in the van full of kit that I’d have to unload, but for the moment it was nice heading up to town on the bus, watching the sunlight bouncing off the river, the South Bank flooded with tourists wearing Union Jack top hats and looking slightly lost on their way to the wheel. I got off at Trafalgar Square, enjoying the walk. The back roads of Piccadilly were thronging with staff on their way to work; chefs outside of restaurant kitchens having cigarettes; waiters yammering to each other in a dozen different languages; smartly if cheaply dressed girls on their way to the arcade shops; or the more glamorous ones, dressed to the nines. The only giveaway that they weren’t off for a day of leisure, but instead to man the tills at Armani or Tiffany was the hour. I treated myself to a cup of coffee to sip whilst I strode along the W1 streets I knew so well. I was one of them now. I swung my lenses case. A working girl.
The ballroom at the Dorchester holds five hundred people, and we were going to be photographing most of them. Carena had requested a ‘grotto’ where people could come in pairs or groups and get their picture done. It sounded a bit unusual - just a way of being able to go through the photos in ten years’ time and say, ‘Who the hell was that? Didn’t they get divorced? How fat are they now?’ but it was plenty of work for me, so I was excited.
I almost skipped up the steps and smiled cheerfully at the doorman.
‘The ballroom wedding please.’
He eyed me up and down. ‘Oh, yes,’ said the doorman, pointing a finger. ‘The staff entrance is that way.’
Well, that burst my bubble. I slouched slowly off round the back. As I did so, a van zoomed into view, hurtling down Park Lane and beeping loudly. It was Julius. He skidded into a left turn to pull up just outside the main entrance.
‘’Ello, darling,’ he said, jovially. ‘Good to see you’re here on time.’
‘They’ve sent me round to the back door!’
He screwed up his eyes. ‘Well, of course they did. We’ve all got to work for a living, darling. Even you.’
I sniffed. ‘I know. It’s just, the last time I was here . . .’
‘Never mind about that,’ said Julius kindly. ‘All you have to think is, they’re all a bunch of nobs anyway, aren’t they? That’s all you have to do. Just think, What a bunch of utter wankers.’
‘They are mostly wankers.’
‘Neh,’ said Julius. ‘They’re all wankers. And don’t you forget it. Right, hop in the van and we’ll pop round the back.’
Oh my, the room looked beautiful. Perfect. Every lily in the world had been used for the occasion, and there were great streams of flowers and ribbons hanging from every table. The mezzanine was cleared for champagne and cocktails, hundreds of bottles of Dom P. ready to be popped when the party arrived from the church. I hadn’t seen Carena in a church since she used to paint her nails in assembly service, but I’m sure any vicar would have been delighted to welcome them. I wandered over to look at the seating plan whilst Julius made some vital decisions about the lighting. Sure enough, name after name I recognised, double barrels all the way down the listing. The only person missing, it seemed, from everyone I’d met my entire life, was me. Oh, and my stepmother wasn’t there either, although my father certainly would have been invited if he’d been alive. Another tiny snub. I thought for a moment, Well, at least I’ll get to see it, but that was stupid and wistful.
Julius saw me gazing at the table plan.
‘All wankers! ’ he hollered to me loudly. ‘Don’t forget! ’
‘I won’t,’ I said, shaking my head.
The ‘grotto’ was in a side room off the main ballroom. There was a chaise longue surrounded by flowers. I was to hang about there gathering groups whilst Julius did ‘reportage’, i.e. the arty black and white photographs everyone had to have these days that were supposed to make them look like they’d got married in the 1950s. I suppose the idea was that if you looked like you’d got married in the fifties, you’d have similar divorce rates. The grotto was pretty too. Everywhere in the main room staff were scurrying to and fro, carrying champagne and flowers and vases and lights, all ready to make everything perfect. At one end was a huge five-tiered cake, icing-sugar roses spilling over it in a heady profusion. The whole room smelled of orchids and lilies and the heady scent, coupled with the fact that there was no natural light in here (on such a sunny day - what were they thinking?), made it feel a little overwhelming. Or perhaps I was just feeling light-headed. I winked at one of the Filipino waiters and he grinned back and wandered over.
‘Haylo.’ He smiled politely.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?’ I wondered if he’d be able to get someone to knock me up a sandwich or if I could just call room service.
He looked shocked. ‘Oh no. Staff can’t touch the food.’
‘Oh. OK,’ I said.
‘I can get you a menu.’
A twenty-six-pound club sandwich. I didn’t think so.
‘No, I’m all right,’ I said. ‘Can I get a glass of water?’
He nodded his head discreetly towards a door and I slipped through it.
At once, I entered chaos. In the ballroom all was quiet and serenely floral. In here, it was madness. Dozens of chefs were lined up alongside great steel rows of huge ovens and stainless-steel chopping stations, all going ten to the dozen. Acre after acre of exquisitely dressed hors d’oeuvres were being arranged on plates, as horseradish was squirted onto smoked salmon and caviar appetisers. Olives were being expertly stabbed into rolls of prosciutto. Rows of pheasant with their legs tied together were being roasted on spits or taken in and out of ovens, and veg was being chopped at blurred speeds by young skinny men and women - it was impossible to tell what sex they were beneath their huge white hats and terrified expressions. The noise was incredible and it was at least ten degrees hotter in here than outside. I mouthed ‘water’ to the nearest boy/girl and they, without pausing in their chopping motion, hurled me a bottle of water, much re-filled. I didn’t care and drank from it anyway. Suddenly a loud hooter went off. Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and stood to attention. The door behind me clanged, and dozens of waiting staff burst through it and filed up in lines.
A huge man with a frightening expression (not helped by the huge cleaver he was holding in his hand) shouted out, ‘All in your places? You bastards better be ready. Good luck, and have a good service. The party is starting to arrive. And, one two, three - go!’
With that, the whole place leapt into action. Two waiters at a time darted forward to receive a pristine tray of canapés, then another two, and another. I managed to slip out of the door just ahead of the relentless onslaught, and j
ust in time to see the double doors at the head of the room open up, and the first guests arrive. Adrenalin shot through my body. This was it.
Amazing. Of course, the hair, and the plain clothes, and my very obvious status as staff all contributed, but still, not a soul recognised me. Everyone swam past me wearing the most incredible outfits. It had been so long since I’d seen people properly dressed up for going out, I’d slightly lost the point of why anyone bothered; especially now I had no money and Eck waiting for me at home. Clothes were fun, I supposed, if you didn’t care how much they cost, and wore a sample size.